Remember Those “97 Per Cent of Scientists Agree” on Global Warming??

Or is it Global Cooling? Or is it Peak Oil? A coming famine?

Lord Monckton, always entertaining, lays to rest that hoary prevarication about the “consensus” among scientists. He has the source for that lie, which begins at ~minute 21.00 if you’re in a hurry.

The whole thing is entertaining, but the primary reason for this posting is to have a place to hang the source of such balderdash as was promoted in previous comment sections:

Thanks to RonaldB for his link in the comments on my previous posting about climate shenanigans. His link is a somewhat longer video on the subject, but Ivar Giaever, the 1973 Nobel Prizewinner for Physics, is equally entertaining.

Why is it that the deniers are wittier? Not a sin Al Gore will ever commit. But whatever; that Norwegian speaker is worth your time, too. The graphs (e.g., the one which illustrates where thermometers are placed globally. This was a few years ago, but I doubt poor countries have caught up yet) are illuminating.

In a side note, we have some climate here. Last weekend we got fourteen inches of snow. This weekend it is fast disappearing under an onslaught of warmish (52 degrees F) rain. The B and I are going down to watch the river flood over its banks. Hey, in the boondocks, you take your entertainment where you can find it. Things are melting so fast they’re sending up great wraiths of fog on the remaining snowpack.

Falling Into Winter

Note: This post was a “sticky” feature that was published last Monday and stayed on top all week. Scroll down for more recent material, including Jews in the AfD, clips from the Brexit demo in London, Jihad for Justice in Alabama, right-wing extremist hair braids in Germany, Dr. Turley on the Danish “Gitmo”, and many others.

Winter Fundraiser 2018, Day Seven

The Baron’s Sunday Update: A Winter’s Tale

Well, here we are at the final day of our quarterly bleg. After I finish writing this update I can catch up on my sleep, and then write some more thank-you notes tomorrow.

Tip jarAfter my worried remarks the other night, y’all really stepped up to the plate: the donations came pouring in on Friday, making it one of the busiest fundraising days we’ve had for a while. Many thanks to all of you for your generosity! The week isn’t quite back to normal, but it’s getting close. And it’s now clear that we’ll be able to make it through to the spring thaw.

It didn’t hurt that WRSA posted a link to our bleg — we really appreciate that. It’s easy to tell when donors are being referred by WRSA, because the gifts come in from Idaho, Wyoming, Arizona, and other deplorable states that we don’t otherwise see much traffic from.

All of this makes me ponder our peculiar business model. Most websites monetize by selling advertising, but we do it by soliciting modest gifts from our many readers. It’s a weird form of crowdfunding, but somehow it works — every quarter we receive just enough to keep on going.

It helps me maintain my enduring sense of gratitude…

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This morning’s weather-related story is going to be longer and less lighthearted than my usual tales. I’ve never actually written this material up before, and I expect it to be hard to type out.

So… for those who want to skip this part and go straight to yesterday’s donor locations, here they are in advance:

Stateside: Alaska, California, Connecticut, Florida, Indiana, Michigan, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New Mexico, New York, Oregon, Texas, Virginia, and Wyoming

Far Abroad: New Zealand, and the UK

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The photo at the top of this update was taken in February of 2003. It shows a snow overhang outside our bedroom window here at Schloss Bodissey. The tree in the foreground is none other than the Fig Tree of Doom, which caused Dymphna so much grief two and a half years after the picture was taken.

This morning’s reminiscence was prompted not by that particular snowfall, but by my earlier account of the first fall and winter I spent here (scroll down for that story; it begins with the photo of the turtle).

That was a cold and snowy winter, and after Christmas I just hunkered down to wait it out. Since I couldn’t go outside to paint landscapes, I busied myself with what I could create indoors — mostly geometric designs and scenes from my imagination.

But late in January I got an opportunity: a major snowfall was predicted. That was before the Weather Channel, but the radio and the newspaper were in agreement that we would see about eight inches (21 cm) of dry snow.

