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A Lewisian Year
Apr. 3rd, 2021 05:56 pmPresented in partnership with the Lewisia Communications Board and Lewisia Public Library
Sponsored by The Historical Society
Hello, readers, listeners, and psychic osmosizers! Welcome to A Lewisian Year, a monthly showcase celebrating the rich culture here in the Lake Lewisia district. Each month, we'll highlight some seasonal events, local celebrations and interpretations of national and world holidays, and historical tidbits.
APRIL
Weather Weddings
On a cold, clear morning in the second half of April, you take a walk outside, enjoying the break in an otherwise rainy spring. The moon has set but the sun hasn't risen yet, so it's very dark. When you look up, you have a perfect view of a sky full of stars. You see something streak across it: a shooting star. As you keep watching, you see more bright lines across the northeastern sky, radiating from Vega in the constellation of Lyra. The meteors start falling more frequently, until you see one every minute. It looks like this is an outburst year for the Lyrids, a difficult-to-predict surge in the normally modest meteor event.
Then, you hear it: a deep roll of thunder. Yet everywhere you look, you see only cloudless sky. Nothing obscures your view of the shooting stars. Even so, another rumble comes across the hills. The air seems to shake. The sound gets closer and the meteors zing overhead, like stars are being shaken out of the sky by the force of the thunder.
Just as you think it must be close enough that you'll be able to see the source, it starts to draw away and get quieter. The thunder moves off into the distance, like a procession passing by. Soon, the dawn begins to lighten the sky and you can no longer make out the bright lines of the meteor shower. You have been witness to something very rare, even if you aren't sure what.
Weather conjunctions have been the subject of speculation throughout history. Unusual combinations are often said to indicate particular events, with births and weddings being the most frequently cited. Folklore on this subject abounds, with some origins more clear than others. The popular story of foxes marrying during sunshowers has roots in Japanese folklore and likely got introduced to the area by immigrant groups that moved into the area in the late nineteenth century. Variants on this from other cultures suggest the weddings of crows or witches instead.
(Local witches, when polled, seem mostly to be of the opinion that, while picturesque, such conditions would present a logistical nightmare for attendees of such a handfasting. The crows offered no further insights when asked.)
Often the folklore suggests that the conjunction of two or more dissimilar or rare weather phenomena indicates an equally unusual partnership has been consecrated. Rains of all manner of terrestrial animals, such as toads, mice, or spiders, are thought to indicate that a human has married a ghost or spirit--the combination of earth and sky suggesting the union of the mortal and the spectral. This was confirmed to be the case with the Great Cat Rain of 1984, when Mx. and Mr. Heimisson married, though they insist it was just an unfortunate mix-up with the catering service's handling of the fish option.
Some conjunctions, though, remain a mystery in their significance. According to two hundred years of records, there have been seven occasions when a meteor shower received an unexplained backing of thunder--three during the Lyrids in April and four during the Draconids in October. Due to the popularity of wedding folklore for conjunctions, this has sometimes been reported as a wedding procession. However, no credible witnesses report any visible confirmation of such a gathering, like trails of lantern light or banners moving in the distance. (Incredible witnesses, such as Ms. Banks-Creevy, can be questioned on their sightings if you have a free afternoon or five.) Maybe during this year's meteor showers, we will get another chance to find out who the happy couple might be.
National Library Week
I confess, in my own hometown, I was rather afraid of the library and librarians. Well, one librarian in particular: Mrs. P---, whom we tended to refer to as Mrs. Pickle on account of the sour attitude. I've spent a great deal of time in the library since moving to Lewisia, in part to research for this column. Far from sour, the librarians have been very helpful and kind as I fumble over local terminology and repeatedly forget historical events. As part of this year's events, I was invited to attend one of the health checks and feedings for a feral book colony.
I went to the Accidental Library at the bus depot on Hollyberry Road. The colony consists primarily of books forgotten by travelers waiting at the depot, so there are mostly cheap, thick paperbacks of romance or suspense, with a few children's board books mixed in. Seeing them all up in the rafters outside the waiting room, listening to the rustle of live pages, I could do nothing but marvel at the persistence of stories. Even when they seem to be forgotten, they live on, waiting for the moment when they find the right reader again.
