Reading the Weather

by Thomas Morris Longstreth

Barns are struck so often because the body of warm, dry air in them favors the passage of electricity. Those who hide in barns are sometimes cremated. After a severe thunderstorm in the Poconos I have seen as many as three barns on fire at once.

Open windows, porches, and exposure generally are safe, but not safest. The cellar, that old stamping ground, is where instinct takes a few. Any closed room on the side of a house away from trees is good enough. But the risk of annihilation is so very small that one is repaid for taking it by the spectacle. A great thunderstorm surpasses anything in nature in the matter of architecture, coloring, directness, and surprise,—which, with selection, comprise the essentials of art. Imagine the crowds that would pay to wonder at the sight if a thunderstorm could be staged, say, at the Hippodrome!

Some hot morning, if you have time to watch, you may see a thunderstorm born in the mountains. The warm, moist air flows up the mountainside and the essential start is made. Cooling, this air first shows as a fluffy cloud that soon grows harder in appearance and becomes tufted at the top. Its little belly swells and grows blacker. It hovers over the valley. Others add to it. Suddenly a sort of adolescent thunder is heard. The tension has become too great. A definite consolidation is visible, a fringe lowers, and a few drops of rain may reach you.

The incipient storm moves off, and having started a whirl within itself, increases, like a rumor, as it goes. Before it has moved beyond your horizon it may have become a large patch of dark blue with billowy white crests on the top, and underneath hangs a curtain of rain. Chances are that it will not go far before encountering conditions that dispel it, but it may cover half a dozen counties before nightfall. As a rule these little heat thunderstorms do not amount to a great deal. They are originated by local conditions and leave things pretty much as they found them.

But when a cyclone is passing in summer a series of thunderstorms or heavy showers with some thunder frequently take place instead of the all day winter rain. These thunderstorms mount up against the wind. Their clouds are black. The word black is an indulgence of the human weatherman meaning, of course, any dark color,—a black sky would terrify the most hardened of meteorologists.

The cyclone winds come from the south or southeast just as they do in winter, but this quarter may not bring the heaviest rainfall in summer. There may be showers or even clear skies, but the day will be humid and hot. A haze of cirro-stratus cloud will gradually overspread the sky from the west, darkening into a blue from the original whitish or gray. Lightning does not appear from the cirrus, but after the sky has grown pretty dark a ridge or tumbled cloud will be seen low on the western horizon. Meanwhile the wind will have died down.

The lightning, at first only a faint glimmer, will have become more frequent and noticeable. If it is striking at a distance of fifteen miles the thunder will not be heard. As soon as the storm center, where the heaviest rain and the electrical display are taking place, gets within the fifteen-mile radius thunder will be heard to growl, and the tumbled cumulus clouds which may have lain along the horizon for hours will begin to approach. The storm will be upon you in ten minutes likely after the arc of foreboding blue and white cottony cloud has begun its charge across the sky. Light quickly fades from the heavens. The wind drops entirely. Streaks of lightning burn downward.

Behind the arc stretches a curtain of uniform blue or gray. If the gray is lighter in places the rainfall will not be heavy. If the curtain is a uniform blue a heavy rain is sure. If the bow of clouds can be seen to tumble or is continuous and approaches fast the wind is certain to be severe,—may be from 30 to 60 miles an hour for the first few minutes. Sometimes a cloud of dust advancing before it demonstrates its force.

This moment immediately before the storm breaks is the dramatic moment of the entire cyclone. As in a tragedy, the interest has built up to this supreme occasion, this knife thrust, from which interest recedes until clear skies show that the play is over. From 12 to 36 hours is the usual time required in winter. In summer the cyclone takes even longer to pass a given point, but the period of rainfall, in which the winter storm’s amount is often surpassed, may not last fifteen minutes. First the blow, then a crash of thunder, and the rain in big drops, which lessen rapidly in size as the whole world seems involved in the vast forces of the storm center. Most of the precipitation occurs in the first fifteen minutes, sometimes in the first five. A hearty storm will deliver an inch in short order. Although the rain continues often for an hour and sometimes in the storms that are attached to a well-defined cyclonic system there will be two or three robust thunderstorms in succession, yet the first downpour is usually the torrential one and the others die away until the conditions that caused the outbreak have passed off. With the severer storms hail falls.

The general condition of the air after a thunderstorm is cooler, dryer, and more invigorating than before. Ozone has been liberated, dust has been washed from the air and vegetation. The surest sign of a continuation of unsettled weather is the failure of the atmosphere to cool off. If the air remains sultry and heavy and depressing another shower is due. In such circumstances the wind will not have begun to blow with any great promise from the west.