The first eclipse to be triggered is the March 18, 2007 solar eclipse. Mars will oppose this degree on August 18th. As shown in the map above, the Sun-Moon line ran through the central Atlantic around 38 west longitude. At the time of the solar eclipse, the Sun and Moon were square Pluto. On the 18th when Mars triggers this degree, Mars will also be square transit Pluto. This location should be watched roughly from August 17-20 for the formation or strengthening of tropical weather systems. Lately there has been concern amongst conventional meteorologists that the Atlantic hurricane season will spring to life soon. This is one indication that backs their concerns. There are others as well.
If we take a look at another view of the same eclipse, we see that the Sun and Moon descended over the eastern Pacific at that time. The southern part of the Sun-Moon line (at 128 west longitude) is another area to watch for hurricane formation between the same dates (Aug 17-19)--roughly between 15 and 25 north latitude. Further north, off the U.S. coast a front or low pressure system could develop in response to this and move inland. (For more info about this period see Summer 2008: The West Coast --link below)
The September 22, 2006 solar eclipse is the other one that will be triggered by the conjunction of Mars on the 18th. In a recent post we saw the effect Mars had on U.S. weather when it triggered a recent heat wave. This time, as seen in the astro-locality map at left, the 88th degree of west longitude will be triggered. My forecast for August 16-17 for this area already warns of severe weather over this area. (See Summer 2008: The Plains and Mississippi Valley--link below) This will extend the period a bit. Once again we're watching from August 17th to 19th. Other factors involved here indicate that a tropical system could result in the Gulf and Yucatan of Mexico.
Summer 2008: The Eastern United States
Summer 2008: The West Coast Part 1
Summer 2008: The Rockies Part 1
Summer 2008: The Plains and Mississippi Valley- Part 1
Introduction to the Weather Alternative
How Long-Range Forecasts Are Made
FATHER FORGETS
W. Livingston Larned
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.
There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive—and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding—this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of yours was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy—a little boy!"
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
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