When I grew up in St. Louis, we always claimed that we were spared all of the really bad weather because the Gateway Arch acted as a kind of meteorological anti-magnet that parted the evil clouds around the city. I don’t suppose that is true, and in any case, it certainly didn’t do anything about all of the humidity in that river city.
As spring swells here in the Midwest, I turn my eyes to the weather maps, eager to see giant storm cells linger over my woods at Roundrock. I want to get my lake refilled, so I watch the storms gather over the plains of Kansas and roll to the east where my Missouri woods lie.
And it seems that, more often than not, the storms part when they get close to my county, sending all of the wet weather to the north or south but bypassing Roundrock or merely giving it a token bit of rainfall. Storm cells that might swirl for whole days over lands to the west will hustle lickety-split over Roundrock, as though in a hurry to get to St. Louis or something.
And now I think I’ve puzzled out why.
It’s the meteor.
As long-time readers know, Roundrock sits within the impact structure of a meteor that struck the earth 350 million years ago. (This is not the same as being in the actual crater, however.) And though the geologist who first identified the puzzling “crypto-explosive event” of the area as an actual meteor impact has told me that the meteor was vaporized on impact, I have a suspicion that something has lingered. Something lies buried there in the earth that affects the weather. And since it sits to the southwest of my woods, it stands to twisted and convenient reason that it could steer the rain clouds around my watershed as they pass to the east and thus thwart my dreams of a filled lakebed.
Long-time readers will also know that Lake Marguerite, all two-and-a-half acres of it, and seventeen feet deep by the dam, filled overnight during one massive and wonderful storm the first spring after the dam was built. That would seem to disprove my theory, but perhaps it is the exception that proves the rule. This fact that it happened once taunts me now because it won’t happen again.
Now we embark on another spring, and I’m willing to burn a candle or hire dancers to make it rain. But if that damned meteor isn’t going to cooperate, what’s the point?
Who’s with me on this?