by Robert LaFrance
I’ve conducted a scientific poll, and the consensus is this: The summer of 2011 is the weirdest summer—weatherwise—that has ever been since Cleopatra roamed the Nile.
Oh, I’m sure some of those guys in ancient Persia or in northern Saskatchewan will argue, and point to the year 27 b.c. or 1934, but they are out to lunch. And not an outdoor lunch, if they’re smart.
Last week, around 10:00 am Tuesday I think it was, I was talking to a chap who checks every online weather forecast in western New Brunswick several times a day and he said this: “According to the satellite images covering all of eastern North America from Bare Need, Newfoundland to Grungeville, West Virginia, there is not a cloud in the sky. There can be no rain here for at least two days. It’s not possible.”
My response was to take my umbrella out of the trunk of the Chrysler and keep it at hand. Four hours later it was what we used to call (in my days in the weather service) BINOVC—‘break in overcast’. Then it rained for over an hour. Four hours later it rained again, then again four hours after that.
Just about every day this summer has featured (1) BINOVC, (2) rain, heavy and light, (3) blazing sunshine for a few minutes at a time, (4) strong winds, (5) bright sunshine for hours, with a gentle breeze, or (6) a thunderstorm. Any day that did not include 1-6 in various combinations was an unusual one; most days saw several examples of each. One often heard that old saying: “Don’t like the weather in New Brunswick? Wait a minute.”
Not to belabour the subject, but not only is the weather around here more instantly changeable than any I’ve seen for decades, but it is also the most vicious. Here on our hill in Kincardine, Scotch Colony, we have gone entire summers without a thunderstorm, other than a few rumbles in the distance, but this year going two days without one would be like Don Cherry shutting up for ten minutes.
Six days ago we had a vicious storm that knocked out our power for twelve hours. This would be the 97th of those this summer. Some people would sympathize, but it was okay…really. We had kerosene lamps, candles and flashlights. (Why, that’s almost like poetry!) We read novels by the light of Everyready, Duracell, and flame, and we were often entertained by the latest message from the power company.
Since it appeared that only our Manse Hill Road and scattered houses on Kincardine Road had lost power, our electricity provider must have dropped us to the bottom of their list in lieu of those nearer their office where the trucks are kept. I could be wrong. Whatever the reason, it was 6:35 am before we could watch our favourite soap opera ‘The Secret Edge of Tomorrow’s Young and Restless Brighter Day at the General Hospital’.
Not surprisingly, Nurse Dania and Dr. Sinclair were still in love but both still married, in case you need to know.
Those messages from the power company were entertaining though, as I mentioned. I reported the power outage at 6:30 pm when they assured me that a truck was not only waiting with motor running, eager as hell to restore our power, but that they would send the CEO as well as the Premier before the sun went down.
At 9:30 pm, the sun was a memory, and apparently the premier and CEO had been called away. I asked the power company’s very personable computer voice when he (she?) could expect to have my power restored and was told that ‘due to unexpected high call volumes’ it wouldn’t be fixed until sometime between 10:30 and 11:00 pm. Well, that wasn’t too bad; at least I could watch the Fox Soccer Report at 11:00. I wanted to know if Manchester United has beaten Chelsea.
I was staggered when, at 11:05 pm, somewhat like the federal Liberals, we still had no power. This time my call to the power company was one of the more entertaining. I talked to a real person—as opposed to a computer voice—and asked him what had happened to the 10:30-11:00 assurance. Had it disappeared into the time/space matrix?
No, the person said, that was only an estimate. Well, I continued, when did you send out the truck with eager technician? “We haven’t actually sent out a truck to your location,” he said. “There are other power outages…”
So the secret is out. I, though still on their video screen, am nowhere near as important to the power company as I had imagined. Am I ever glad the company wasn’t sold to Quebec Hydro. This column would have to be sent to the newspaper via a wind-powered CPU, otherwise known as a carrier pigeon, until 2014, once the Quebeckers had read my June 2008 column’s comments about the late Rocket Richard, who in my opinion was little more than a talented thug.
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