Poor Will's Almanack

Tuesdays during Morning Edition

Bill Felker’s Poor Will’s Almanack currently appears in fifteen regional and national publications including the Yellow Springs News.

Bill Felker on how the almanack began:

The Author of the following Letters takes the liberty, with all proper deference, of laying before the public his idea of ”parochial history”....
Gilbert White, The Natural History of Selborne

Poor Will’s Almanack, which I feel is something akin to what Gilbert White would consider “parochial history,” began in 1972 with the gift of a barometer. My wife, Jean, gave the instrument to me when I was succumbing
to graduate school stress in Knoxville, Tennessee, and it became not only an escape from intense academic work, but the first step on the road to a different kind of awareness about the world.

From the start, I was never content just to watch the barometric needle; I had to record its movement, then graph it. I was fascinated by the alchemy of the charts that turned rain and sun into visible patterns, symbols like notes on a sheet of music, or words on a page.

From my graphs of barometric pressure, I discovered that the number of cold fronts each month is more or less consistent, and that the earth breathes at an average rate of about once every three to five days in the winter, and once each six to eight days at the peak of summer.

A short apprenticeship told me when important changes would occur and what kind of weather would take place on most any day. That information was expressed in the language of odds and percentages, and it was surprisingly accurate. Taking into consideration the consistency of certain patterns in the past, I could make fairly successful predictions about the likelihood of the repetition of such paradigms in the future. As Yeats says, the seasons "have their fixed returns,” and I found points all along the course of the year which appeared
to be fixed moments for change. The pulse of the world was steadier than I had ever imagined.

My graphs also allowed me to see the special properties of each season.  August's barometric configurations, for example, are slow and gentle like low, rolling hills. Heat waves show up as plateaus. Thunderstorms are sharp, shallow troughs in the gentle waves of the atmospheric landscape. Autumn arrives like the sudden appearance of a pyramid on a broad plain. By the end of September, the fronts are stronger; the high-pressure peaks become taller; the lows are deeper, with almost every valley bringing rain. By December, the systems loom on the horizon of the graph like a range of mountains with violent extremes of altitude, sometimes snowcapped, almost always imposing and sliced by canyons of wind.

From watching the weather, it was an easy step to watching wildflowers.  Identifying plants, I saw that flowers were natural allies of my graphs, and that they were parallel measures of the seasons and the passage of time. I kept a list of when each wildflower blossomed and saw how each one consistently opened around a specific day, and that even though a cold year could set blooming back up to two weeks, and unusual warmth accelerate it, average dates were quite useful in establishing sequence of bloom which always showed me exactly where  I was in the progress of the year.

In the summer of 1978, Jean and I took the family to Yellow Springs, Ohio, a small town just beyond the eastern edge of the Dayton suburbs. We bought a house and planned to stay. I began to write a nature almanac for the local newspaper. To my weather and wildflower notes I added daily sunrise and sunset times, moonrise and moonset, average and record temperatures, comments on foliage changes, bird migration dates, farm and gardening cycles, and the rotation of the stars.

The more I learned around Yellow Springs, the more I found applicable to the world beyond the village limits. The microclimate in which I immersed myself gradually became a key to the extended environment; the part unlocked the whole. My Yellow Springs gnomon that measured the movement of the sun along the ecliptic also measured my relationship to every other place on earth.  My occasional trips turned into exercises in the measurement of variations in the landscape. When I drove 500 miles northwest, I not only entered a different space, but often a separate season, and I could mark the differences in degrees of flowers, insects, trees, and the development of the field crops. The most exciting trips were taken south in March; I could travel from early spring into middle spring and finally into late spring and summer along the Gulf Coast.

My engagement with the natural world, which began as an escape from academia, finally turned into a way of getting private bearings, and of finding a sense of values. It was a process of spiritual as well as physical reorientation.  The extremes of that process often puzzled me as well as my family and my newspaper readers. Why I felt compelled to go well beyond a barometric notebook and end up describing the average weather and the state of nature on each day of the Yellow Springs year I have not the slightest idea. My existential search for home must have required it of me, and so, in that sense, all the historical statements in this collection of notes are the fruit of a strong need to define, in maybe excessive detail, where I am and what happens around me.

Poor Will's Almanack is also available as a podcast.



8:45 am
Tue May 1, 2012

Poor Will's Almanack: May 1- 7, 2012

Flickr Creative Commons user ~Sage~

Poor Will’s Almanack for the second week of Late Spring

At winter solstice, the sun rose at the far southern corner of the Danielson's house across the street from my window. At equinox, the sun came up over Lil's house.

And at summer solstice, it will rise in the northwest between Jerry's house and Lil's. The original owners of these three places have moved or died, but still I use the houses to measure course of the sun and the progress of the year. But they do that only from my window. Disconnected from that view, they lose their astronomical significance.

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8:45 am
Tue April 24, 2012

Poor Will's Almanck: April 24 - 30, 2012

Flickr Creative Commons user Kari Kligore

Poor Will’s Almanack for the first week of Late Spring.

Some people I know have been a little uneasy with the beautiful spring weather this year.

At first, the sun and heat were were great blessings. For a while, everyone was excited by the abrupt end of winter - by the lack, in fact, of any appreciable winter at all. For a while, I went around saying, "I love global warming!"

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8:45 am
Tue April 17, 2012

Poor Will's Almanack: April 17 - 23, 2012

Flickr Creative Commons user Beedle Um Bum

Poor Will’s Almanack for the fourth week of Middle Spring, the week of Cross-Quarter Day, April 21st.

Surely, there is a great Word being put together here, writes Wendell Berry, "I begin to hear it gather in the opening of the flowers and the leafing-out of the trees.... in my thoughts, moving in the hill's flesh.

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8:45 am
Tue April 10, 2012

Poor Will's Almanack: April 10 - 16, 2012

Flickr Creative Common user code poet

Poor Will’s Almanack for the third week of Middle Spring

The Great Dandelion Bloom is the most common and the most radical marker for the third week of Middle Spring Of course a few dandelions started blooming in February and March. Now, however, comes the GREAT Dandelion Flowering that begins in the Deep South - where Middle Spring comes much earlier than it does in the North - and it spreads up through the Border States like robins, reaching the 40th Parallel, the lateral midline of the United States in April, and then creeps up to the northern states in May.

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8:37 am
Tue April 3, 2012

Poor Will's Almanack: April 3 - 9, 2012

Redbud blooms
Flickr Creative Commons user Martin LeBar

Poor Will’s Almanack for the Second week of Middle Spring.

Keeping a notebook of what happens every day in the small world around me, I often think about the cyclical quality of events in nature.

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