From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

Contributors to this issue’s Persimmon Tree Forum reflect the truth of Dr. Mearns’ assessment. Climate-related disasters have always occurred, of course. But over the past several decades, as the adverse effects of human activities increasingly warp the Earth’s ecosystems, these disasters have grown in severity and frequency around the globe. Unprecedented fires, floods, drought, heat, and unbreathable air have affected the people and other living creatures of, among other countries, Canada, Spain, Brazil, Greece, Australia, China, and India. The United States, which recently withdrew once again from the Paris Agreement on climate change, is far from immune—something amply reflected in the letters you will find below from members of the Persimmon Tree community.

Filled with harrowing details as well as moving examples of compassion and cooperation in the face of shocking loss and rending displacement, these letters demonstrate the devastating effects that human-driven climate change is having on all life on this “pale blue dot” in the cosmos we call home. These experiences, and the growing scientific evidence of accelerating climate change, raise the questions, “How do we cope? What do we do?” For, as one of our Forum contributors writes, “We cannot ignore, wait, repeatedly count ourselves lucky, or hope we have enough time. None of these responses will change the outcome of our changing climate.”

We thank all those who responded to our call for thoughts and experiences confronting climate disasters. And we welcome additional contributions, which you may make via the Comments window at the end of the Forum.

From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

“How are you doing?” my doctor asked.

“I’m a child of crisis,” I replied. That said it all. Hurricane Helene was the latest in 73 years. Two years ago, I was in the Kentucky flood. I do what comes next. In the dark, the wind howled and trees crashed. I watched branches wave closer to the bedroom window and calmed my husband. At first light, I began. Dress. Find water to flush the toilet, food, flashlights, candles, blankets. Survey the trees crushing the roof and the back deck. Take pictures of the water flowing through the electrical panel. Three large pines destroyed the generator. My husband, whose newly reconstructed heart pounded irregularly, took his blood pressure. My neighbors met in the street. We rarely talked. One had a generator, another had water. Another had a chainsaw. I got online on my phone and reported. Trees blocked fourteen houses on our dead-end road for three days. Burly men from Wisconsin came to North Carolina with machinery. They opened the road and lent us a generator. I found cash, gas, ice, free water, MREs, roofers, tree cutters, showers. I stood in line to get peanut butter and bread in the grocery store, cash only. I found charging stations and internet to file FEMA and insurance. Six months later, my husband wants to sell the house. “I don’t feel safe.” The last time I felt safe was at twelve. I have survived flood, blizzard, fire, drought. I read Silent Spring in high school. Out my bedroom window I see 30-foot trees lying like pickup sticks where there was a verdant forest. We saw two deer yesterday. The blue birds are back. Next month, the trees that live on will be green. Nature does what is next as will I, until we can’t.

Extreme heat kills. People, pets, and the planet are its victims. I live in Phoenix, where summers are long and blistering hot—enough to buckle roads, delay flights, and cause widespread discomfort. Even cactus plants suffer. From May through September, outdoor activities such as picnics, barbecues, and pool parties happen after dark. Sidewalks and parks are devoid of humans in the daytime. Do I want to take a walk when it’s 115 degrees outside? Last year, Phoenix endured its longest consecutive streak of 110-degree-plus days. Air conditioning is vital; it keeps us cool as well as civil. Imagine working in an office or trying to sleep without it. Sadly, some people do. Two years ago, an older Phoenix woman died when a power company cut her off over a $51 balance. Demand for utility assistance soars from low-income people like me. Vastly overstretched resources barely keep up with applications from people desperate to keep cool. Thankfully, I received assistance. Emissions from fossil fuels continue to cook the planet. Wildfires are more intense and harder to control. Withering drought ravages the Southwest. I don’t recall the last time it rained. The Colorado River is the lifeline for Western cities like Phoenix, Los Angeles, Denver, Las Vegas, and more. The river is at a breaking point due to decreased winter snowfall and explosive demand for housing. The river simply cannot survive unless we curtail water use. I’d rather have drinking water than a nice green lawn. The sun shines in Phoenix nearly 80 percent of the time yet solar powered homes are still rare. In 2023, only 6.6 percent of AZ homes were solar powered. No one can save us but ourselves. We must become more pro-active and demand change from government and business leaders. Power concedes nothing without demand.

