Climate change puts a new perspective on “changing seasons.”
One of the benefits of living in the Midwest, whether it be Minnesota where I grew up or Illinois where I live now, is the change of seasons. We have four distinct seasons through the year. No matter what the weather is now, Midwesterners can be assured it will pass. Mosquito season gives way to the first frost, the snow from a blizzard eventually melts, usually in a spring drizzle.
Climate change, which I heard in a news report yesterday, is real (“Now some 97 percent of climate scientists agree that man-made climate change is a reality. I’m a scientist. I’m trained in medicine. They are very few things in all of science around which 97 percent of scientists agree,” Jim Young Kim, head of the World Bank, said on NPR’s Morning Edition), and besides its alarming implications for life on this planet, it’s messing with my memories.
See, in December, I expect my world to be white. Covered in a thick layer of snow. In June, I expect my lawn to be lushly green.
But this morning when I looked out my bathroom window, I didn’t see winter. I saw all four “changing seasons.” Rain sprinkled from the sky, wetting my deck, like it does on a March afternoon:
And grass in my backyard isn’t covered in snow. It’s thick and bright green:
And just over the fence, a huge pile of brown leaves cover the ground, like they do every autumn:
But looking up, I saw the spindly branches of naked trees, the sorry wardrobe of a deciduous species:
As part of WordPress.com’s Weekly Photo Challenge, this is how the confusingly “changing seasons” looked outside my window this morning on Dec. 8: