Folk wisdom, especially weather-related folk wisdom, captured my attention when I first learned the saying, “Red sky at night—a sailor’s delight and red sky at morning—a sailor’s warning,” from my grandmother. I’ve tried over the years to determine whether her wise words consistently ring true, but so far–no verdict.

The verdict’s still out on woolly caterpillar stories, too. I can’t capture enough to determine if they sport more fur during colder winters than they do in warmer ones. In fact, I can’t remember from one year to the next exactly how furry the little guys the year before were. Surely, scientists possess some statistical measuring device that’d permit more precise analysis of this phenomenon. So far, I haven’t found a catalogue that sells this instrument to the public.

Despite my confusion about red skies in the morning and woolly caterpillar prognostications, I conducted an experiment several years ago. An unremembered someone (if I could, I’d give credit) told me to predict the amount of snowfall the following winter by measuring the height of sunflowers growing in road ditches—a likely accounting because rain provides their only moisture.

Road ditches get mowed regularly, so I searched for a reliable alternate site. We knew of a fenced-in area no one waters or mows–perfect for this test.

One might wonder where plants originate in this odd little test. Well, this research plot was about 12 feet from a bird and squirrel feeder. As greedier birds flew over or full-pouched squirrels dashed across to tease geriatric dogs, they dropped seed. As a result, a yearly sunflower garden grew untended.

Over droughty years, calling it a garden was an exaggeration. It sported a motley patch of dry grass and abbreviated sunflower plants that raised one or two sorry blooms amongst hardy, barely-above-the- ankle leaves and stems. That year, however, lucky seeds deposited there reached exalted heights.

I kept regular records of rainfall, though I didn’t need to. I could look at the sunflowers sprouting higher that year to know more moisture had fallen than these plants knew what to do with. As the plants eventually grew taller than I, my hypothesis would prove itself or fail dramatically.

That earlier mentioned, unnamed weather maven told me you can tell how much snow you’ll have in the winter by the height of the sunflowers in the summer. Eventually, a few of these plants towered a foot over my head, so I calculated and predicted around 84 inches of snow over the winter.

Remembering the winter of 91/92, I recollected receiving over 128 total inches of snow, snow that began in October and continued without break through March. So, 84” was possible. The winter of my study didn’t produce nearly that much precipitation. Lucky for the shovelers, that pundit was wrong.

Despite the failed experiment, I saw sense in such a prediction (if you have a wet summer, you’ll have a wet winter). In fact, I’ve continued to size up every season’s sunflower heights, and I’d have to say my forgotten prognosticator’s average lands in the ball park even if it’s not exact. Test it. Jot yourself a note to see if this year’s sunflowers reveal the coming winter’s snowy secrets.

Native Kansan Karen Madorin is a local writer and retired teacher who loves sharing stories about places, people, critters, plants, food, and history of the High Plains.