Guess.What.Day.It.Is? (Back by popular demand)


Cows, here and across much of Africa, have been the most important animal for eons — the foundation of economies, diets, traditions. But now grazable land is shrinking. Water sources are drying up. A three-year drought in the Horn of Africa that ended last year killed 80 percent of the cows in this part of Kenya and shattered the livelihoods of so many people…

The global camel population has doubled over the last 20 years, something the U.N. agency for agriculture and investment attributes partly to the animal’s suitability amid climate change. In times of hardship, camels produce more milk than cows. Many cite an adage: The cow is the first animal to die in a drought; the camel is the last…

But among mammals, the camel is almost singularly equipped to handle extremes. Camels can go two weeks without water, as opposed to a day or two for a cow. They can lose 30 percent of their body weight and survive, one of the highest thresholds for any large animal. Their body temperatures fluctuate in sync with daily climate patterns. When they pee, their urine trickles down their legs, keeping them cool. When they lie down, their leathery knees fold into pedestals that work to prop much of their undersides just above the ground, allowing cooling air to pass through.

One recently published paper, perhaps straying from science to reverence, called them a “miracle species.”

— Chico Harlan, from “How Climate Change is Turning Camels into the New Cows” (Washington Post, April 17, 2024)

Read more here.


Notes:

  • Post Title: Background on Caleb/Wednesday/Hump Day Posts and Geico’s original commercial: Let’s Hit it Again.

Walking. With Huge Decision…Pressure lifted.

January 23rd. 1,358 consecutive (almost) days on my morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row. 

It’s 7:00 am, Sunrise is scheduled for 7:13 am. Of course it’s 7:13 am DK, how would you know it’s 7:13 am with such precision? Well, I asked Siri 3x, and Google 1x, in case the timing of the sunrise changed in the last 30 minutes. Obsessive? Not at all.

I’m 13 minutes away from lift off, and I’m pacing, and pacing. Ted Kooser: “I have used up more than 20,000 days waiting to see what the next would bring.

12 minutes from lift off. I set the camera and backpack down on the bench. And wait. And pace.

11 minutes from lift off. Clear skies, chance for clear shots of the morning sun.

11 minutes, a freakin’ eternity.

I circle around the rock bluff, Again. And then once more.

Continue reading “Walking. With Huge Decision…Pressure lifted.”

Walking. And, for a moment, all is right with the world…

6:54 am. Weather app says 33° F. There’s no damn way it’s 33°. I shiver.

And, I walk.

1,347 consecutive (almost) days at Cove Island Park. Like in a row.

Our Swan family sleeps peacefully out in open water, a rare sight. The youngster is now fully grown, making it difficult to sort out who’s who.

I stand watching them, the pulse slows, this calm in the shadow of bombs dropping in Kyiv, in Gaza and in Yemen. And the warming planet offering a respite for the swans who don’t need to migrate south to find unfrozen bodies of water.

Non sequitur. Up and in flashes a segment of a CBS Sunday Morning interview with Jelly Roll, not the donut kind, but the rapper and singer. It’s a worthy segment, I urge you all to watch.

Jelly says “I have a very dark hallway between my ears.”

I look out at the swans.

Peace. And War.

War & Peace.


Notes:

  • Photo above taken at 6:54 am this morning. For more pictures from this morning’s walk, and yet another incredible light show here, here, and here
  • Related posts tied to the Swan family here.

Monday Afternoon Wake-Up Call

I’m an incorrigible heat seeker, and the phrase “wintry mix” fills me with despair. But even so, the lack of cold and ice in 2023 felt unsettling…I was thinking about this while standing outside a science museum a couple of days ago with a friend. We were talking about the weather but not the kind of small talk when you have nothing else to say. “I’m not sure our grandkids will even know what snow is,” she said, with a wry “I’m kidding, but I’m not” laugh…

This past June, Brooklyn was covered in a blanket of smoke from Canadian wildfires. The sky was a muted burnt sienna and the air smelled like a barbecue gone severely wrong. I reassured my son, who had many questions, that the neighborhood was not on fire.

It is my job to make my child feel safe, so I answer questions about scary, calamitous things when he asks, but carefully…he still experiences extreme weather as a novelty and not a threat. I hope he’s much older before he notices a drastic temperature change or more smoke in the air or the fact that it’s New Year’s Eve and there’s no snow on the ground at home. I believe humans can reverse some of the harm we’ve caused to the environment — we’ve done it before — so I’m not a total pessimist. But I am worried.

It finally snowed a bit in Omaha, on Christmas Day, no less — a bit of temporary relief. I’m not worried that my grandchildren, if they ever materialize, will grow up not knowing what snow is, as my friend suggested. But I wonder if, somewhere down the line, one of my descendants will build the last snowman in Omaha.

—  Elizabeth Spiers, from “The End of Snow” (NY Times, January 2, 2024)


Notes:

  1. No snow for Christmas (and no snow yet this winter). I get it Elizabeth.
  2. Photo above. Mine. Feb 28 2023. Seems like eons ago. Cove Island Park. 6:17 am.  If you want to get reminded of what snow looks like, as it’s been so long, here some additional shots from that day.

Walking. In the Fog of War.

6 a.m. And I’m off. It’s now 1,313 consecutive (almost) days on this daybreak walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a Row.

It’s been a while. Self: A while for what you might ask? 

I’m losing steam. Excelling at Lethargy. Or Lori’s big 6 letter word: Torpor.

Blogging is now less than an intermittent hobby.  

And — I’ve started what, 4, or is it 5 new books? And set them all aside. Can’t seem to engage, can’t seem to get a footing — I put them all down. And even more confounding, I could care less.

I shift to Audible, and I find myself 35 minutes in, with no recollection of anything I’ve just listened to. 

Sawsan throws a jab in a text message, it lands, I don’t even feel it, but it’s good to let her feel like she’s won one — I get lost in her science of poetry and tattoos. It’s like I’m swimming in a fully body Novocain bath.

Early this week, Susan announced that she had two big goals for 2024. She stared at me, expecting a response on my New Year’s Resolutions, and my response? Silence. I got nothing.

I look up at Wally sleeping next to me on couch. I snap the shot, the one above. Peaceful little guy seems to have it figured out while I’m wallowing (wallying?) around.

Continue reading “Walking. In the Fog of War.”