Virginia Arthur's Blog - Posts Tagged "climate-change-and-no-snow"
Thoughts About The End of Snow In California.
At 5 a.m. this morning, after yet another achingly dry Northern California summer, and dry summers are normal for us per our type of Mediterranean climate but now the rain and snow come later, the snow higher, I open the windows in my bedroom to listen to the rain. A cold blast of air should fill the room, but this is a warm rain.
September, the warmest year on record, again. How can we possibly ignore that every year is warmer than the one before it? Why isn't this freaking us out?
I grew up in snow country like so many of us. The snow was often cursed by my working class parents who got up at 5 a.m. to shovel it off our steep rounded driveway so we could get to school and they could get to work. Before snow blowers. Of course, the most glorious thing was when school was cancelled even if my parents were still expected to somehow get to work. No, the most glorious thing was when both my parents were home after a snowstorm. This was usually only on the weekends. The best snow days were Saturdays.
I wake up and listen. I can hear the scraping of the shovels against the driveway. I can hear them talking, the front door opening and closing. One of my siblings is out there, my older brother, taking instructions. I get up and put on my 7 layers of clothing--my blue snow pants with the suspenders. My white rubber boots. I walk outside where my mother offers me a giant smile and tosses a shovel full of snow at me, then she laughs.
"It's about time sleepyhead," she says. I hope on top of hope she does not have to go to work later. I don't get to spend a lot of time with her. The dog is bounding through the snow. Other neighbors are also outside, striving to get that scrape against the cement.
I love the winter light.
After a couple hours that includes sledding, goofing around, my mother once again reprimands my brother for hitting me too hard with a snowball. Then the driveway is declared clear. Everyone but me goes inside. My mother is going to craft one of her incredible recipes--this time my favorite potato soup. Somehow, she also manages two loafs of homemade bread. Bread machines did not exist then.
I climb to the top of the highest snow pile and sit on it, fiddling with the snow, thinking how happy I am, in this moment.
I love the winter light.
Packing the backpack to head out for a day of cross country skiing then sitting on a pile of snow at sunset, in the winter light, a satisfied tired, a fine beer in my hands to commemorate my blessings--good health, a day of peace and beauty.
Just finishing negotiating a damn hard mountain or surviving a drop into a bowl then sitting by the fire afterwards in a ski lodge.
Looking outside on a wintery day and knowing I have no place to go.
Won't we miss the snow? As we face the end of it and the beginning of something else; we should all be terrified about this, if not for us, for future generations. Then again, maybe we really don't care about them.
I mourn the end of snow and the beginning of this something else.
I mourn the end of snow in California.
https://www.goodreads.com/photo/autho...
September, the warmest year on record, again. How can we possibly ignore that every year is warmer than the one before it? Why isn't this freaking us out?
I grew up in snow country like so many of us. The snow was often cursed by my working class parents who got up at 5 a.m. to shovel it off our steep rounded driveway so we could get to school and they could get to work. Before snow blowers. Of course, the most glorious thing was when school was cancelled even if my parents were still expected to somehow get to work. No, the most glorious thing was when both my parents were home after a snowstorm. This was usually only on the weekends. The best snow days were Saturdays.
I wake up and listen. I can hear the scraping of the shovels against the driveway. I can hear them talking, the front door opening and closing. One of my siblings is out there, my older brother, taking instructions. I get up and put on my 7 layers of clothing--my blue snow pants with the suspenders. My white rubber boots. I walk outside where my mother offers me a giant smile and tosses a shovel full of snow at me, then she laughs.
"It's about time sleepyhead," she says. I hope on top of hope she does not have to go to work later. I don't get to spend a lot of time with her. The dog is bounding through the snow. Other neighbors are also outside, striving to get that scrape against the cement.
I love the winter light.
After a couple hours that includes sledding, goofing around, my mother once again reprimands my brother for hitting me too hard with a snowball. Then the driveway is declared clear. Everyone but me goes inside. My mother is going to craft one of her incredible recipes--this time my favorite potato soup. Somehow, she also manages two loafs of homemade bread. Bread machines did not exist then.
I climb to the top of the highest snow pile and sit on it, fiddling with the snow, thinking how happy I am, in this moment.
I love the winter light.
Packing the backpack to head out for a day of cross country skiing then sitting on a pile of snow at sunset, in the winter light, a satisfied tired, a fine beer in my hands to commemorate my blessings--good health, a day of peace and beauty.
Just finishing negotiating a damn hard mountain or surviving a drop into a bowl then sitting by the fire afterwards in a ski lodge.
Looking outside on a wintery day and knowing I have no place to go.
Won't we miss the snow? As we face the end of it and the beginning of something else; we should all be terrified about this, if not for us, for future generations. Then again, maybe we really don't care about them.
I mourn the end of snow and the beginning of this something else.
I mourn the end of snow in California.
https://www.goodreads.com/photo/autho...
