Farewell, Pat Prokop
This time of year Savannah comes alive with cultural events, festivals, and fairs. Halloween decorations and pumpkins are replaced with Christmas lights, and when the November fog begins its nightly descent over the city, she literally glows.
It’s good to know things happen right on time. Our first frost always comes around the 15th of November. Sure enough we turned on the heat the night of November 14th.
This first night of heat is a big deal for me and my family. All summer, we endure the torture of too-hot summers, waiting patiently for the first day we’d have to put on a sweater. Soon, we remind ourselves, the windows will fly open, the blankets will be unfurled and and the last cicada will buzz itself out. My Mom and I had a running joke every single year that went like this:
Me: “I’m turning on the heat!”
My Mom: “I’ll break your arm!”
This year is a little more sentimental than others in the past. I didn’t realize until Saturday night, when my waiter asked if my husband and I would like to sit outside the restaurant for dinner.
“Or is it too cold?” he said.
“Are you kidding?” I laughed, “I wait all summer for this night!”
Then I suddenly realized something. This will be the last year Pat Prokop would be on the air for the first frost. He will be retiring this month.
Next year, he won’t be telling us to mind our pets, plants, and pipes.
I was in high school when Patrick Prokop began forecasting and reporting the weather on WTOC. He shared the newscast with Doug Weathers and Angela Gale.
My family watched that newscast every night, and so I watched that newscast every night. For some reason, they were obsessed with the humidity. And Pat was the only one who reported the humidity.
Or, should I say, the “relative humidity.” Because there’s a difference. Those of us who watched knew why. We also know the difference between a waxing gibbous and a waning crescent. We know why there’s a circle around the moon, where to find Venus in the night sky and Mercury in the morning, or why a cold front brings rain. What are “bands” from a hurricane? We know, because we watched Pat.
Several generations of Savannians witnessed as he would track Santa’s arrival every Christmas Eve. Even the most jaded non-believer had to admit something mysterious and jolly was showing up on that map of his.
Pat was here for Hurricanes David, Hugo, and through to Joachin. He was close by, alert at his bay of sophisticated weather apperatii, gently informing us not to worry “just yet,” he’d say, “But keep your weather radios at hand for the latest updates.”
He was kind of like a weather Mr. Rogers — a gentle voice even in the midst of troubling times. His commentary, whether we were suffering though crippling drought or impending thunderstorms, seemed to be of comfort. I can still hear him saying things like “beneficial precipitation” and “fair weather cumulus clouds” and “the coast is clear!”
Pat kept an almanac which tracked record highs and lows, and if the low was far back enough, say, 1878, those of us in the audience braced for the “zing” that was coming for Doug Weathers.
“That was the year Doug graduated from high school,” he’d announce, never cracking a smile.
The almanac reminded us of where we were on the coldest Christmas: 1983, when the Forsyth Fountain froze solid, and that the very next year we were wearing shorts.
We remember the days Ricky Rooster would wake up the city and Radar the Weather Cat held reign over Pat’s prized daylily garden. Locals brought in produce to display on the news desk. Pat often had a t-shirt to hold up from the Vidalia Onion Festival or the parade in Hinesville or a hundred other events, each one special to him, and therefore special to all of us.
We do remember, Pat, and we will miss you so, because today things are different. We now have computers giving us a future-cast. We have apps. If I hear thunder, I simply glance at my phone, and I’ll know if I need to drive through town or take President Street to avoid a squall. (You taught us what a squall is.)
Yes, things are very different, but it’s nice to know some things will never change. The first frost will always happen around November 15th. We’ll have to mind our pets, plants, and pipes. But we’ll miss hearing it from you.
We’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know, Pat. Enjoy your well-deserved retirement. The coast is clear.