Indian summer: unseasonably warm weather or the start of global warming
Dan Brawner
November 13, 2007
We are entering into the season of dread. In a few short weeks, we will be forced to do battle with cold, snow, influenza, weight gain, taxes, Christmas and depression caused by sunlight deprivation. For this reason, the term “Indian summer” sounds particularly appealing.
Indian summer” may have originally referred to the end of the season for murderous Indian raids upon early American settlers. But the phrase now sounds warm and folksy. A period of mild weather following the first frost is part of our American heritage. We’re entitled to it. The dry, pollen-free, bugless days with hazy skies and colorful autumn leaves are our reward for making it through the exhausting harvest/beginning of school season and a bribe for enduring the impending winter. We never know when Indian summer will come, but when it comes it is soothing, reassuring. Unlike “global warming”.
Early this week, we had sunny, pleasant days with extravagant temperatures. Timid but giddy with this last, refreshing swig of summer, we turned off our furnaces, pulled on short sleeved shirts and pretended, if only for a day or two that all was well.
Indian summer is a time when we exchange our winter predictions with amused detachment. The woolly caterpillars are looking especially woolly, somebody observes. That means a hard winter. The higher the hornet’s nest, the more snow we’ll get, says another, sagely. The squirrels are harvesting a lot of nuts. You know what that means. It’s six months after the first spring thunderstorm. The first snowfall can’t be far off.
Elsewhere, all across the globe, groups of grim scientists point emphatically to charts and graphs with alarming red arrows and announce in precise, unambiguous prose that we are doomed. We were given a perfectly good planet and now we’ve gone and spoiled it. Polar bears don’t have enough ice. There is no more snow on Mount Kilimanjaro. There will be droughts and hurricanes. Polar caps will melt and Florida will be under water.
Iowa will have the climate of Georgia. Or maybe the South of France. We’ll raise pecans or pineapples or something. Summer will be a long, languid affair, stretching far into what we now think of as Fall. Winters will be brief and merciful, hardly requiring a change of wardrobe. Other seasons will blend together and pass by unnoticed. There will be no more talk of Indian summer.
These climate changes will take generations, of course. Until then, we can continue to watch woolly caterpillars and buy warm mittens for the kids. And enjoy our precious warm days in November. Indian summer has traditionally been a kind of holiday of denial. It’s just that now, it has taken on a new meaning.
Indian summer” may have originally referred to the end of the season for murderous Indian raids upon early American settlers. But the phrase now sounds warm and folksy. A period of mild weather following the first frost is part of our American heritage. We’re entitled to it. The dry, pollen-free, bugless days with hazy skies and colorful autumn leaves are our reward for making it through the exhausting harvest/beginning of school season and a bribe for enduring the impending winter. We never know when Indian summer will come, but when it comes it is soothing, reassuring. Unlike “global warming”.
Early this week, we had sunny, pleasant days with extravagant temperatures. Timid but giddy with this last, refreshing swig of summer, we turned off our furnaces, pulled on short sleeved shirts and pretended, if only for a day or two that all was well.
Indian summer is a time when we exchange our winter predictions with amused detachment. The woolly caterpillars are looking especially woolly, somebody observes. That means a hard winter. The higher the hornet’s nest, the more snow we’ll get, says another, sagely. The squirrels are harvesting a lot of nuts. You know what that means. It’s six months after the first spring thunderstorm. The first snowfall can’t be far off.
Elsewhere, all across the globe, groups of grim scientists point emphatically to charts and graphs with alarming red arrows and announce in precise, unambiguous prose that we are doomed. We were given a perfectly good planet and now we’ve gone and spoiled it. Polar bears don’t have enough ice. There is no more snow on Mount Kilimanjaro. There will be droughts and hurricanes. Polar caps will melt and Florida will be under water.
Iowa will have the climate of Georgia. Or maybe the South of France. We’ll raise pecans or pineapples or something. Summer will be a long, languid affair, stretching far into what we now think of as Fall. Winters will be brief and merciful, hardly requiring a change of wardrobe. Other seasons will blend together and pass by unnoticed. There will be no more talk of Indian summer.
These climate changes will take generations, of course. Until then, we can continue to watch woolly caterpillars and buy warm mittens for the kids. And enjoy our precious warm days in November. Indian summer has traditionally been a kind of holiday of denial. It’s just that now, it has taken on a new meaning.
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