As I sit, looking out the window beyond my computer’s screen, I see a huge root ball, six feet high, the trunk of a scarlet oak coming out of it, fallen downward on the mountain slope. There is also a huge quantity of brush, the top of another fallen tree, lining the edge of the cut bank, a pathway for bear and deer, who use this edge of the woods to come down. My husband and I estimate that a total of 60 trees fell during Hurricane Helene, September 27. We also had a huge landslide, repaired with 40 tons of rock. We drive through the war zone that is Swannanoa, whenever we head west towards Asheville. The storefronts lack walls and all windows are empty of glass. The New York-style deli that we loved has only a back wall. Near the road are huge crevasses of broken tarmac, collapsed into emptiness. The Swannanoa River reached a height of 40 feet, so there is debris, including cars, caught up and lodged in trees. Two women my age managed to hold onto a tree trunk, which carried them downriver, where it caught against the bank; they floated for hours before being rescued. Our dental hygienist had a male friend whose house floated away and he drowned.  A woman called our landslide repair guy and told him, “My house slid down the mountain. I’m sitting in my car. What do I do?” The woman who adjusts my eyeglasses told me her daughter had been asked to bring 124 body bags to Swannanoa. One of our plumbers told us that after curfew, in Chimney Rock, they would hear the helicopters descend, to take away the dead bodies. My husband and I spent three months in FEMA hotels (all paid for by FEMA).

From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

The experts say that tornado alley is migrating from the Great Plains to the Southeast. Here in Mississippi, severe storm warnings come so often now that—well—sometimes we ignore them. That’s what happened the night straight-line winds tore from one side of town to the other, unexpectedly uprooting century-old trees. In the morning, we counted ourselves lucky: it wasn’t a tornado and there were no injuries.

I became concerned, though, with the large oak that formed the backstop to our deck. The structure stretched away from the house, stopping where normally just a slice of daylight separated it from the tree’s trunk. Now I saw none. Instead, I saw a broken deck joist.

I called our tree guy who confirmed the tree would need to come down, but it could wait. Its roots hadn’t broken ground so there was time enough for him to return with heavy equipment later in the week.

Two mornings later I noticed the deck floorboards had buckled. Then, that afternoon, a series of loud pops summoned me to a window. From there, I saw upturned soil and the outline of tree roots. My stomach tightened: I knew what was happening.

I wondered if anywhere was safe enough for what was now inevitable.

The popping sounds gave way to an explosive crack as the oak smashed through the deck. The house shuddered as the tree stumbled and shoved a large maple out of its way. A crash and then another as the oak’s massive trunk finally reached the ground, missing the house but scarring nearby trees as if its branches had reached out for help.

We cannot ignore, wait, repeatedly count ourselves lucky, or hope we have enough time. None of these responses will change the outcome of our changing climate.

September 26, Helene crashed ashore at the end of my street; 10 days later Milton ripped off hundreds of roofs. I watched the approaches, safely evacuated. My daughter took vacation to help me face my neighbor’s assessment: “I think there’s water inside your house. The whole street had a three-foot river of water.” My son flew in and cleared four dying fruit trees, two doors, and a table blown by Milton into my yard.

Neighbors down the street brought fans and rolls and rolls of bubble wrap for other neighbors to take down and wrap my art works, friends shared tips on reliable firms, three couples in the middle of divorce reached out, all of us zombies, struggling to prioritize. The support and comfort came. Overwhelmed, I finally cried at the kindness of FEMA agents—hearing-impaired survivors themselves, working through interpreters, magnificent in Spanish and English; the agents, Puerto Ricans, were thrilled that I had visited after hurricane Maria.

The empty curb, as mountains of debris were cleared, signaled recovery. Now I sit in rooms mostly emptied of furniture once filled with memories, then contaminated and hauled away. The water has dried, the floors are polished, the roof repaired, mold testing successful, industrial fans silent, paperwork in totes, boxes, and baskets, waiting to be read, paid, filed, shredded. My Iraqi rugs still cared for at the Persian rug restoration place; my lovelies still packed in boxes and stored with friends.

Four months later, eight moves ago, the trauma still runs deep, lingering, invisible unless you ask. The waitress at lunch today, three months out of work, phone pinging with debtors, barely sustained even with a second job, teared up when I asked.

We had evacuated our Pacific Palisades canyon at least four times before, always with the fire quickly extinguished. This time was different. We had never before had the wind, freakishly strong 100-mile-an-hour gusts. Never before had the reservoir across from our home, where water-dropping helicopters always loaded up, been empty. Never before had hundreds of cars tried to escape down Palisades Drive, the only road out. Chaos and panic ensued, cars trapped while fire burned on either side of the road. Abandoned vehicles blocked the rest of us still trying to flee.