So I stocked up for the occasion. I made sure I had plenty of coffee, beer, and other necessities so that I could sit it out. In those days the house was heated by a woodstove, and I had an ample supply of firewood, so it didn’t matter all that much if the electricity went out. And I didn’t have any reason to go out, so I would be able to spend a delightful few days looking out the kitchen window at all that lovely snow — and painting a picture of it.

When I woke up that morning, the snow was right on schedule — three or four inches of it on the ground. I set up my easel in the middle of the kitchen floor (this place has a large farm kitchen, and in those days I possessed virtually no furniture) and started a composition based on what I could see out the window, and the area immediately inside it.

Snow in the city gets ugly pretty quickly, what with all the salt and sand from the roads, soot, and vehicle exhaust. But out here in the middle of nowhere it stays pristine for a long time if the temperature remains low. Tracks from birds, deer, dogs, squirrels, and raccoons. And maybe my own when I walk out into the middle of a flat space to stick a yardstick in the accumulation. But nothing to make it look nasty — I knew I would be able to take my time and make that painting look just right.

When I moved out here from the city I deliberately didn’t get a phone, because I didn’t want anyone bothering me. I also used general delivery for an address that first year, to assure my isolation. The postmistress was puzzled, but she let me do it, and forwarded my mail out here to the RFD box.

I expected to have a wonderful few days, working on my painting and enjoying a snowfall in a way that I hadn’t had a chance to since I was a kid.

Ah, but the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley…

When I had last been to see my parents, just after New Year’s, my father had been suffering from some sort of stomach bug. A low-grade fever and some pain in his lower tract: most likely the flu, my mother said.

Late that snowy morning, as the blizzard was tapering off to flurries with about seven inches already on the ground, I heard a rumbling on the driveway, and then a banging on the front door. It was my neighbor Jimmy Mawyer, who had driven down the driveway through the woods in his four-wheel-drive pickup.

When I opened the door Jimmy said, “Your mother called the post office. Your father has cancer. He’s in the hospital, and she says wants you to come home as soon as possible.”

So it wasn’t the flu after all.

Jimmy and I discussed the logistics of how I could get out of there. I had an old rear-wheel drive station wagon (a 1971 AMC Hornet, for the car buffs among you). I could have filled up the deck with cinderblocks or something, but still, it was going to be rough getting out of there.

I had parked facing out, so Jimmy backed up his truck to just in front of the car while I packed a bag with my necessities. He hooked a chain onto the frame behind the front bumper, and when I was ready, he had me let out the clutch while he pulled me down the driveway. I kept gunning it to try and keep from fishtailing, and we somehow made it to the road without whacking me into any trees. He stopped on a straight stretch, unhitched the chain, and wished me the best of luck. Then I set out for Maryland.

The most direct route out of here goes up and down some major hills before crossing a creek. When conditions were slick — and especially in a rear-wheel drive vehicle — I used to take what I called “the flat route”, a roundabout way that stuck to the ridgelines and avoided steep gradients and sharp curves. It added about ten miles to the trip, but it made it possible to get out. The road hadn’t been plowed yet; all I had were the tracks of the four-wheelers to help me out.

My memory of that trip is of a blurry nightmare. I remember that I came across a fellow motorist who had slid into the ditch about a mile from my driveway. It was on a slight downhill grade, so I eased off the gas and touched the brake very lightly as the car coasted to a stop. I got out and helped him push his car out of the ditch, and then got back in the station wagon and started down that hill oh so carefully, and then up the other side.

When I arrived at the main road, it had been plowed, so conditions were better. But there was still a packed sheet of glaze on the pavement, so it was nerve-wracking. You go thirty miles an hour and do your very best to keep from ever touching the brake.

The most frightening moment was when I was still on the two-lane state road, before I got to the major highway. As I rounded a bend I saw a big dog walking across the road in front of me. It took all of my willpower to leave the brake alone, accelerate to bring my center of gravity forward as I swerved, and remember the mantra: “Turn in the direction of the skid.”

Somehow I got past that dog without wrecking or ending up sideways in a ditch. After that it was easier — I got to the main highway, and although it was in bad shape, it was better than anything I’d been on before. As I went further north the snow got deeper, and the plows had left larger snowbanks on either side. The snowfall had ceased soon after I left the house, and I remember the sky clearing at sunset as I crossed the Potomac.

