They are called weather events now. Events. No tickets and no fliers. Free and open to the public. I was starting to get a feeling–a suspicion–that people would rather I shut up about our historic weather events. These massive, unprecedented snow storms, burying and burying and burying us.
We in our particular little coastal corner north of Boston have been completely obliterated by snow. One school district shut down for the entire week before February vacation because they feared for the safety of the buildings, their roofs heavy with snow. Indeed, we have had other local tragedies, including roof collapses and loss of life.
I was starting to get the feeling that people wanted me to shut up about our weather events, though.
They had experienced winter before! They had lived through storms! There was that one year… or those couple of years in a row. They had been cold. They had shoveled.
Yeah, yeah. Me, too.
I was starting to get the feeling that people wanted me to get over it. I tried to. I did.
I was told to think spring! I reminded myself of how much fun my kid was having with all the snow. I joked about it. I tried my best to be lighthearted. I swear I did.
But there comes a point when your backyard is full of trenches and you realize that you are, in fact, at war. This winter is just the beginning. Or not even the beginning. It’s been going on for a while.
It’s a fluke. It’s mother nature. No. It’s real. It’s deadly.
As the west coast blazes hot, we turn to ice.
In two days rain is forecast. Our town officials sent out a call, warning of roof collapse, telling us what it looks and sounds like when a building becomes structurally unsound.
We are huddled in our trenches, waiting for the next battle, preparing our fortresses, readying our weapons. We keep our trenches clear.
These trenches are what climate change looks like.
We must not avert our eyes.