weather

Swept up in ‘The Man Who Caught the Storm’

/ Meg / 1 Comment

Man Who Caught the StormI thought I was a writer until I read Brantley Hargrove.

Well, scratch that: I am a writer, but I am not Brantley Hargrove.

Pick up The Man Who Caught the Storm: The Life of Legendary Storm Chaser Tim Samaras and you’ll know precisely what I mean.

In a book that is equal parts biography and thriller, the beloved film “Twister” rendered in beautiful language outside of Hollywood, journalist Hargrove delves into the life of Tim Samaras, a self-taught engineer who changed the course of tornado science with his brilliance, grit … and pure appreciation of twisters.

I get it. Family members relate with fondness the years in which I could recite the upcoming weather forecast for the next 10 days by heart. I once asked Santa to bring a Doppler radar for Christmas. While cousins at Grandma’s begged for Nickelodeon, I insisted on round-the-clock Weather Channel. Around age 10, I remember tracking a hurricane until I fell asleep, then waking at the crack of dawn to hurriedly check its progress near Florida. I was glued to the screen. How high was the storm surge?

In short, I’m a weather geek.

I might have pursued being a meteorologist had I not decided, sometime around middle school, that I was “terrible” at math. I wasn’t, in hindsight; it just didn’t come naturally to me, and I wasn’t used to working hard.

My own obsession with tornadoes never wavered, though. I’ve watched hours of footage of classic twisters over the Great Plains — and researched extensively the shocking F4 tornado that leveled large parts of the town next to my own in 2002. (I idolize the Capital Weather Gang. Dream job, man.)

Basically, I came to Hargrove’s The Man Who Chased the Storm already predisposed to love it. It had all the elements that would combine into a gripping, memorable page-turner that would dominate my waking hours for the days it took me to tear through it. Love it I did.

Shockingly, I wasn’t familiar with Tim Samaras before I started reading this account of his life and work; I approached with fresh eyes and was completely immersed in his world. Samaras reminds me very much of my own husband — enough that I immediately pushed my finished copy into his hands. Ham radio operator, electronics buff, brilliant with both his hands and mind … there’s much to admire about Samaras.

Tim Samaras

Though the book has no choice but to end on a sorrowful note, so much about Tim demands to be celebrated. Hargrove does a fantastic job of balancing the famous storm chaser with Tim the father, husband, colleague, and friend.

As we ride along with this crew of dedicated storm chasers, saying you “feel like you were there” through Hargrove’s incredibly well-researched book is an insult to the term. Take this, from its very opening pages:

Fog clings to the low swells of eastern-Colorado rangeland as dawn breaks. The mist walls off the far horizon, and for a few short hours the high plains feel a little more finite. The still air is cool and heavy, almost thick enough to drink. This is how these days often begin. The atmosphere is primed, the air a volatile gas. All it needs is a match. …

[Tim] is already en route to the plains from his home in suburban Denver. As the sun reaches its peak, his hail-battered Datsun pickup enters the storm chaser’s cathedral. … Once the sheltering Front Range fades from the rearview mirror, he’s naked to the lungs of the earth, in an unadorned country where the passage of miles can feel more like a few hundred yards.

I could really just quote, like, the entire book, but I want you to go read the book. It really is just that good — and quite the wild, memorable ride.

Perfect for:

  • Weather geeks who crave the data and the drama
  • Non-fiction lovers who want to learn while reading their bios
  • Readers ready to laugh, cry … and open new Google tabs to research while reading

5/5

Personal copy gifted by my sister; not sent for review.

Stormy breeze, hope

/ Meg / 15 Comments

Rainbow

I had a breakthrough last night.

After all the worry and planning and anxiety and uncertainty, I finally felt my burden lift. I felt calm.

Should have known I’d have the sky to thank.

The weather has fascinated me since I was a kid — back in the days when I fancied myself a future storm-chaser (I blame “Twister,” though I’d been watching the Weather Channel religiously for a while already). At some point I realized tornadoes are actually scary and maybe I wouldn’t want to drive into or near one, so I curbed my dreams of becoming a meteorologist and pursued other hobbies.

Also, I’m terrible at math.

