THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, January 12, 1996 TAG: 9601110157
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 77 lines
I don't mind a little technology in my life. I consider my five-disc CD player to be God's gift to this music lover whose taste encompasses everything from Gregorian chants to Tennessee Ernie Ford via Bach, Beethoven and Bette Midler.
I could not write a column, keep a schedule or balance my checkbook without the help of my computer.
I've even been forced to admit that a cell phone in my purse is a handy gadget.
But I draw the line at a weather predicting system that tells me 24 hours in advance the exact moment that snow will start to fall in Franklin.
That's because I still like a little mystery in my life.
I think the precise moment of a baby's arrival in the world should be a secret shared by the kid and the Almighty until it joins the general population in demanding food, cuddling and a nice warm blanket.
So should the newborn's preference for pink or blue in the nursery decor.
It's the same with weather.
Knowing that a storm is somewhere in the offing is enough to satisfy me. My hometown paper did that very nicely.
Each morning, from early December through mid-March, the little weather box at the top of the front page contained a single word.
``Snow.''.
It told Bangorians all they needed to know about the day ahead. Keep the coal bin full, the snow shovel handy and the ice box stocked. The exact moment at which the white stuff would fall out of the sky was a non-issue. It was there ready to drop. Period.
There was something wonderfully magical about waiting for the first flake to arrive. At school it was a contest of sorts. Whoever could best shift his or her attention from the arithmetic paper to the huge double hung windows would be the one to announce the arrival.
That's not enough precision for today's technocrats.
Now you turn on your local TV channel and watch as somebody wrapped in layers of designer outerwear and wearing a hat designed by an out-of-work Cossack stands on a rooftop with a computer-generated map in the background and tells you when and where to look.
Now what fun is there in that?
Besides, that kind of information - like so much that's put out today - takes away the individual's need to think.
Press a few buttons, hit a few keys or jiggle a few knobs and you have instant answers.
My grandfather and his generation predicted the weather very reliably without the use of electronic gizmos. All they needed were their God-given senses. They could see the clouds, hear the wind, feel the cold and smell the dampness. The truly observant ones used their taste buds as well. ``Tastes like a storm brewing,'' my grandfather would say, running his tongue over his lips in the face of the wind.
They didn't possess any magical gifts of prognostication. They were simply careful observers of the world around them.
Tall clouds, they knew from experience, are filled with moisture. High winds signal an approaching front. So does a sharp drop in temperature. The scent of damp soil precedes the rain it heralds.
These days, however, I look for a sign that I've learned is even more precise but equally low tech.
In the 21 years I've lived in this house, I've learned that a watery yellow light coming through my living room window at sunrise is indeed a harbinger of a stormy day.
I don't need a computer geek to tell me when or where. I need only to keep an eye on a window in anticipation of the first drop (if the temperature is above freezing) or flake (if it's below) to know that the inevitable has arrived.
That does not mean that I'm willing to give up my other high tech gadgets. But when it comes to weather, I prefer the element of a little surprise.
I think - no, I know for certain - that my grandfather would approve. by CNB