I recently read Kristin Hannah’s latest novel, “The Four Winds.” Her characters were engaging, and after a slow start, the plot kept me reading late into the night. Hannah’s setting was masterfully depicted, as it blended a historical time period (the 1920s-30s), the effects of an economic event (the Great Depression), and the geographical locations of Texas and California. Yet the setting, the plot and the characters of the book were overshadowed by one overwhelming, unpredictable factor – the weather. Unrelenting drought, suffocating heat, terrifying dust storms, and the specter of flash flooding robbed a family of its homestead, its livelihood, and its future – and strove to rob them of hope as well. It was a fascinating read, but definitely not a feel-good book to take to the beach.
In the midst of reading Hannah’s pages, I watched videos of the Town Creek in Ashland as it raged through town, as the miniature golf course at Brookside flooded and detours popped up on many Ashland County roads. At the same time, a friend in Western New York shared pictures of flood waters encroaching on her home. “We are in a mess,” she wrote. “Water up to the house. Roads flooded everywhere. Have never seen water like this out here.”
Her last line is one that’s being repeated throughout the western states, with a change in one word: “Have never seen temperatures like this out here.” Washington and Oregon experienced record highs at the end of June, reaching 118 degrees in both states. Eighty wildfires are burning out of control across the country. As reported in the New York Times, the Bootleg fire in southern Oregon is “so large and generating so much energy and extreme heat that it’s changing the weather. Normally the weather predicts what the fire will do. In this case, the fire is predicting what the weather will do,” said Marcus Kauffman of the state forestry department.
These weather-related changes aren’t limited to the west coast. The National Weather Service in New York tweeted, “A happy, hazy hump day” on Wednesday, because smoke from the western wild fires had traveled all the way to New York City. Another report suggested that Philadelphia is experiencing temperatures that are more like Atlanta, Georgia than a southeast Pennsylvania city.
I’m no Dick Goddard (the legendary Cleveland meteorologist), but I know enough about the whims of weather to recognize its unlimited power over humans. On my days with the grandkids, too much rain can spoil our outdoor plans, a minor inconvenience but often heart-breaking to the kids. But on a more tragic scale, I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastation of torrential rain and subsequent flooding in the Southern Tier of New York State, and Larry has seen the same along the mighty Mississippi. It’s life-changing, and not for the better.
As “The Four Winds” described so vividly, too little precipitation is just as critical as too much. Those living in the Dust Bowl of the Great Plains in the 1930s were powerless to create rain. Day after day, they looked to the sky with a last sliver of hope, and day after day, there was no rain. While Roosevelt had no power as a rainmaker, his Civilian Conservation Corps ramped up to address the needs of farmers who faced bankruptcy and starvation. Even with no rain, there were methods to prevent soil erosion that could make a difference. Through the Agricultural Adjustment Act, the government paid farmers not to plant certain acreage, as their farming methods had aggravated the damage from the drought. Instead of a hands-off attitude, FDR’s government asked itself the question, “What can we do to make a difference for struggling people in our country?”
My understanding of the science of climate emergency is limited, and I’m far from a Greta Thunberg in my commitment to save the whales – or the world. But I do recognize that the drumbeat of rain and the crackling of fire will grow louder and louder as the earth heats up. Do we have the will to hear what their voices are trying to tell us?
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