The traffic and flames turned me back on my first evacuation attempt. By our second try, police were turning everyone around to shelter in place. On our third try, late that afternoon of January 7, we finally escaped, with the aid of police escorts. On our way to the Pacific Coast Highway and safety, we passed burning buildings, hillsides, and cars aflame.

By next evening, January 8, we got the news that all 46 townhomes in our community known as the Upper Woodies were gone. We are devastated, not only for the loss of our homes and the lives loved there, but for the immolation of our immediate community (one FEMA inspector said our homes had been “vaporized”) and the destruction, in essence, of our entire town.

Rebuilding is a daunting task, even if we can pull it off. The larger question: can we ever fully recover financially, materially, or emotionally?

A glazed garden pot has survived. The tree it held, a Santa Rosa Plum we’d brought back from Luther Burbank’s Northern California nursery, is now a charcoal stick. Burbank believed in harnessing nature for man’s betterment. Now both man and nature are unleashed in dangerous ways with no telling where it all might end.

From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

We lived in Hoboken, NJ, for decades. Despite Hoboken being on the Hudson River and barely above sea level, we experienced no flooding until 2011, when we had several inches of water in our basement. It was a harbinger.

With 2012 came Superstorm Sandy, when the mighty Hudson River overflowed its banks and deposited four feet of water in our basement. The next street over, basements and streets filled, damaging first floors. Hoboken and much of the Northeast were off the grid, with no electricity, heat, internet, cell service, nor means of travel.

My husband didn’t fare well, obsessed with his ruined possessions. He argued that I was “overcleaning” the basement, as the flooding was merely river water, not sewage. Two insurance adjusters were wonderful, functioning as counselors while they assessed the damage. My plumber and I co-counseled each other as we worked. A local proprietor was a godsend, extending credit so that I could obtain contractor bags for cleanup.

I survived, as did others. We carted our ruined possessions to the sidewalk, to be hauled away every few days. We cleaned, repaired, replaced, and started to chat and smile again.

My husband improved. We moved to a tenth-floor apartment in a building with a lobby that is two hundred feet above sea level. A safe place— [except] . . . powerful Nor’easters sometimes flood the building’s lobby, which impacts the functioning of its elevators, and its north wall is pounded hard by the storms, rendering the wall permeable. Our cooperative is remedying the damage, with costly solutions that will hopefully reduce the scope of future damage.

I now understand that, with climate change, “safe place” is a delusion. We either adapt and evolve, or we surrender. There is no other option. Denial will lead to surrender.

On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina, the costliest hurricane in U.S. history, causing property damage over $193.8 billion in today’s dollars, made landfall directly over my house, leaving a swath of incredible devastation. Hurricane-force winds up to 175 mph sheared the brick wall off the electric company two blocks away and left it with just three walls. The nearby gasoline station looked like a giant foot had stepped on it, totally flattening it. A tree pierced a house like a spear, entering at one end and going through the entire length till it came out the other side. Not only were houses gone but the 20-foot storm surge took the land they were built on as well; the houses and the land both washed out to sea. An estimated 80 percent of our area was under water, some areas under as much as 20 feet. Our house was unlivable. Finally in January, after five months of switching from one friend’s house to another’s every three or four days, we received a FEMA trailer, but it was constructed with formaldehyde, a carcinogen. A dangerous contaminant, its fumes made it hard to breathe even with the windows wide open. The trailer’s walls were so thin that I used a pencil to poke a hole through one wall to get an electric wire from a room with no outlets to one with. If a storm approached, public announcements advised people in FEMA trailers to seek alternate housing; but if I had alternate housing, would I be in a FEMA trailer? When Hurricane Katrina made landfall directly over my house, the ruins it left were etched in my mind forever.

At night I imagined the hills looked the same as before. Sloping silhouettes, indigo blue beauties turning violet, then silvery black under a fat yellow moon. During the day, skeleton trees dotted the Santa Monica mountains, looking like roadkill.

When the mandatory evacuation was lifted, I showed my driver’s license to the National Guard guy, who waved me past.

Driving home, I saw two spindly-legged deer walking in plain sight on the charcoal- colored ridge, making their way down a naked hill. Wandering past charred trees on a barren landscape like displaced migrants.

