A Winter to Remember, Beforehand

AS WE BLITHELY head into what we assume will be another warm winter—given the effects of global warming denied only by the ExxonMobil wing of Congress—we would do well to heed the warning of the nation’s oldest weather forecaster. According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, the coming winter will be particularly cold, with deep December snows to write home about, if you can get to the mailbox.

I first heard this forecast on the radio, driving home from another of the many craft festivals we attended this fall. We enjoy the talented local musicians and artisans, the copious amounts of free samples, and the chance I get at every handmade soap tent to complain that their cheese tastes funny. (I love doing that. It never gets old.)

The only drawback to fall festivals is the unavoidable encounter with dulcimer players. I listen politely for as long as I can stand it, then cry out, “Can you play ‘Free Bird’ on that thing?!” I do this to restore my sanity, if only for a moment. With its gentle, bell-like tones, dulcimer music is like a droning mosquito that you can’t kill. (The main problem with a hammer dulcimer is the hammer is too small and not made of metal. And they don’t hit it hard enough. I would hit it much harder.)

The dulcimer makers are proud of their craft, and offer them for sale, stacked together like so much firewood, dried and waiting for some conscientious humanitarian with a match to put an end to the madness.

But I digress.

GRANTED, IF BIG snows bring Washington to a standstill this winter, nobody would notice on Capitol Hill. But I wanted to be ready at home, with lots of supplies and plenty of rock salt for the sidewalks. (Winter tip: The best way to get a car out of deep snow is to place a dulcimer under each tire.)

I didn’t have a copy of the Old Farmer’s Almanac at home, so I took a chance that they might have a website, an unlikely possibility, I figured, like the Amish having iPads. I couldn’t imagine a publication that hadn’t changed its design since its first issue in 1792 would have joined the electronic age. But it had, and its website looks like it was designed in 1792. (Back then you couldn’t click a link. You had to attach a harness.)

Like the distinctive yellow print edition, the website still has the simple and sometimes preposterous homespun remedies. (Yes, Vitamin D is probably good for colds, but what does the moon have to do with it?) It still has ancient recipes for griddle cakes and shoofly pie. (Is sorghum still a thing?) And in these troubled times, the Almanac’s plain talk about all subjects is kind of refreshing.

To be honest, its weather forecasts are seldom accurate, and they are the laughing stock of actual meteorologists. But when’s the last time a meteorologist gave you a recipe for Creamy Pumpkin Pie?

These days, I go to the website for one thing: the live webcam of the parking lot in Dublin, New Hampshire. It’s the Almanac’s headquarters, and judging by the number of cars, they’ve got about a dozen employees, with at least one of them probably named Cletus.

A parking lot may not be the best metaphor for our times, but the ebb and flow of life can clearly be seen on this humble blacktop. Rush hour starts about 8:30, with the arrival of the first car. It gets kind of hectic around 9, with sometimes as many as three cars vying for the 20 remaining spaces. But then it calms down. By 5:30 it’s empty again. Another pressure-cooker day at the Old Farmer’s Almanac has come to a close.

If you can’t watch the livecam all day—What, you have better things to do?—there are back-up screenshots taken hourly of the parking lot. And they’re archived. I’m telling you this is one well-documented parking lot.

The street lights go on at 6 p.m., by the way, and sometimes the camera lens is blurred by raindrops, creating a flare effect that is aesthetically quite soothing. Which is why I can’t stop watching it. It’s like the gentle music of the dulcimer, without the desire to smash something.