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White Hurricane

the Great Lakes in winter

“White Hurricane” by Lou Blouin of FoundMichigan.org

An excellent story of an epic storm that struck the Great Lakes 100 years ago today.

Modern weather forecasting was in its infancy. At the time, basic weather observations were gathered by hand by people scattered across the country, like human instruments, then wired back to the Weather Bureau in Washington, DC, where it was all compiled, analyzed for patterns and clues, regurgitated, codified, and wired back. These “forecasts” were a half day or more out of date by the time they arrived. Fast changing conditions simply charged through the open cracks. The warnings of a major storm sometimes arrived after the storm did.

That’s what happened in 1913. A fierce arctic gale out of Canada crashed into a warm gulf front pouring over the Appalachians. The collision occurred over the Great Lakes, and caught the whole region by surprise, exploding into a storm never seen before. Two feet of snow fell overnight. Winds went from balmy to hurricane force within the span of a half hour, whipping up waves 35 feet high. Ships and sailors on the notoriously dangerous waters were caught vulnerable and woefully unprepared for what lay in store.

By the time it was done, 12 major ships and over 250 men were lost in this single storm – more than in all the seasons of the decade before combined. Bodies of sailors washed up on the shores for days, as did parts of their ships, often scribbled with their forlorn farewells to loved ones.

A great story well told, well worth a read.

 

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Fall

 

Fall arrive late this year. Couple of weeks late. Been warm.

When the the leaves finally turned, a big wind storm came and blew them all away.

Got a few photos before they were gone.

Continue reading “Fall”

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Winter’s Coming

 

Normally, starting in September, I take the trailer to a local sawmill once a week or so and bring home a load of firewood. By the time of first frost I have a winter’s worth put by. Been doing this for nearly 20 years. I know the sawmill owner, his wife, watched their kids grow up; though I only see any of them a few times a year, every fall.

Continue reading “Winter’s Coming”

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Sound is Time Tangible

Justin Boyd: Sound and Time from Walley Films on Vimeo.

Justin Boyd, Department Chair of Sculpture and Integrated Media at Southwest School of Art, shares his connection with sound and how he uses it to create original works of art. Inspired by his sensitivity to sound at a very young age, Boyd has been recording and working with sound and music since the mid 90s. Boyd actively captures field recordings for integration of sound with found objects. This documentary was produced in association with Southwest School of Art. Learn more about their BFA program at http://www.swschool.org.

 

Sound seems one of the few ways to experience time. A semi-conscious, second tier sense, drifting along the margins – shadow, not light. The soundtrack to our film, as it were.

Like most semi-conscious senses, it’s tapped directly into memory. I remember the squeak and bang of the screen door of my grandmother’s house, always the same one-two rhythm.

I remember the sound of our mothers calling us home for dinner in the evenings, when I and my buddies were out fooling around in the twilight up in the mountains of the Carolinas. It was like a call to prayer at dusk. Each of us was tuned to a different call, but we knew them all.

I remember the metallic chimes of the ice cream truck, three blocks away.

Crows.

Whippoorwills. And Quail.

Fiddle music, long after dark.

 

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Cat’s Paws

Steve Earley in Spartina 

 

A long time ago, when I asked why puffs of wind coursing across the water were called “cat’s paws,” I was told it’s because the wind makes patterns on the surface shaped like a cat’s paw. Sounded reasonable.

Well, obviously, this is wrong. And clearly an explanation made up by someone who never set foot on a sailboat once their whole life.

Continue reading “Cat’s Paws”

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Not a Schooner, a Yawl, Y’all

Spartina in the slip

 

Steve warned me about the wine festival going on next door.

Leaving the mountains before daylight (I am sooo not a morning person), then driving east a couple of hours with nothing but a pot of coffee for breakfast, then headlong into the blinding rising sun, only to arrive in a city already unnavigable on any day, but now with barricaded streets (“Now With Even More Unnavigabilty!”), well dang. Every street within four blocks of Spartina was garrisoned by petulant orange cones blockading the precious oenophiles, barring passage. Tired of circling the block, I bounced over a concrete median into a parking garage, waving at the not overly amused patrolman. He was there for the overtime – getting paid to block the road, not write tickets – and we both knew that.

Continue reading “Not a Schooner, a Yawl, Y’all”