The house had Phos-Chek fire retardant covering the roof and trees, looking like gallons of hot-pink fingernail polish spilled from the sky.  I thought about the anonymous pilot who dropped it, navigating through narrow ravines, thick smoke, and ferocious winds to save our home.

I wondered who tied the pink polka dot ribbon on the soot-covered mailbox, declaring the house was safe.

I thought about the fire being merciless. Indiscriminately destroying wedding pictures and baby shoes and construction paper Christmas cards. Cinders swirling around like a flock of disoriented birds. Landing in protected oaks exploding like Molotov cocktails. Setting palm trees ablaze like giant tiki torches lighting up the sky.

Settling back at home, I watched the newly elected President blame the Palisades Fire on the “crazy Californians wanting to save a fish.” Feeling helpless to do anything except turn off the news.

And wait for the hills to turn green again.

Leaving out water for the raccoons and the squirrels. Hanging a bird feeder by the smoke- stained door. Saving one of the pink stained leaves, a reminder of the heroes who saved our house. Placing it next to the pink polka dot ribbon in a box like a hope chest.

From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

This year marks the twentieth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Even though I am now a seasoned 74-year-old, being a Katrina survivor is a defining moment in my life. My husband, daughter, and I were trapped in our house during the storm and the aftermath of the levee breaking; in fact we lived near the levee. We started out day one trying to get out of New Orleans, but the roads were clogged. We turned around, went home, and prayed for the best. We stayed there for four days. On the first night the storm raged, and the rain poured down. Power was out, but we had our hurricane supplies. We even went to sleep. Day two, in the morning after the storm, the sun was shining. My husband went outside to clear the fallen branches. I was in the kitchen when I noticed water sliding down the wall. I called my husband to come in to see the wall.  All of a sudden, a surge of water jumped through the living room window and took over the first floor. We ran for the stairs and I swear the water chased us. The water was one step away from the second floor landing. I have a photo of that stairway. We stayed in the house on the second floor for two more days. At night I would use a flashlight to send a Morse code SOS signal to the plane flying over hoping they would realize someone was still alive. We finally decided to wade through the water to the levee and followed the caravan to Lakefront Airport; there we were taken by helicopter to the NOLA airport for another day. Then we were sent to San Antonio to be labeled as refugees.

My father spotted it in a thrift shop, a framed print of John William Waterhouse’s “Miranda,” from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a lone figure on a rocky shore, restraining her wild, wind-torn auburn hair, helplessly watching an approaching ship being wrecked by a storm. I treasured it through the years, especially after he died, as a perfect reminder of his sensitivity and perception, maybe more perfect than he realized, to his daughter who, at the time, was like Prospero’s, a lonely, compassionate seeker poised to marvel at the “brave new world” about to collide with hers.

Every time it caught my eye, I remembered him.

A few years ago, the picture was ruined in a hurricane.

The interior of our house was eventually repaired; only the framework of room-defining two-by-fours having been salvaged. It was tough, as anyone who has experienced such a cataclysmic event can attest. Rebuilding is slow, everything changes, you are terribly sad at what was lost.

Soon after the restoration was complete, a large, slim box was delivered. Inside was a brand-new framed print of “Miranda,” a surprise from my husband, knowing how I’d loved my father’s humble, beautifully chosen gift. When I look at it now, I am reminded of them both.

August 2022 was brutal. Fires raged all around our mountain communities, and the temperatures were unbearably hot, 108 degrees hot.  It was yet another lost summer due to fires.  We stayed home with closed windows and purifiers running. The landscape outside was orange with dense smoke. It was dry and dusty. Smoke clouds hid the summer sun. Fruit didn’t ripen on the trees and vegetables withered on the ash-covered vines. The smoke burned our eyes and caught in our throat. Nights were especially scary.  Like a glowing snake we could see the fire inching up and down the mountain across the river from us. We could hear trees snap, and worried that if the fire jumped the river it would be only a matter of minutes before it roared up this side of the mountain to engulf our home.

Evacuate, you may say, but where to? The wind controlled the fire. Blow one way and downriver communities were in danger. Blow the other way and upriver communities suffered. Still, my husband and I, along with many others, felt grateful. Firefighters swarmed our little town. Helicopters and planes scooped and dumped water and fire retardant. Neighbors helped neighbors. We survived, and nature, though severely scarred, will make a comeback.

But now, insurance companies have cancelled policies and left our area.  And the new administration has cancelled previously contracted grants for fire abatement work on private properties.

