Category Archives: Weather
June 30, 2011: When all hail broke loose
Midwestern thunderstorms frighten me. Perhaps I took The Little House on the Prairie books too much to heart, but one day after I’d been in Chicago a while, I began to imagine that the winds blew harder the lightning streaked brighter, and the thunder boomed louder than at home in western New York. When I thought back to the storms at home, I remembered mostly what we called “sheet lightning” — no visible streak, just masses of clouds flashing with diffused light. Sheet lightning would never strike us, I believed. Living in a trailer, I was more afraid of wind.
Since living by Lake Michigan, I’ve paid more attention to the weather — at first, not by choice, but because some weather systems demanded attention, swooping in from the west to drive out the sunshine. Sometimes it’s just a cloud or two blotting out a little of the light or a freshening breeze; sometimes it’s an entire front visibly advancing, not unlike the onslaught of the crystalline entity in “Silicon Avatar” (Star Trek: The Next Generation). Sometimes it’s a milquetoast of a thunderstorm. It flashes, booms, blows, and rains a bit, then moves over the lake, leaving no ill effects behind except for a few drenched joggers and dog walkers.
Then there’s the storm of June 30. The unpredicted storm of June 30.
When I came home, I thought about changing for the pool. Even as I walked, a few clouds rolled in, and something in the air changed, but I was still considering it because there were no severe weather watches or warnings from the National Weather Service. I looked, but I didn’t see any predictions of what was to come. I was tired, though, and thought I’d wait until an evening when it didn’t look quite so much like rain.
Between 7:30 and 8 p.m., it seemed to be getting darker than it should have been for the time of year and day, even with an overcast sky. That’s when I noticed the cloud front above.
Wow.
By a little after 8 o’clock, the sky had turned a midnight blue. That’s when I heard and felt it.
Hail hitting the windows.
It bounced off so quickly that I couldn’t see how large it was — probably not that big — but the relentless racket made me afraid that the windows would break. The rain, right behind the hail, blew sideways from the east, with some even getting between the window panes. The two trees in front of The Flamingo tossed.
Being alone, I was starting not to like this.
After what seemed like a long time, but was probably at most 10 minutes, the hail stopped, although the rain banged against the glass almost as loudly. Between the hail and rain, and with a little anxiety mixed in, I gave up on watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and headed for the bedroom. The lightning continued for what seemed like hours.
The next morning, I saw many small and a few large tree branches down, including a significant one from the tree across from the bus stop. Overall, the damage didn’t seem that bad at first, although later I saw more large branches that had been torn off trees.
When I came home that evening, I could see from a half block away that the gate at The Flamingo had been covered with caution tape. As I passed by to go to the front, I could see why — one of the two pines along the sidewalk had been uprooted and then had fallen across the cabana roof, denting the edge slightly. It’s the first storm casualty I’ve seen in the garden.
Later, I learned the storm hit only select areas, including, unfortunately, the Garfield Park Conservatory, where the damage is described as “catastrophic.” If you can, please do what I did. Make a donation today to help with the cleanup and repairs and whatever needs to be done to save the plants, especially the ferns.
Black water thunderstorm
In seven years, I’ve never seen the lake turn black from the thunder clouds above.
Memorial Day
J set aside Memorial Day to visit his paternal grandmother’s grave, which he’d learned is in Saint Adalbert Catholic Cemetery in Niles. After a sunny early morning and stormy late morning/early afternoon, he picked me up.
Saint Adalbert Catholic Cemetery is enormous, larger than I would have expected. If you hadn’t known the northwest region of Chicago was heavily Polish, you’d have only to try to read the names on the thousands of tombstones. There are non-Polish names — J’s grandparents’ included — but I didn’t see many during our brief drive toward the section he’d been told to look for, or later on the way out.
And you can’t miss the names because so many graves aren’t marked by basic, flat, in-ground stones like those of my parents in Pennsylvania. The cemetery is dominated by a wealth of impressive monuments, statues, and crypts. Later we noticed a monument seller conveniently located across the street. Also across the street there’s an expansive florist shop. J noted that the Polish seemed to have done very well for themselves.
As it turned out, his grandparents are buried in a section of modest flat markers, his grandfather’s adorned only with his WWI service and a cross. We didn’t notice any other family markers nearby. He doesn’t know why they came to be buried here, other than that they were north siders and Catholic.
Given the size of the cemetery and the occasion, I was surprised not to see more people or more flags. On Memorial Day, the cemeteries where my parents and my aunts are buried are filled with flags, placed by a local organization at the grave of each veteran. There are a lot of veterans in the central Alleghenies.
Our next stop was the Chicago Botanic Garden. By this time, the weather had turned perfect, but the grounds were nearly empty. After a jaunt around the Rose Garden and a brief rest on a bench, where every mosquito in the vicinity zoomed in on me and my legs, we walked to Evening Island and the carillon, both of which I’d see only in the distance. Stupidly, I had never realized that you can walk there. Why I thought it was a forbidden place I cannot explain.
