Because You Never Asked

     (This is the 2^nd essay in a series including "The Weather" and "The Weather Where I Vacation". Once again, I remind the reader that this essay was written in 1997.)

     When we talk about the weather in the tropical extremity of the southeastern United States, it is always the winter season which creates the most uncertainty. By the end of April the wind settles into the quadrant between east and south and the weather becomes increasingly warmer and more humid as the brisker spring winds begin to wane. By June the following conditions will hardly vary for the next 4 months: the low-high temperature swing will be about 10 degrees from 80-82 to 90-92. There will be short, violent thunderstorms scattered about the sky, marching from southeast to northwest on what little wind there is. If they are overhead and ready to drop their low hanging, fat bellied loads, you will get rained on. Except for the occasional marauding tropical storm which feeds off this warm water environment (as I put this essay up on my website in 2005, the now obviously understated qualities of that statement jumps right off the page), there is nothing else to report until October or November, when the influence of more northerly latitudes begins to appear once again. In the 25 years I've lived in this part of the world, the pattern of these calendar months centered on the summer half of the year has never changed . except for one thing: the 10 degree swing in minimum-maximum temperature seems to have gone up by about 2 degrees. Maybe I've imagined this. Maybe not.

     The calendar months centered on the winter half of the year are much more fickle. There are mild winters, harsh winters, and all winters in between. This generally coincides with the kind of winter the rest of the North American continent east of the Rockies is experiencing. When the Arctic blasts shaping these conditions have enough impetus, they can whistle on through all the way to Cuba, and only the more southerly latitude of this Caribbean periphery saves it from the icy conditions of the more temperate climates to the north. Nevertheless, in spite of the southern latitude, you can put your bikini away for awhile. When such northern blast is particularly piercing, the nightly lows can sink below 50 degrees and if the grayness which usually accompanies these intrusions stays around for awhile, the daytime temperature might not reach 60 degrees.

     The frowns on the tourist faces begin to take on a Mount Rushmore-like permanence. (I don't suppose the local Chamber of Commerce will ever forgive me for leaking such classified material, but these essays are not meant to be global economy exercises in marketing mendacity.)

     I am often asked by visitors what the average winter day is like in these parts. It is difficult to talk about an "average" winter day, because there are really 2 kinds of winter weather on opposite sides of the climate spectrum: we are either under the influence of northern air or we are not. When there is no northern incursion, the weather might be described as summery. The temperature will climb into the 80's, the nights will be mild and there will be a not too uncomfortable amount of humidity. Out come the bikinis, the sun tan oil, and all the other paraphernalia of a tropical vacation. In judging the severity of winter on this tropical finger of the North American continent, we are really totaling up the amount of time with or without the presence of northern air.

     The winter of '96-'97 was the mildest I've ever seen in my quarter century of residence. But this statement does not do justice to the concept. We are talking mild in the sense that it obliterated my usual idea of weather for the place where I live. It was as if someone came along and high jumped a full foot higher than anyone had ever done before. It was a mutant.

     I have a personal way of rating winter severity and it has to do with how I dress when I go to work. Being that my work day begins before the sun rises I must dress for the coolest part of the day. During the winter months I have 2 "uniforms": 1) my winter one, which consists of long pants and a pullover golfing-tennis type shirt, probably worn under a sweater for the first few hours, and, 2) my summer one, which consists of shorts and a loose fitting tropical button shirt, worn on winter days free of northern influence, as well as the rest of the year. The percentage of time each respective uniform is worn is a good barometer as to what kind of winter we are having.

     Simple.

     The lamb-like quality of the winter of '96-'97 has made it difficult for me to come to grips with my previous concept of winter where I live. It was as if the winter beast had been gelded and rendered totally uninspired. It has made me doubt my own memory, which tells me that an average winter meant the winter uniform for more than half the time. I seem to remember some years when I wore long pants to work for unbroken monthly stretches. There has never been any year where the winter uniform did not receive substantial amounts of use.

     During the winter of '96-'97 there was a cold snap for about 3 or 4 days the week before Christmas. From that moment on, I did not put on the winter uniform for the rest of the year. I may have worn some of these items of clothing socially, but never in order to protect myself from the elements. Such elements didn't show up this year. It was weird.

     Which brings me too the essay "The Weather Where I Vacation".

     (Post Script: In the 8 years since I wrote this essay, the warmish winter trend has continued, so much so that I have had to rethink my idea as to what a normal winter is. But the winter of '96-'97 still stands out.)