Thirteen Ways of Looking at Weather Sara J. Grossman (bio) I In a sleeping city, the only moving thing is the city itself. It is the middle of the night in Philadelphia. I am sleeping, until at three-thirty a.m. my phone starts to buzz. I see an alert from the national weather service, "Tornado Warning in effect until 3:45 a.m. Get in. Get Down. Cover Up. Take Shelter."1 I huddle above the phone light with the wind whipping tree branches onto the windows. I head to the basement and wait for the storm to pass. It does. I fall back asleep. The next day, walking in the neighborhood, I hear two residents . . . A tornado in Philly—what a joke. II The weather was of three minds all at once. Like a tornado, in which there are always three seasons. The city is in the middle of a heat emergency; then comes the flood. Rain and heat hurl themselves toward brick. The Delaware River rises like a blue gown, drifting onto shore while the rain brings back the ancient waterways beneath the subfloors. Superfunds and brownfields, basements and highways, flood; the sewer systems overload and spill into the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers. People say the weather is crazy. The climate reports predict this is the new normal. The weather shows us that this is the new normal. Between 1971 and 2000, the city experienced only four days with an [End Page 19] average heat index over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Between 2036 and 2065, scientists report that the city will see an average of twenty-nine days with a heat index over one hundred and sixteen days over one hundred and five. Between 2070 and 2099, when my nephew is fifty-two, the average number of days over one hundred will rise to fifty-five.2 III Denial whirled in the summer winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. In June of 2019, California experiences the largest die-off of mussels in fifteen years.3 The June heatwave cooks the mussels in their shells. The die-off is expected to "affect the rest of the seashore ecosystem," as mussels provide food for other elements in the ecosystem. "[O]n a 75-degree Fahrenheit day . . . the tissues inside a marine creature glued to a rock out of the water might rise to 105 degrees," says marine ecologist Brian Helmuth. In July of 2021, another die-off. It's even worse this time. I go to the coast and sit in front of the Atlantic for hours. I sink into the sand. There are so many of us here to watch the land remake itself with each wave. This is an edge. Shells catapult to the coast. A storm is rolling in. People pack up their beach chairs. They retreat. The water teaches, I think. The water could teach. IV Water and body are one. Water and body and Superfund are one. The Gowanus Canal spills into the street, makes the street a sea. Located in Brooklyn, the Gowanus Canal is a one-hundred-foot-wide, roughly two-mile-long canal and one of the nation's most polluted Superfund sites.4 The canal holds more than a dozen contaminants, including polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, polychlorinated biphenyls, and heavy metals, including mercury, lead, and copper. When it rains, it pours sewage into the water, too, due to the combined sewer overflow system. Combined sewer systems collect stormwater, sewage, and wastewater in the same pipe. During wet weather, these pipes overflow into the canal. [End Page 20] The canal frequently overflows into Carroll Street. Residents wade through the water. When it rains, it pours. V I do not know which to prefer. The cumulus cloud, or the way the stratus forms on top of it. The clouds before a rainstorm, or just after. In February of 2019, scientists warn that stratocumulus clouds may disappear when CO2 levels rise above twelve hundred ppm.5 A primary function of stratocumulus clouds is that they cool the earth. But when CO2 levels rise above twelve hundred ppm, the higher part of the cloud is expected to break up, dissolving...
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