Marie Dressler, as Carlotta in Dinner at Eight (1934), reminiscing about her past life as a super-star of the New York stage, and why she can’t return to live in the city:
No, everything’s changed. I couldn’t stand it here. I’d die.
I belong to the Delmonico* period. Ahh, a table at the window, looking out on Fifth Avenue; boxes with flowers in; pink lampshades; string orchestras; and, I don’t know, yes — yes, willow blooms … dry champagne; and snow on the ground. — Say, they don’t even have snow any more!
Dressler isn’t the only one who notices things changing about the weather decades before there was a label to go with the change. In Denver, a desert climate, we used to have dew on the grass in the early mornings, even the hottest. After many years living here, the dew faded and came no more. I wondered. Wondered for years. Figured I would someday find out why and surmised I wouldn’t like the explanation. I don’t.
As twenty-somethings, my husband and I visited Yellowstone several times in the winter. We stayed in a rustic cabin – and I do mean rustic — where the entire inside length of the door would be encrusted with several inches of ice in the morning. We cross-country skied during the day, and had to keep moving. The temperature would rise to minus thirty degrees at mid-day. A stop for lunch was quick; we sat on our packs to protect us from the cold. One didn’t dare remove a glove for very long to eat.
I check Yellowstone’s weather and temperature religiously. It NEVER gets to minus thirty. Never ever. Even as a low in the coldest months. I don’t like this, either.
There are many other things I don’t like about global warming. You know what it means. What I dislike almost the most is that we are doing nothing about it. No leadership. No will. Perhaps that can change. Perhaps the universe is sending us a message: ENOUGH! Perhaps we will start to pay attention.
*Patrons of Delmonico’s included Mark Twain, Theodore Roosevelt, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, Nikola Tesla, Edward VII as Prince of Wales, and Napolean III.