A trip that should have taken three hours took almost eight. I arrived at my parents’ house after dark, parked on the street, and trudged through the drifts to embrace my distraught mother.

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I stayed at my mother’s for several days and went to see my father in the hospital a few times before returning to Virginia to keep the pipes from freezing (they did freeze once during that period, but fortunately it wasn’t serious). I kept driving back and forth to Maryland every few days as my father’s condition worsened.

He had a galloping form of abdominal cancer, and it was just over three weeks from the day he was diagnosed until the day he died. He seemed resigned to his fate — his own father had died of cancer, and it was what he had always feared. He was a few years younger than I am now, and otherwise in good health. But it was his time.

He was in terrible pain for the last couple of weeks. In those days they didn’t give cancer patients opiates, so all he got was Demerol, which barely even touched the pain of what was eating away at his bowel.

I had been a few days at my mother’s house for the death vigil when the call came in at three o’clock in the morning — doesn’t it always happen at that time? — that my father had died. The following night it snowed again, this time a foot (31 cm) of the stuff. But it warmed up afterwards, and we were able to shovel the cars out and arrange the memorial service a few days later.

That winter was a rough patch for me. I was in my late twenties, so it wasn’t as bad as it would have been in, say, my teens. But, still… I hadn’t expected to lose my daddy so soon, and it was hard.

The following spring, when the weather was warm and beautiful, we carried his ashes up to Yankeeland and interred them in the family plot. As a side effect of that trip, I met Dymphna, and you all know how that turned out. But we’ll leave that for another story in another fundraiser.

There was so much snow that winter that I had no trouble finishing the painting. It turned out fairly well. When I look at now — I never attempted to sell it — a bittersweet aura hangs over it, the memory of a time that had promised to be one thing, but turned into something else.

Many years ago a good friend of mine wrote a song that included this lyric:

Jesus said it came to pass.
He didn’t say it came to stay.

I guess I’ll leave it at that.

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That’s it for our winter fundraiser. We’ll be back in the early spring to do it all over again, except the weather will probably be nicer. A big thank-you goes out to everyone who participated.

Dymphna’s Saturday Update: Nor’easter or Plain Ol’ Blizzard?

Okay, y’all, we’re rounding the curve and headed for the end of this Quarterly Fundraiser.

If you’re reading this and haven’t yet donated, please do so. Think of it as your contribution to the pushback against Ugly and Loathsome Events. We can’t prevent them yet, but we can squish ’em some. But not without your generous help. (You can use this new link.)

As long as our donors continue their largesse, we continue to avoid ads on our pages. All the majors and many of the minors are chock-a-block with scripts and moving ads now. They make my eyes jump, and Ad Block has become of limited help. On my laptop I’ve taken to using a piece of card stock to cover the ones that are distractions.

Save us from this awful fate!

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To paraphrase the Middle English round: Winter is icumen in.

All the birds have fled, but the shortest day of the year isn’t quite here yet. You can sure enough feel its cold breath on your neck, though.

Every year people predict that this here particular winter will be the worst. There are indeed some “worst” ones, but like real estate, it’s all about location, location, location. Some years we get buried repeatedly; other years we never even need our road plowed.

When I lived in North Carolina we called those rare winter storms with a foot of snow and lots of wind a “blizzard”. But when I moved to New England the term “nor’easter” was the usual designation for the white-outs into which only a fool or someone with a life-or-death situation would venture out into with his rear-wheel-drive car. Chains helped a little.

I was a snow newbie back then, so the New England designation intrigued me. In the days before the internet, the reference sections in libraries were a good place to learn. I intuited that the frenzies of snow must have something to do with the Canadian cold weather systems endemic to the area (they made for wonderful New England summers to my southern-parched soul) but it wasn’t until I read about — and remembered again — the Gulf Stream, which hugs the eastern coast and makes its way around the world, that nor’easters finally made sense. They are born of the clash between extremes of weather systems created by those two factors: the cold jet stream pushing down from Canada meets the warm waters of the Gulf Stream hugging the eastern seaboard. It makes you wonder what god the Greeks would have assigned to such titanic clashes.

