If car mechanics were my father’s high priests, then meteorologists were his televangelists. He was as obsessive as an ancient mariner. Was there a low-pressure system on the way? Lake-effect snow? Could we expect thunderstorms tomorrow afternoon? Back then, the most up-to-date information could only be found on the late newscast. Sometimes, I’d stay up with him, waiting for that smooth-talking soothsayer to appear in front of a map, murmuring about wind chill and dew point and the jet stream. His predictions could preserve—or destroy—our plans for the following day. Sitting there next to Dad, staring at the little black and white television, I was on pins and needles.