A robin flew in front of us to a small tree, carrying something large in its bill. I was trying to point it out to J when suddenly, from a nest in the crook of the tree, three mouths shot up. The robin made an attempt to stuff them, but perhaps either intimidated by their insistence or our presence, it flew back toward the water, where it seemed to have found a good spot for foraging. The moment it left, the mouths withdrew into the depths of the nest — just as J had gotten his camera and lenses sorted out. He hadn’t seen them. And, while he was fiddling with his backpack, a chipmunk crossed in front of us. I teased him that someday he’ll have his camera out taking photos or videos of some mundane thing, while bears, mountain lions, eagles, and other creatures line up behind him, out of range of his lens, to watch and laugh. He also missed some large birds (herons?) flying overhead, but at least he saw and photographed the red admiral I pointed out on the leaves of a tree.
He thought there would be a carillon concert, but they start in June. Our timing was perfect, though — the 7 o’clock hour chimed just as we were approaching.
In the berm between parking lots, J noticed a bird that I couldn’t identify at first. It was head on, and the colors weren’t true in the shade. As he was snapping away (and mentally debating getting out the big lens and tripod), an adult robin hopped over and shoved something in the other bird’s maw. Our mystery bird was a fledgling robin. Through the large lens, I could see its pinfeathers. It was at that awkward stage between infancy and adulthood, neither helpless nor mature — the avian equivalent of a gawky teenager. The parent soon wandered off, but Junior continued to stand around expectantly.
Walker Bros. Original Pancake House was closed for the holiday, but I (for one) got my fill of comfort lasagna at Rosebud of Highland Park, which made me sleepy for the long ride home. I felt strange after the long holiday and variable weather.
And so back to the inanity.
31 May 2010
How quickly the skies turn cloudy
It never ceases to amaze me.
Later that day at Eagle Creek State Park in Illinois
I’ll write about the past weekend later. You have been warned.
"Enjoy it while you can"
A young man passing by said to me, “Enjoy it while you can. Only two days left!” At first I thought he meant the pool, which may remain open as long as the weather holds out. Then I thought he meant summer, which, according to some calendars, ends with Labor Day. If he had excellent eyesight (better than mine, corrected), he may have been referring to Bristol Renaissance Faire, which is mentioned on my t shirt and which concludes tomorrow. I’m leaning toward the latter because of the oddness of the comment, shot at a stranger on the other side of a fence, and the way he was looking back at me when I glanced up, as though he were checking to see if I’d gotten the joke.
It does remind me that not everyone shares my view that summer is over only with the autumnal equinox.
When does your summer end?
Fall asleep to wind and rain; wake up to wind and snow
Early spring in Chicago — it makes me want to dance naked and barefoot in the grass.
Halloween with Puppet Bike and eating with Obama
We’re into November already, and it’s warm enough to sit outdoors comfortably at Bonjour in just a t-shirt. This may be the last opportunity of the year, so I marked the occasion by getting a chocolate espresso tart decorated with music notes as a treat for later.
I was going to celebrate Halloween by going straight home from work and vacuuming, then reading in bed — such are Friday nights for the reclusive introvert — but Puppet Bike (and artist/inventor Jason Trusty) saved me from myself with an invitation to a party at the Peter Jones Gallery.
After dinner at the convenient Lloyd’s Chicago (note: shuttered as of June 14, 2019), J. and I headed to the Brown Line at Washington and Wells. There, we ran into “Jesus” — a dreadlocked man dressed in fleecy robes with fashionably tattered jeans showing. He was with a typically dressed young woman, following her and talking seemingly nonstop at her. It was going to be an interesting evening.
As we were walking from Montrose to the gallery, J. stopped as he saw a middle-aged man emerging from a car and asked if he’d taught high school in the south suburbs — he resembled one of J.’s teachers. The answer was no. As we moved on, I pointed out that a teacher who looked like that man 30–35 years ago would be in his 70s or 80s now. The thought took J. aback momentarily — in his impulsive way, he hadn’t thought of that. Who but me would? In my mind, my teachers, most of whom I liked, are frozen in time in the prime of life, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Some of the older ones have passed away, and it’s difficult for me to picture even the younger ones as retired. How much the world and education have changed since then!
We ran into this couple a short time after we’d arrived. The man who was not J.’s teacher was dressed in a one-piece, sparkly red turkey costume, but he said the head was too hot to wear. The neck protruded from below his abdomen, with the head hanging limply. He must have picked up a subtle cue from my glance, because he said, “Hmmm, I guess it does look a little questionable.” Later we saw that he’d fastened the head to his chest with a small binder clip. In the meantime, his wife was dressed as a flapper, although he told her plan was to change into a chef’s uniform. I pictured her running him down while wielding a meat cleaver . . .
Homemade costumes can be the most creative, but the one I liked best was off the rack: a pantsuit that made the young woman look like a boa constrictor. To complete the effect, she carried a realistic toy snake over her shoulder and arm.