Having lived through some fearsome winters, the nor’easters seemed to me to be winter hurricanes, but of course, they weren’t, not really. Hurricanes smashed houses, ripped up thousands of trees, and disappeared small towns and barrier islands. They caused the Spanish to abandon the colonization of Western Florida. Hurricanes carry their victims out to sea; nor’easters and blizzards bury them in snow. The frozen stuff is wicked, but hurricanes are evil. The Florida panhandle will be years recovering from Michael’s devastation this year. They’ll probably retire his name. And Sandy wrecked the coast along New York, not to mention the long-term damage from Katrina in 2005. New Orleans is below sea level to begin with, so that whole area is still affected more than a decade later.

The Wikipedia entry provides the simple explanation for us non-meteorologists:

Nor’easters develop in response to the sharp contrast in the warm Gulf Stream ocean current coming up from the tropical Atlantic and the cold air masses coming down from Canada. When the very cold and dry air rushes southward and meets up with the warm Gulf stream current, which is often near 70 °F (21 °C) even in mid-winter, intense low pressure develops.

In the upper atmosphere, the strong winds of the jet stream remove and replace rising air from the Atlantic more rapidly than the Atlantic air is replaced at lower levels; this and the Coriolis force help develop a strong storm. The storm tracks northeast along the East Coast, normally from North Carolina to Long Island, then moves toward the area east of Cape Cod. Counterclockwise winds around the low-pressure system blow the moist air over land. The relatively warm, moist air meets cold air coming southward from Canada. The low increases the surrounding pressure difference, which causes the very different air masses to collide at a faster speed. When the difference in temperature of the air masses is larger, so is the storm’s instability, turbulence, and thus severity.

The nor’easters taking the East Coast track usually indicates the presence of a high-pressure area in the vicinity of Nova Scotia. Sometimes a nor’easter will move slightly inland and bring rain to the cities on the coastal plain (New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, etc.) and snow in New England (Boston northward). It can move slightly offshore, bringing a wet snow south of Boston to Richmond, Virginia, or even parts of the Carolinas. Such a storm will rapidly intensify, tracking northward and following the topography of the East Coast, sometimes continuing to grow stronger during its entire existence. A nor’easter usually reaches its peak intensity while off the Canadian coast. The storm then reaches Arctic areas, and can reach intensities equal to that of a weak hurricane. It then meanders throughout the North Atlantic and can last for several weeks.

North America is a huge continent. There is no “safe space” from weather extremes. Generally, in Virginia we get weather from the west, though hurricanes are an exception; they can come up from the Gulf inland (not usually so bad, though Camille was a mortal exception) or more commonly the Atlantic versions that barrel up the coast. Not having lived through the spring and summer tornadoes of the Midwest, I’ve no great desire to experience the real thing. We have an occasional one in the summer here, but they are more likely to be short-lived, narrow micro-bursts rather than the Kansas-sized monsters that ride over the plains. Don’t you wonder how native Indians survived them? It’s not as though they had tornado cellars.

Europe is more fortunate in its climate. Snow and rain, yes, but few disasters. I always thought that might be the case, and the wiki entry above agrees:

In Europe, similar weather systems with such severity are hardly possible; the moisture content of the clouds is usually not high enough to cause flooding or heavy snow, though NE winds can be strong.

So… is Europe a meteorological safe space?? Will our snowflakes move there?

I’d say my interest in weather phenomena was a function of getting older, but the myriad ways the winds blow has always fascinated me. However, it’s much more interesting to read about events rather than live through them. Definitely a spectator sport.

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Lots of donations blew in yesterday. The B keeps careful track of their origins:

Stateside: California, Connecticut, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, North Carolina, Oregon, Tennessee, and Virginia

Far Abroad: Hungary, New Zealand, and the UK

Canada: Newfoundland, and Ontario

Australia: Australian Capital Territory, Queensland, and Victoria

He’ll be back for the final update tomorrow.

The Baron’s Friday Update: All the Leaves Are Brown

We’ve hit a rough patch in the fundraiser.

