Grandpa's weather calendar.

Regardless of what part of the world I may visit, a calendar hanging on the wall catches my eye. Before there were radar, satellites, and TV to predict the weather, our house had its own weather channel, Grandpa's feed store calendar. With black and white pictures and big spaces around the numbers, it hung on a special nail in the kitchen. Alongside was a string tied to a pencil Grandpa sharpened with his pocket knife each morning. In importance, the calendar came in second only to the Bible.

Depending on the land to put food in our mouths, it was important to have a good crop. I can see Grandpa now, standing in the barn lot, hands in his pocket, legs apart, staring at the chimney. If the smoke rose high, he scribbled on the calendar "fair weather;" if it hung low and flat, "rain in the making." Calendars came in many sizes, but not for Grandpa--only one would hold that honor. Measuring at least 16 inches wide and two feet long when opened, it read "Kramertown Feed & Seed, McComb, Mississippi." Starting as early as the Christmas holidays, he watched the night sky. Moonlit nights meant crops would be light, but dark nights were a sure sign the harvest would be bountiful come spring.

If January 2 was cold and clear, Grandpa noted on the calendar "late spring." But January 5 was the day that concerned him most. If it rained that day, his anxious face relaxed, because he knew we would have a rainy May, which meant the beans and peas would be plump and plentiful. It would be years before I realized there would also be no shortage of grass and weeds to plow under or hoe.

We never thought it strange to hear older folks predict a long cold winter by the thickness of corn shucks or number of acorns squirrels gathered. Each day in February on which he heard thunder, Grandpa would flip the pages of the calendar to April and mark the corresponding day with "frost." After the third frost, it would rain. Very seldom was he wrong.

During the Depression, word spread that jobs were available in Houston, Texas. Grandpa's five boys and five girls left seeking their "pots of gold," leaving one granddaughter behind--me. Knowing pots of gold would not be found, he planted enough to share. When the children came to visit, they left with jars of pickles, butterbeans, corn, tomatoes, and all the good stuff now called "soul food."

Washday was done outdoors around a large black pot over a bed of hot coals. On Sunday, Grandpa was up early with the sun. If it rose behind a bank of clouds, he announced, "It will rain before Wednesday, so put washday off 'til Thursday." What's more, he believed a morning shower never lasted long, and if it brought a rainbow, wind would follow--"a good day to air quilts on the line." If the wind blew from the south on March 22, he would frown as he took the pencil and posted "could be a dry year but I hope not."

Warm spells never deceived Grandpa; winter was officially over when leaves appeared on the fig trees. He had names for seasons--January Thaw, Blackberry Winter, Whippoorwill Winter, Strawberry Moon, Indian Summer, Dog Days, and others I can't remember. Spring, summer, and fall came and went, his pantry full, meat curing in the smokehouse, fields plowed under, Grandpa's year ended.

When he heard the first katydid's call, he rushed to the calendar to scribble, for exactly 3 months to the day later, frost was in the forecast. Studying the dog-eared calendar pages, flipping them back and forth, he would smile and say, "It's been a good year." Yes, Grandpa's feed store calendar helped his family and many neighbors during the 1920s and '30s.

To this day, when I see a halo around the moon, I count the stars within so I'll know how many days it'll be before the next rain. "Every time you learn something new, a wrinkle develops in your brain," Grandpa would say. "No, Joyce, you are not grown yet--there are not enough wrinkles."

The signs of predicting weather as our forefathers did are still there for those who are willing to look. I may never have as many wrinkles as he did, but I think Grandpa would be happy to know the skinny granddaughter with the long pigtails listened and remembered.

Joyce White, a freelance writer, has written historical articles for the Enterprise Journal of McComb. A mother of six and lifelong resident of Mississippi, she is now retired and lives in Summit.