Gem and Mineral Show
While libraries might not have been a highlight of my childhood, gem and mineral shows absolutely were. I've never been to one quite like the Lewisian version, though. While I appreciated the abundant documentation on ethical sourcing of rocks commercially, safe collection practices among amateurs, and the overlap between antiquities trade and lithoid breeding, it was the much-promoted Rock Doctor I wanted to see.
I've worn a small, roughly leaf-shaped labradorite pendant since I was a teen, so I took that. While I didn't need the stone identified, I was curious about some of the other insights advertised. Was my stone happy? Getting enough exercise? Meeting its fundamental need for light sources in which to sparkle?
I'm happy to report my rock is doing very well. The Rock Doctor reported that it particularly likes the little velvet pouch I keep it in at night. I did get recommendations for a polishing routine to really bring out its natural luminescence. Whether a cut gemstone or a bit of driveway gravel, the Rock Doctor knows what makes rocks shine.
This Month in History
On April 23, 1998, the False Cinnabar Beetle was spotted as part of a mixed-species swarm on the western shore of Lake Lewisia. While the Eastern US has its well-known periodical cicadas on their thirteen- or seventeen-year cycles, the Lewisia region does play host to the less familiar century dragonfly (Anax saeculum), as well as generally increased insect activity during many warm springs. This swarm, however, was notable in being composed at least partially of extinct varieties. The False Cinnabar Beetle, in particular, has been listed as extinct since 1925, though the last confirmed sighting was back in 1893.
Wildlife monitoring equipment in the area did confirm the presence of False Cinnabars in the passing swarm, though the saucer-sized, red beetles with their intricate patterning would be difficult to mistake even in the absence of trained professionals. No beetles have been spotted since that day, and they will keep their extinct status for now. Such sightings are cause for hope, though, that somewhere, somehow, the strangest of us still survive.
That's a taste of what April has to offer us. See you next month, when May brings the biggest potluck I've ever attended, heard of, or imagined.
Sponsored by The Historical Society
Hello, readers, listeners, and psychic osmosizers! Welcome to A Lewisian Year, a monthly showcase celebrating the rich culture here in the Lake Lewisia district. Each month, we'll highlight some seasonal events, local celebrations and interpretations of national and world holidays, and historical tidbits.
APRIL
Weather Weddings
On a cold, clear morning in the second half of April, you take a walk outside, enjoying the break in an otherwise rainy spring. The moon has set but the sun hasn't risen yet, so it's very dark. When you look up, you have a perfect view of a sky full of stars. You see something streak across it: a shooting star. As you keep watching, you see more bright lines across the northeastern sky, radiating from Vega in the constellation of Lyra. The meteors start falling more frequently, until you see one every minute. It looks like this is an outburst year for the Lyrids, a difficult-to-predict surge in the normally modest meteor event.
Then, you hear it: a deep roll of thunder. Yet everywhere you look, you see only cloudless sky. Nothing obscures your view of the shooting stars. Even so, another rumble comes across the hills. The air seems to shake. The sound gets closer and the meteors zing overhead, like stars are being shaken out of the sky by the force of the thunder.
Just as you think it must be close enough that you'll be able to see the source, it starts to draw away and get quieter. The thunder moves off into the distance, like a procession passing by. Soon, the dawn begins to lighten the sky and you can no longer make out the bright lines of the meteor shower. You have been witness to something very rare, even if you aren't sure what.
Weather conjunctions have been the subject of speculation throughout history. Unusual combinations are often said to indicate particular events, with births and weddings being the most frequently cited. Folklore on this subject abounds, with some origins more clear than others. The popular story of foxes marrying during sunshowers has roots in Japanese folklore and likely got introduced to the area by immigrant groups that moved into the area in the late nineteenth century. Variants on this from other cultures suggest the weddings of crows or witches instead.
(Local witches, when polled, seem mostly to be of the opinion that, while picturesque, such conditions would present a logistical nightmare for attendees of such a handfasting. The crows offered no further insights when asked.)
