Two Months After the Mast—Part 1

Humans—since we alone seem able to ruminate over the past and fret about impending events—love to look for omens that prognosticate future happenings. The past is finished and fixed (although we hate to admit that our memory of it is quite faulty). So be it. The future, however, holds infinite possibilities—some pleasant, some painful, all intriguing. If only we could get a glimpse today of tomorrow’s fate, we’d be in such an advantageous position. We’d fare far better than the guy next door, who ignorantly faces each new moment. Or so we tell ourselves.

Weather prediction has become an obsession for many people. We moderns don’t have to deal with the complex and ambiguous process that our ancestors did—such as pulling out the pack of tarot cards to get our weather forecast; it’s instantly available 24/7 from the Weather Channel. The National Weather Service cranks its many computers, giving us quite accurate predictions for the next couple of days. This service has encouraged people to become fixated on tomorrow’s weather, or to endlessly watch images of the aftermath of today’s extreme storms.

An accurate forecast for the next few days may be one thing, but we want more. We want to be able to peer months into the future and to become privy to its weather conditions. The fall is a favorite time for folks to be seeking a glimpse of the nature of the impending winter. Is this going to be a “bad” winter? Lots of snow? Is global warming going to make it balmy again? There are numerous forecast gurus, who claim to have special knowledge about the coming weather. They hawk almanacs to sell the results of their secrets to eager fans. But there are also a couple of simple folk methods for weather prediction, that are accessible to everyone.

A favorite such predictor around here is the wooly bear caterpillar. You see them marching over the ground in the fall, as if parading their winter prophecy. The wooly bear (fully as cute as a teddy bear) has a black band around its middle, that separates two brown ends. The wider the central black band—so the story goes—the colder the coming winter. (I wonder why scientists have not been monitoring the bellyband width of wooly bears, these last few decades, to give them proof of global warming.)

Of course, this cute caterpillar has no way of gazing into the future. I fail to see why Mother Nature would bother with such a notion. Besides, if you examine several parading wooly bears, you’ll find that their “predictions” vary widely—as their bellybands are anywhere from a thin line to covering the complete caterpillar’s body. It’s like a simultaneous prediction of anything from a Brazilian to an Alaskan winter.

But I would guess that a died-in-the-wool wooly bear aficionado would counter my argument by protesting that you only get the “real” prognostication from the first preordained caterpillar one encounters. That initial one—like the “First star I see tonight”—has special powers. Well, maybe so.

What’s the other folk weather forecasting technique? What’s the meaning of this posting’s title? See you next time.