I am, without shame, a weather nerd. In climate, I have only a passing interest. But weather enthralls me. I live on a farm in the Berkshires, and the lawns are festooned with devices to measure every aspect of the weather—anemometers, sunshine recorders, rain gauges, thermometers, hygrometers. Every Sunday morning I change the recording paper and slow-drying ink on my barograph (an instrument for measuring atmospheric pressure), and now have a quarter-century’s worth of records, more than 1,500 paper charts, in bundles in the closet. Pointless, essentially worthless—except, perhaps, as a collection for other weather nerds.
Wind direction is my particular area of interest. Speed, not so much—but whether a wind comes roaring in from the west, is an angry nor’easter, or else wafts zephyr-like from the south is a point-of-compass detail I cherish. On the barn roof is a bronze cow weather vane. When its damp nose points toward the sunset, I imagine there will be rain the next morning.