This has happened from time to time in the past, and we’ve always weathered them before — things eventually pick up.

It’s like the snow we had on Wednesday (or the snow that’s predicted for Sunday): for a while it’s a real blizzard, and then without warning it all fades out, with just a flake or two drifting by.

The ebb and flow of donations is a stochastic process. It’s not easy to determine what causes the sudden shifts.

Maybe we should call it “Schrödinger’s Tip Jar”…?

Continue reading

Twelve Inches and Counting

UPDATE: from the weather forecast at 11:00 p.m.

Heavy snow has ended, however, periods of light snow or
freezing drizzle will continue overnight, mixed with sleet at
times. Additional snow accumulations of an inch or two, along
with a light glaze of ice.

Hope our electricity continues…

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Snow on the driveway, December 9, 2018

No, this isn’t an anatomy lesson.

That foot of snow is the level of our current snowstorm – deceptively gentle, almost no wind at all. But it’s a heavy snow and it may snap our connection to civilization, which means we won’t be able to moderate comments. Those lines coming down the mountain are probably sagging by now.

This is one we won’t be digging out of quickly but will have to wait a few days for the warmer air to bring the depth down to plowable levels (our snow man’s plow is dependable up to about six inches).

Tragedies so far: a missing snow cap and a discarded snow broom. How was I to know that raggedy ol’ thing was what the B needed because it didn’t scratch the car?

God Was Vexed, and Gave All Power to Michael*

We should have put a storm notice up yesterday afternoon, but we were too lazy — Dymphna and I scamped our duties. And then Hurricane Michael dropped by the southeastern Piedmont and laid us low.

The center of the storm passed by quite a ways to the south of us, somewhere in North Carolina. However, it sent a long writhing arm our way, and we were lashed with wind (not too much) and rain (a lot — six inches [16 cm]). We were lucky: we didn’t lose our electricity, but many thousands of others did. There are still wide swaths of Central Virginia without power tonight.

Our Internet connection gave out in the late afternoon, however, and stayed off for more than 24 hours. The torrential rain must have seeped into the equipment and shorted out the transverse hypertonic fimbrilator or something. Or maybe a family of raccoons escaped the high water, gnawed their way through the wall of the server box, and made a nice comfy dry nest inside on top of the digital switching unit.

Anyway, that’s why we disappeared for a day. Dymphna is approving your comments even as I type this. I’ll merge last night’s news feed material with tonight’s, and I prepared several posts and queued them up, waiting until the Intertubes were fixed. Maybe I’ll enlist the younger raccoons to help me put them up quickly…

*   The title is a reference to this poem by Wilfred Owen:

Soldier’s Dream

I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears;
And caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts;
And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts;
And rusted every bayonet with His tears.

And there were no more bombs, of ours or theirs,
Not even an old flint-lock, nor even a pikel.
But God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael;
And when I woke he’d seen to our repairs.

 

Sturm Und Drang

The long drought is over!*

We’re having thunder and lightning and wind and heavy rain right now, and you all know what that means: our Internet connectivity could be flushed away without warning at any moment. So if we disappear from view for a while, you’ll know why.

It could also be full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing — you just never know.

*   Residents of the Piedmont and coastal areas in these parts understand the irony in that statement. We haven’t gone more than 36 hours without rain in the past two months. The rivers are swollen and the ground is sodden. We’ve had at least fifteen inches (40 cm) of rain since the beginning of September, which is probably four times the average for the whole month.

I can’t imagine what those folks in coastal South Carolina are going through right now.
 

Stormy Weather

UPDATE: The mighty darkness and storm rolled through, shutting off the lights momentarily. Disconnected our wifi. Left over three inches of rain in a half hour or so. And then moved due east, even as it faded…

Ah, August rains. My flowers thank you, but ask for a morning drench instead. Me, I’m happy for what we got.

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It has gotten quite dark, even Lear-like, outside. The storms are coming down from the direction of our electric company in the next county.

…will we lose our connection? It remains to be seen…

If all goes quiet, it means (the) Gates are closed for the moment. We’re home, but disconnected.

