I think it reminded me of the evenings he would read to me as a child

I have been pursued by weather for most of my life; a storm-chaser in reverse. From tornado torn Oklahoma, to the sun-scorched desert of Arizona, to the sculpted snow, ice, snow, ice walls sliding around sidewalks of Southeast Alaska, the elements have always been a part of my psyche. My father was a meteorologist with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). As a teenager, I loved to listen to his deep-chested voice read the marine forecast from the Sony transistor radio on top of the refrigerator. I especially loved it when he worked graveyards and the gravelly pitch of his voice laid itself over the dark while I sat at the kitchen table and stared into the white gray of a lamppost reflected Yakutat field extending out from Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) housing. I think it reminded me of the evenings he would read to me as a child, except at that point he seemed to me as distant as the fisherman at sea who depended on his forecast for a good catch. The weather bureau office was only five apartment doors down from where I sat, chin in palm, listening to him in a way that I never heard his voice when he was right next to me.


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