Friday evening I was tying old shower curtains around my grape arbor. The temperature was dropping quickly and all along our block, neighbors were busily wrapping fruit trees, to protect the blossoms from two nights of predicted well-below-freezing weather.
The wind was up as the front moved in, the light through the clouds held a blue tint and worried though I was, I had to admit a certain exhilaration. The loose ends of the shower curtains (we use retired shower curtains for drop cloths, etc.) flapped furiously as I ran up and down the stepladder with a Barlow knife and bits of twine. I worried my knots would prove ineffectual; that I’d wake in the night to see the arbor fluttering like a banshee and I’d have to resign my seat in the Greenpeace Knot-Tyers Club.
The knots held, the freeze passed us by, all the plants seem to have survived and while I’m still trying to hold to my weather observing resolution, I have to admit global warming has hopelessly intruded upon it and may never be ejected.
How is cold weather a symptom of global warming? Short answer: it’s not. Every Vermont gardener knows frosts and freezes are likely all the way through Memorial Day, which is why no one puts their tomatoes in before that holiday.
On the other (and more pertinent) hand, the real reason for the Frenetic Friday Floral Festival was that temperatures in March and April were so far above normal that blossoms are well ahead of schedule. The forsythia bloomed for more than four weeks this year and even overlapped with the lilacs, something I’ve never witnessed. They’re usually five or six weeks apart.
Because we’re the good guys in the global warming debate (falling over ourselves to “not be alarmist”), let us feel compelled to add this disclaimer: “This particular event cannot be directly attributed to global warming, although based on computer models, this is the kind of event we should expect to see more frequently.” I’m sure that phrase (or one like it) will be invoked a record number of times this year. I’d like to see a graph of the frequency of that phrase’s appearance in the media and political discourse in the past decade. I imagine it would look like a hockey stick.
On Saturday, I cut the grass, the first time I’ve ever done it in April. It was overdue, if anything (see disclaimer above). It was chilly, but not too chilly if one was sheltered from the wind. I worry about the bees. This spring has been hard on them.
Some scientists predict that sometime this month, the atmospheric concentration of carbon dioxide will top 400 parts per million for the first time in human history. Not that it will stay there. Although CO2 is steadily on the rise, it’s not constant. The last two weeks of May tend to be the CO2 high point for the year, because 1) most of Earth’s land mass is north of the equator 2) the snows in the northern hemisphere have greatly receded, allowing last year’s dead leaves to begin decaying in earnest and 3) this year’s new leaves have yet to reach potential in terms of CO2 absorption.
Even though the number will hit 400 and dip again, soon after it will pass 400 ppm and we will never see the 300s again in our lives. If we fail to take significant action, neither will our kids or grandchildren and they will not thank us.
Since May is also the month in which I was born (thus adding even more atmospheric CO2), I thought I’d chart my history with this particular gas. There was an atmospheric concentration of 320 ppm CO2 when I was born. It hit 330 when I was 13, 340 when I was 19 (those big ‘70s gas guzzlers), 350 when I was 26 (and abandoning journalism for environmentalism), 360 when I was 34, 370 when I was 39, 380 when I was 44 and 390 when I was 48. The intervening years, therefore, are 13, six, seven, eight, five, five, five and three.
Global Warming, As It Pertains to Me
Friday evening I was tying old shower curtains around my grape arbor. The temperature was dropping quickly and all along our block, neighbors were busily wrapping fruit trees, to protect the blossoms from two nights of predicted well-below-freezing weather.
The wind was up as the front moved in, the light through the clouds held a blue tint and worried though I was, I had to admit a certain exhilaration. The loose ends of the shower curtains (we use retired shower curtains for drop cloths, etc.) flapped furiously as I ran up and down the stepladder with a Barlow knife and bits of twine. I worried my knots would prove ineffectual; that I’d wake in the night to see the arbor fluttering like a banshee and I’d have to resign my seat in the Greenpeace Knot-Tyers Club.
The knots held, the freeze passed us by, all the plants seem to have survived and while I’m still trying to hold to my weather observing resolution, I have to admit global warming has hopelessly intruded upon it and may never be ejected.
How is cold weather a symptom of global warming? Short answer: it’s not. Every Vermont gardener knows frosts and freezes are likely all the way through Memorial Day, which is why no one puts their tomatoes in before that holiday.
On the other (and more pertinent) hand, the real reason for the Frenetic Friday Floral Festival was that temperatures in March and April were so far above normal that blossoms are well ahead of schedule. The forsythia bloomed for more than four weeks this year and even overlapped with the lilacs, something I’ve never witnessed. They’re usually five or six weeks apart.
Because we’re the good guys in the global warming debate (falling over ourselves to “not be alarmist”), let us feel compelled to add this disclaimer: “This particular event cannot be directly attributed to global warming, although based on computer models, this is the kind of event we should expect to see more frequently.” I’m sure that phrase (or one like it) will be invoked a record number of times this year. I’d like to see a graph of the frequency of that phrase’s appearance in the media and political discourse in the past decade. I imagine it would look like a hockey stick.
On Saturday, I cut the grass, the first time I’ve ever done it in April. It was overdue, if anything (see disclaimer above). It was chilly, but not too chilly if one was sheltered from the wind. I worry about the bees. This spring has been hard on them.
Some scientists predict that sometime this month, the atmospheric concentration of carbon dioxide will top 400 parts per million for the first time in human history. Not that it will stay there. Although CO2 is steadily on the rise, it’s not constant. The last two weeks of May tend to be the CO2 high point for the year, because 1) most of Earth’s land mass is north of the equator 2) the snows in the northern hemisphere have greatly receded, allowing last year’s dead leaves to begin decaying in earnest and 3) this year’s new leaves have yet to reach potential in terms of CO2 absorption.
Even though the number will hit 400 and dip again, soon after it will pass 400 ppm and we will never see the 300s again in our lives. If we fail to take significant action, neither will our kids or grandchildren and they will not thank us.
Since May is also the month in which I was born (thus adding even more atmospheric CO2), I thought I’d chart my history with this particular gas. There was an atmospheric concentration of 320 ppm CO2 when I was born. It hit 330 when I was 13, 340 when I was 19 (those big ‘70s gas guzzlers), 350 when I was 26 (and abandoning journalism for environmentalism), 360 when I was 34, 370 when I was 39, 380 when I was 44 and 390 when I was 48. The intervening years, therefore, are 13, six, seven, eight, five, five, five and three.
© Mark Floegel, 2012