A Safe Return, Hail-Dented But Intact

I arrived home late last night after attending a family event, a relaxed but very hot outdoor gathering in a Deep Southern state. I was able to talk to some relatives I haven’t seen in many years — which was nice, but also disconcerting. For instance, a young lady I last saw when she was about fourteen is now forty, married with a couple of half-grown kids. How strange!

The trip down there and the return trip home were both long and unpleasant. I noticed that Dymphna mentioned in the comments my predilection for “shun-piking”, but that’s only practicable for journeys of 250 miles or less. This trip was much too long for that. I hate interstate driving, but the interstate was unavoidable for last weekend’s journey. Theoretically, it should have taken seven to eight hours each way using a combination of major highways and interstates, but it took much longer than that, both coming and going.

Going down there I hit major construction during rush hour, and did one of those horrible bumper-to-bumper creeps for about thirty miles — the kind of thing that makes travel on the interstate so much fun. It added about an hour and a half to the trip.

So I decided to take an alternate route home, through the mountains. Yes, it’s longer, but it surely can’t take any more time than the other route, can it?

Wrong!

The home stretch of the return trip was up Interstate 81, crossing into Virginia at Bristol. After I passed Marion, signs started flashing that said both lanes were closed due to an accident at mile marker 93. So I started watching the mile markers, and at about MM89 traffic slowed down and then stopped. As it happened, my car became motionless right next to an exit ramp, so I peeled off there and turned right at the stop sign, intending to go east and then north and eventually make my way past the blockage and get back on I81.

Even though I was still a long way from home, I was in an area of Virginia that I know pretty well, so I didn’t have to worry about getting lost. However, I didn’t reckon on the weather. I had watched the storm ahead of us get closer as I came up 81, but I didn’t know the accident that closed the road had had something to do with the weather.

A few minutes into the back country the nature of the storm suddenly became clear. With almost no warning — just a few splats of big drops beforehand — a torrential downpour began. It was like driving under a waterfall. And immediately the hail hit with equal ferocity. I didn’t stop, so I couldn’t really assess the size of the hailstones, but when they broke up on the windshield they looked like they must have been about the size of ice cubes. The sound of them was like gravel being poured out of a dump truck onto the roof of the car.

I was on a winding mountain road with no visible shoulder to stop on, so I kept creeping along, slowing down to 15mph in the worst of it, with visibility of maybe fifty feet or so. The people behind me did the same, except for one impatient fool who passed us doing about forty. I hope he got home OK.

The hail quit after about ten minutes, but the waterfall continued for a while afterwards, so it was slow going. When I came to a main road, I turned left, and not long after that the rain let up. I eventually arrived back at the interstate at Christiansburg. By then the sun had come out. I noticed the flashing signs at the southbound ramp said both lanes were closed at MM93. So for all I know, despite my massive detour through the deluge, I may have still been in front of those poor folks who had been stuck in the backup ahead of me when I left at that exit ramp.

For anyone who’s interested, there are brief articles about what closed I81 here and here. Apparently a tractor trailer jackknifed, and I’ll bet anything it was during the same horrific hailstorm that I was driving through just a little later.

So that’s why I was a couple of hours late getting home last night, and also why I didn’t try to throw together a news feed post before I went to bed.

P.S. The car doesn’t really have any dents from hailstones; the title is mere literary license on my part. This wasn’t real hail like they have out in the Midwest or the Rockies. It was wussy stuff in comparison. But it’s still the worst hailstorm I’ve ever personally experienced.

We’re Not Dead, Just Doing the Backstroke…

Our internet connection failed sometime Saturday night. It was the culmination of a week-long community event, with lashings of rain turning this plateau into a swamp.

All that water eventually moved down toward the river, leaving behind drowned server boxes (or whatever they’re called, those boxes dotting the landscape here and there, some of which can be seen from the road). Whatever genius designed this beta model of internet via phone lines planted those boxes smack dab on the ground, thus ensuring heavy rain would drown them. At least that’s what we suspect.

So we can keep our phone service during heavy rains… but the internet goes down in the deluge.