My passions have evolved over the years, but I always come back to clouds. The sky. Weather. Hurricane season was once my prime time, and I scoured the news every morning to hear how storms had developed overnight. I distinctly remember waking up at my grandparents’ house in the summer and running into the living room to click on the news, desperate for updates on tropical storms brewing over the Atlantic.

I was a weird kid. Kinda cute, though.

As an adult, the weather still fascinates me — but more in a curious or “red alert danger” kind of way. Various iPhone apps keep me informed on what’s happening out there, and I’m known to friends as the Weather Cop — a title I wear rather proudly. If a storm is on the horizon, I’ll tell you all about it. And probably show you the radar map, ’cause that’s how I roll.

When Spencer bought the condo in 2011, we immediately fell in love with the large windows overlooking town with an unobstructed view of the skyline. High up on the second floor, everything looks beautiful — and the sunsets we’ve enjoyed from our apartment have been incredible. I’ve taken countless pictures, and my weather-loving self has rejoiced at the unparalleled views right from our couch.


La Plata sunset


Spence had little when he first moved in. Coming from a house shared with roommates (and their furniture), the living room held only fold-out camp chairs and a tiny, cable-less television for months. We entertained ourselves through sky-watching. One of my earliest memories there is of the two of us peering up at the encroaching dusk through opened windows, the warm summer air ruffling our hair. We used to lay on the carpet and talk, looking up at the stars. We didn’t need more than that.

Three years later, we’re boxing up the last of our belongings to leave our first marital nest this weekend. We got word that potential buyers were coming to look at our condo last evening (!!!), so Spence and I hurried home to tidy up and move more boxes to the new house. I was in shorts and flip-flops, sweating and tired — but suddenly so buoyed and hopeful that someone was coming to see the apartment. The one we’ve loved so much.

Things are in motion. After several long months, the end is in sight.

At the new house, Spence and I walked around cleaning in advance of the crew coming today to cover our bare plank floors with carpet. Real carpet. And last night was the first time I looked around and thought, This is our house. Though we had, you know, signed our lives away a month ago (terrifying) and spent nearly every weekend and most weeknights slaving away in there, it hasn’t felt real. Transitioning from “construction zone” to “moving in” has been . . . an adventure.

But we’re getting there.

We’re almost there.

Upstairs, we heard rumbles of thunder as we jimmied the washer and dryer out of the guest room. It was warm, both of us sweating. After we managed to get the appliances off the to-be-carpeted floor, a flash of lightning lit up the hall. “Storm,” we said. Spencer and I moved to the large glass windows above the garage and stared out, quiet. Waiting.

Our view at the new house isn’t as expansive. We don’t have the clear views to the west, and the twinkling lights of town don’t beckon us. It’s wilder out there, deep and thick; the woods behind our house are impenetrable in summer, and a little scary at night. We’re much farther off the highway. It’s quiet, too.

But standing there with Spencer, both of us looking up at the night sky, I felt just as I always have. Like I’m home. It called me back to those early days at the condo — back when we had nothing but an empty room and daydreams. Those memories will always taste so sweet to me.

Heat lightning streaked the sky, illuminating the newly-cleaned corners of the room. Lightning bugs buzzed on the lawn.

I put my hand on his back. And we watched.


Cloud-watching

/ Meg / 12 Comments

Clouds


I’m a cloud-watcher.

Though I was rarely one to lay on my back in summertime, imagining shapes and patterns in a cloudy sky, I am fascinated by weather — and tend to document anything unusual I see. (This leads to lots of cloud-related chaos on Instagram, but I’m all right with it.)

Growing up, I wanted to be a meteorologist — a passion that persisted until I realized how much math is involved in the science of weather. Long fascinated by hurricanes and tornadoes, I used to sit at my grandparents’ house watching The Weather Channel (or TWC, if you’re cool like me) for hours. As this was the ’90s, I’d track the storms on their primitive radar, listening for the first rumble of a storm and informing family if we could expect nasty winds.

My uncle Jim, one of the sweetest men I’ve ever known, used to pop by to see us at my grandmother’s when we were young — and he wouldn’t get two steps in the door before asking with a cheeky grin, “Megan, what’s the weather this week?”

I always had an answer.

