Talking about the weather also harkens back to a time when we all lived more out of doors, when the weather decided our lives. As a history undergraduate, I worked on a project that had me pouring through old diaries kept by Midwestern children in the 19th century. The first thing that every single entry in every single diary noted was t…
Talking about the weather also harkens back to a time when we all lived more out of doors, when the weather decided our lives. As a history undergraduate, I worked on a project that had me pouring through old diaries kept by Midwestern children in the 19th century. The first thing that every single entry in every single diary noted was the daily weather conditions. Working at a nature school in Florida now, I see how. We run our summer schedule accordingly: mornings are beautiful here and usually very sunny. On the beach, it is often breezy, as it was this morning. The waters near us have been unusually clear and green lately! It becomes sweltering by lunch so we retreat to the park where tall, twisting live oaks shade us. We run a sprinkler in the park to keep damp and cool. We have to leave by about 2 pm though because the afternoon thunderstorms arrive like clockwork this time of year. They look like doom and roll in like a pack of lions, tearing at the trees, stirring up the still, humid heat. They were wild to behold over the marsh where my parents old house sat. There on the screened porch, I’d watch the summer storms ravage the tall grasses, bending them every which way. But they pass by early evening, leaving us in a damp sunset haze. Stray clouds painted every color by the fading sun. Northerners will call Florida summers hell, but since childhood, I’ve always experienced them with romance and wonder.
Talking about the weather also harkens back to a time when we all lived more out of doors, when the weather decided our lives. As a history undergraduate, I worked on a project that had me pouring through old diaries kept by Midwestern children in the 19th century. The first thing that every single entry in every single diary noted was the daily weather conditions. Working at a nature school in Florida now, I see how. We run our summer schedule accordingly: mornings are beautiful here and usually very sunny. On the beach, it is often breezy, as it was this morning. The waters near us have been unusually clear and green lately! It becomes sweltering by lunch so we retreat to the park where tall, twisting live oaks shade us. We run a sprinkler in the park to keep damp and cool. We have to leave by about 2 pm though because the afternoon thunderstorms arrive like clockwork this time of year. They look like doom and roll in like a pack of lions, tearing at the trees, stirring up the still, humid heat. They were wild to behold over the marsh where my parents old house sat. There on the screened porch, I’d watch the summer storms ravage the tall grasses, bending them every which way. But they pass by early evening, leaving us in a damp sunset haze. Stray clouds painted every color by the fading sun. Northerners will call Florida summers hell, but since childhood, I’ve always experienced them with romance and wonder.
This reminds me of a project to research historical weather patterns and climactic shifts by looking at old ship's logs in archive collections.