Alan Emerson Hicks’ “Time Machine” was under wraps for a show in the spring, and the front part of the gallery had been taken over by women’s art. Some of it was very good, and interestingly I can’t say that I would have guessed the theme was women’s art. The subjects were more varied than I would have expected, although not broad in scope. I found a pinhole tintype especially intriguing.
Several people introduced themselves. but rarely can I remember names. In general, the crowd was older than I expected and very friendly.
Puppet Bike, which had been entertaining at a park earlier in the day, appeared at about 9:15 p.m. — for a moment I thought it was going to run me down. J. had to be up by 6 a.m. on Saturday for work and wanted to catch the 11:05 p.m. train, so at around 9:50 I had to drag him and his camera away, successfully only after the third or fourth attempt.
While waiting for the bus, I noticed a lot of adults in costumes. Seeing them combined with the early exit and the ongoing issues I face daily made me wish I had enjoyed life more when I was younger — too many restrictions and too little energy now.
Yesterday J. came over for a pre-sunset walk at Osaka Garden and dinner at Medici on 57th, where their t-shirts proclaim, “Obama eats here.” The important questions are: What does he eat? When? And does he leave good tips? Am I the only person in Kenwood-Hyde Park who has never encountered Obama?
Medici is in a different building than it was when I was in college, and it has changed in other ways, too. Sunday brunch was introduced, and the menu has been expanded beyond burgers, pizza, and drinks like himbeersaft. Last night, something struck me as subtly different, and it took a few minutes before I pinpointed it — the silverware was wrapped in maroon (more or less) cloth napkins, with no paper napkins in sight. I drew J.’s attention to this detail and said, “That’s because Obama eats here.”
Throughout dinner, we admired the door into the kitchen, which is suspended from a vertical beam. On one side of the door is open space (not quite enough to comfortably fit through), and on the other are condiment shelves attached to the beam. If the open space doesn’t provide enough visibility of comings and goings to avoid accidents, there’s a cutout in the door. As busboys and servers dumped off glass after glass, cup after cup, plate after plate for a young man at the sink to rinse and stack for dish washing, I pictured him someday going insane and screaming, “NO! NO MORE OF YOUR GLASSES! I’M DONE! I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT OR THEM ANYMORE!”
After dinner, I visited the facilities and was surprised to pass through a door that hadn’t been there before. I was more surprised when it opened onto a room with a sink and three doors leading off it, like in one of those “Choose the door with the tiger behind it and you die” scenarios from a 1960s spy series. Two were labeled “GIRLS,” one “BOYS.” The old narrow, graffiti-covered stalls are history.
I entered the nearest “GIRLS,” which was surprisingly clean. It also had a sink with an automatic faucet. When I came out, I noticed that the room I had been in was also labeled for disabled access. I told J. that the restrooms had been upgraded because “Obama eats here,” although I did admit that ADA compliance was probably more of a factor.
Before Medici we had stopped at a TV screen in the window at Urban Search and lusted after huge area homes with hardwood floors, fireplaces, and, in some cases, medieval-style exteriors, mostly in the high six figures and on into seven figures. Next lifetime . . . afterward, we nipped into two more Medici ventures — University Market and the bakery. Does Obama shop there, too? I wonder. If so, I recommend the chocolate croissants — which, alas, were sold out.
And so on to the Flamingo for tea and a jackpot version of Antiques Roadshow. Imagine buying a chair that “looks old” at a garage sale and finding out it’s a Chippendale worth $1,500–$2,000 at auction. J. doesn’t understand how the sellers of such items don’t know their value. I told him my theory — that when people are in a hurry to move or clean up, they look at such things as “that old rickety chair that you can’t even sit on comfortably” and say, “Let’s get rid of the old thing.” The appraiser was beside himself with the excitement of such an extraordinary — and recent — find.
An older woman brought a lovely painting of Lake Louise that, if I remember right, she’d bought for $5 while on vacation. I can’t recall the exact appraised value, but I think it was more than $50,000 or $60,000. And to think she’d bought it mainly as a pretty souvenir.
Isn’t this the stuff of every junk collector’s dreams? Remember that the next time you are thinking of getting rid of an old chair or painting . . . it could be a down payment on one of those Urban Search mansions.
Piqued about peak color
There is no formula to predict fall color. The intensity and peak time of color are determined by complex environmental factors and the genetic makeup of the plants themselves. For example, trees and shrubs of European origin evolved where the growing season is longer and cooler, so they stay green into the fall.
Ed, the “Color Scout” at Morton Arboretum
The “best” fall color for an area occurs during the shortening days of autumn when days are bright, sunny and cool, when nights are cool but not below freezing, and when there has been ideal rainfall.
Here’s a photo I took November 3, 2007. I’ve always thought that most trees were bare by early November, but here they look like they’re about at peak.
And here’s one taken October 18, 2008. In this one, there’s still a lot of green.
I have to keep adjusting how I look at the seasons. My timing seems to be off.