Often the folklore suggests that the conjunction of two or more dissimilar or rare weather phenomena indicates an equally unusual partnership has been consecrated. Rains of all manner of terrestrial animals, such as toads, mice, or spiders, are thought to indicate that a human has married a ghost or spirit--the combination of earth and sky suggesting the union of the mortal and the spectral. This was confirmed to be the case with the Great Cat Rain of 1984, when Mx. and Mr. Heimisson married, though they insist it was just an unfortunate mix-up with the catering service's handling of the fish option.
Some conjunctions, though, remain a mystery in their significance. According to two hundred years of records, there have been seven occasions when a meteor shower received an unexplained backing of thunder--three during the Lyrids in April and four during the Draconids in October. Due to the popularity of wedding folklore for conjunctions, this has sometimes been reported as a wedding procession. However, no credible witnesses report any visible confirmation of such a gathering, like trails of lantern light or banners moving in the distance. (Incredible witnesses, such as Ms. Banks-Creevy, can be questioned on their sightings if you have a free afternoon or five.) Maybe during this year's meteor showers, we will get another chance to find out who the happy couple might be.
National Library Week
I confess, in my own hometown, I was rather afraid of the library and librarians. Well, one librarian in particular: Mrs. P---, whom we tended to refer to as Mrs. Pickle on account of the sour attitude. I've spent a great deal of time in the library since moving to Lewisia, in part to research for this column. Far from sour, the librarians have been very helpful and kind as I fumble over local terminology and repeatedly forget historical events. As part of this year's events, I was invited to attend one of the health checks and feedings for a feral book colony.
I went to the Accidental Library at the bus depot on Hollyberry Road. The colony consists primarily of books forgotten by travelers waiting at the depot, so there are mostly cheap, thick paperbacks of romance or suspense, with a few children's board books mixed in. Seeing them all up in the rafters outside the waiting room, listening to the rustle of live pages, I could do nothing but marvel at the persistence of stories. Even when they seem to be forgotten, they live on, waiting for the moment when they find the right reader again.
Gem and Mineral Show
While libraries might not have been a highlight of my childhood, gem and mineral shows absolutely were. I've never been to one quite like the Lewisian version, though. While I appreciated the abundant documentation on ethical sourcing of rocks commercially, safe collection practices among amateurs, and the overlap between antiquities trade and lithoid breeding, it was the much-promoted Rock Doctor I wanted to see.
I've worn a small, roughly leaf-shaped labradorite pendant since I was a teen, so I took that. While I didn't need the stone identified, I was curious about some of the other insights advertised. Was my stone happy? Getting enough exercise? Meeting its fundamental need for light sources in which to sparkle?
I'm happy to report my rock is doing very well. The Rock Doctor reported that it particularly likes the little velvet pouch I keep it in at night. I did get recommendations for a polishing routine to really bring out its natural luminescence. Whether a cut gemstone or a bit of driveway gravel, the Rock Doctor knows what makes rocks shine.
This Month in History
On April 23, 1998, the False Cinnabar Beetle was spotted as part of a mixed-species swarm on the western shore of Lake Lewisia. While the Eastern US has its well-known periodical cicadas on their thirteen- or seventeen-year cycles, the Lewisia region does play host to the less familiar century dragonfly (Anax saeculum), as well as generally increased insect activity during many warm springs. This swarm, however, was notable in being composed at least partially of extinct varieties. The False Cinnabar Beetle, in particular, has been listed as extinct since 1925, though the last confirmed sighting was back in 1893.
Wildlife monitoring equipment in the area did confirm the presence of False Cinnabars in the passing swarm, though the saucer-sized, red beetles with their intricate patterning would be difficult to mistake even in the absence of trained professionals. No beetles have been spotted since that day, and they will keep their extinct status for now. Such sightings are cause for hope, though, that somewhere, somehow, the strangest of us still survive.
That's a taste of what April has to offer us. See you next month, when May brings the biggest potluck I've ever attended, heard of, or imagined.