Uncle Jim gave me my first farmer’s almanac, and I carried that tattered paperback around everywhere. It was great supplementary material to my frequent TWC viewings, and I loved “predicting” winter storms when hurricane and tornado season had passed.

Tornadoes were the best.

Being such a cautious worrywart now, it’s funny to think I once fashioned myself a storm chaser. I dreamed of moving out to Oklahoma or Kansas, wandering free in Tornado Alley, and reporting back to headquarters like Helen Hunt in “Twister.” In fact? Helen Hunt was my idol. Spencer and I watched that movie again not long ago, and it was still so awesome.

I went down a different path, obviously — editing and writing and studying Shakespeare. My dreams of meteorology dissolved sometime around high school. But there’s still a little part of me that appreciates and studies and daydreams about the weather . . .

. . . and can’t pass up a good cloud photo.


Snow and other unforeseen events

/ Meg / 13 Comments


Something about snow still stops me in my tracks.

We don’t get much of it here in Maryland — most of the time, anyway. There was that freak storm in February 2010 that dropped more than three feet all over the D.C. area, and I’d certainly had enough of the nastiness by the time it all melted away.

But it’s usually calm here. Winters dip down to around 20-30 degrees on the rough days, but we can usually coast with temperatures in the 40s — even 50s. Maryland weather is nothing if not unpredictable. We’re seasoned to prepare for anything: hurricanes, tornadoes, flash flooding, earthquakes. And that’s to say nothing of snipers, terrorist attacks and bombings.

Maryland is Equal Opportunity for Disasters.

Snow isn’t a disaster, though. I was already snug at my desk when the flurries started yesterday, so no grip of panic seized my throat as I tried to figure out to get to work. Since we’re into the new year already, I have vacation and sick time o’plenty; and since it wasn’t predicted to last long, I didn’t have that worry about getting stranded at the office.

I could just enjoy it. The first real snowfall of winter.

I write often about enjoying the simple things in life. That’s what snow symbolizes to me: that untainted time when flurries meant school would be canceled, and all I had to worry about was dodging snowballs my dad and sister would aim at my knees. Snow days meant hot chocolate after helping Dad shovel the driveway and hours of Nickelodeon. No homework. Hanging out with Mom, who would usually take a “snow day” herself. Simple things.

I want 2012 to be more about those innocent joys. About taking time to breathe and free myself of needless worry. I don’t write often about my struggles with anxiety, but I’m weighed down — like all of us — with responsibilities and guilt and uncertainty. I’ve made great strides in the last few years and find myself a much happier, calmer person this January than last. But it’s a process.

As I shift and grow and change, I want to look out my office window and watch fat flakes of snow coat the sidewalks. I want to take in that quiet, serene vista without worrying how the weather — like so many things — will impact my scheduled, well-oiled day.

The best things happen when life doesn’t go as planned.

Let’s close work two hours early

/ Meg / 4 Comments

snow_newspaperI’d heard the rumblings over the past few days that we were going to be getting some snow today, but we hear that a lot in Maryland — and it rarely comes to pass. When I woke up this morning, though, that tiny bubble of excitement began to expand in my chest… until I realized that no, despite the treacherous roads and people who can barely drive when it’s sunny, let alone snowy, I do have to be at work today. My tires spun a mere two or three times, letting me drift slightly over to the shoulder, and my heart was hammering so badly in my chest I almost pulled over. (Pulling over would have been a decent idea, save the fact that everyone else was spinning, too.)

So my ten minute commute to work became a thirty or thirty-five minute commute, but I did make it — and I’ll live to lay out pages another day! Pulled my wipers straight out, locked up my car and waded through the few inches of snow in the parking lot to get to the office. I sit all day in a windowless room, so I’ll pop out in a bit to see what’s going on. I think the worst of the snow was coming through in the morning, and we should be clearing up by the afternoon. I definitely hope so — girl’s gotta get some lunch!

I took a few photos this morning but haven’t uploaded them yet. I’ll leave you with the image above — my newspaper in a fresh snow almost exactly one year ago today! I felt far more excited then than I do now. It’s sad when you reach an age that the sight of snowflakes produces little but trepidation, worry and anxiety over… being able to continue with our everyday lives, uninterrupted. Ah, to be young again — the public schools in my county are closing two hours early! If we had a “half day” at work… now that would be exciting.