“How much water?” you ask. About five inches in the course of two days or so. But before that, it had been raining steadily for a week so; by Friday the runoff was impeded by the previous soaking. That box just drowned for a while.

[Due to some other glitch, we were without phone service for five days last week…yes, we’re a captive audience out here, ain’t no competition to improve this system. Satellite internet is too unreliable and expensive. The electric cooperative is working on a version that would come through their wires, but what with lines failing due to snow accumulation or trees falling on them, they go out of service right much during the winter, so probably not.]

We did try to have someone log on here and leave a notice, but our proxy firewall prevented their access. And also prevented the bad guys from using us for target practice while we were outside in our wellies, measuring the rainfall.

Anyway, we’re baaack! The sun is shining as though that grey wet week never happened.

Thanks for your patience, dear readers.

Rain, Rain…

It’s been beastly hot here for the last few days and now we’re facing several days of severe thunderstorms…this current system starts in Washington D.C. and goes all the way down to south central Virginia. Lots of warnings about trees and wind and flooding.

Which means we may lose our power more permanently (it’s been flickering off and on) when the brunt of it hits here…

…so y’all know the drill: if it looks as if the lights are on and no one is home, the situation will be exactly opposite: we’ll be home sans electricity.

So leave your comments, they will see the light as soon as we do.

An Equinoctial Blizzard

Well, it’s not really a blizzard. But still…

Spring arrived last night, but you wouldn’t have known it by looking out the window this morning here at Schloss Bodissey. We’ve had snow-covered daffodils quite a few times in the past, but not usually so much, nor so late in the season.

It was quite warm at ground level as the snow came down, but the temperature up there in the empyrean was frigid, so the snow was actually dry until it hit the ground. Nevertheless, by lunchtime it was melting rapidly. As I write this it’s still snowing fitfully, but melting faster than it accumulates.

From what I read in the news, people to the north and west of us got it much worse. I read one prediction saying that Garrett County, Maryland might get as much as two feet (60 cm) of the stuff. Ugh!

Bad Moon a-Risin’

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather.

There’s a nor’-easter coming up the coast right now. We’re not in the crosshairs for the snow and heavy rain — Boston and New York will get those — but we are supposed to get strong winds tonight and tomorrow, with gusts as high as 50-60 mph (60-95 kmh). I can hear the howling starting outside the window even now.

The weather alert is warning about widespread power outages, so if we disappear from view for a while tomorrow, you’ll know why.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!

A Giant Ponzi Scheme Exposed

Here’s a seasonal change of pace from Seneca III.

A Giant Ponzi Scheme Exposed

by Seneca III

This morning I awoke to an almost monochromatic world of whiteness. During the night, silently and gently, Granny Weather returned after many long years of absence and laid her soft blanket upon us — a real English winter has returned.

As I sat looking out from my study with my mug of morning coffee in hand I said to her, “Welcome back, but where have you been, and why?” knowing that that was really a rhetorical question born of a deep cynicism that has been festering in my soul ever since a certain Mr. Gore sentenced Polar Bears to a pseudo death and began lining his pockets via his investments in carbon-trading companies… soon to be joined in various ways by a horde of similar predators and parasites.

But, dear readers, that would appear to be the way of things. So, as we move further away from the conjunction of the eleven and two hundred-year solar cycles and, after another coffee, it will be on with the snow boots and out with the yard brush and shovel to make a small impact on my patch of what millennia ago was a vast, semi-tropical carboniferous landscape populated by wondrous creatures now extinct.

Climate does change — it always has and always will, so one must be pragmatic and just get on with it.

— Seneca III, soon to be walking up to the Pub in a refreshingly redecorated Middle England this 10th day of December 2017.

For links to previous essays by Seneca III, see the Seneca III Archives.

Sturm und Drang

A big orange and red blob is heading our way, according to the Nexrad radar image. That means boom and bang in the sky, water pouring down the driveway, and high winds in the trees.

It probably won’t knock out our Internet, but you never know. Lately it seems that whenever a bird drops a doot on the phone company’s server box, our Internet connection goes down.

So if you don’t hear from us for a while, you know it’s another “Oh, no! Not again!” moment here at Schloss Bodissey.