Climate is changing! There will be more fires, more hurricanes, and more storms. I hope we are all prepared in whatever way we can be.

From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

Early one recent September in Yonkers, …torrential rains brought floods to places that had never flooded before. One of these was the ground floor of a Public Storage facility in which I had a unit.

In addition to a few pieces of furniture, I rented the storage unit for possessions that were precious to me but not immediately needed: a painting I had done; framed enlargements of photographs I’d taken; old letters from old friends; writings of mine; and books that I hoped one day would fill the shelves of a home library.

The day I went to survey the damage, I stood among my water-logged things unmoving, in shock. I remember thinking it was a good thing I’d been meditating, otherwise I would have been hysterical. Almost everything was damaged beyond repair.

The manager of the place apologized to each of us renters and suggested we file with the insurance company. After taking pictures of the damaged items, I filled out forms that involved listing all the lost items along with their original cost and current value.

But, of course, the insurance company couldn’t compensate me for the items that had no monetary value. I ended up receiving a small sum of money and then changed my unit to a smaller one on a higher floor.

This turned out to be unnecessary, however, as soon after, the storage place made structural changes intended to avert a flood like the one that had robbed me and others of our treasured possessions. Then again, with the way the world is going, who knows what sort of cataclysmic climatic occurrences may surprise us in the future!

It was the winter of 1968. Lynda and I were driving home after watching our high school basketball game. As the rain poured down, we decided to go to my house to spend the night instead of going to her house in the river-bottom neighborhood a mile further away. In the morning, my sister, Laura, and my mom were listening to the local news over the pounding of the non-stop rain. Laura said the storm had damaged the bridge, and there was no way to take Lynda home. A river overflowed onto the streets and flooded homes. Lynda could not reach her family by phone.

My neighbor came over and said she heard that the local water tower was in danger of collapsing and that everyone should save water in their bathtubs. Laura, Lynda, and I went door-to-door to warn our neighbors. Laura found two older women trying to get food from Foster’s Freeze. They had been evacuated and didn’t have any place to go, so Laura brought them home, and we fed them. The women stayed one night. Lynda stayed with us for a couple of days after she found out her family was safe and were evacuated to a nearby school. The river flooded their home, leaving a watermark on the walls up to the windowsills and mud everywhere. Then, my mother offered Harley, his wife, and two children a place to stay with us after learning their home had been flooded. Their visit lasted for the next couple of months – his wife refused to return to their home in the river-bottom neighborhood.

Natural disasters seem common today, but they were not during my childhood. However, neighbor helping neighbor is as common today as it was back then.

Elsewhere, daily, masses grieve losses too numerous to tally. Charred streets once lined with homes. Household debris festering in mold after floods, hurricanes, and mudslides. No bell in a church steeple can ring the death toll back to life. Honoring them is our daily duty.

On a smaller scale but no less precious is the absence of a biodiverse berm that stretched miles outside my window overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Hurricanes Helene and Milton arrived in autumn 2024—amplified cyclones, a direct result of human interference in Earth’s climate.

Before, an intricate balance thrived. Sea oats and dune sunflowers anchored the sandy soil. Sunshine chased ghost crabs into their burrows. Shorebirds—willets, sanderlings, and snowy plovers—searched for insects and crustaceans. Gopher tortoises basked.  Little lizards darted through saw palmettos and sea grape bushes. Zebra butterflies drank from lantana and Spanish needles. Great White Egrets, and Blue Herons strode out toward the water. Ospreys and pelicans dove for their lunch. Raccoons dug for clams.  Black racer snakes slithered through the undergrowth.

At night the daylight chorus of songbirds turned into the chirping storytelling of the tree frogs. Sea turtle hatchlings crawled up the ladder they made of themselves to begin their moonlit journey. Nocturnal pollinators worked while cotton rats, marsh rabbits, and bonneted bats consumed beetles and mosquitoes. Opossums and armadillos foraged for grubs.

Now, here, walking behind my granddaughters, three and five, we pass mounds of sand where the hurricanes suffocated the berm, the storm surge drowning all that could breathe. The girls defy gravity as they leap and dance toward the beach. This is the only world they’ve known. As I raise my gaze to enjoy them I notice the barest hint of green on the tips of the gnarled, naked hibiscus bushes.

From a series of photographs of expressive faces by Merry Song

Older Wiser Shorter: The Truth and Humor of Life after 65 (Revised)

by Jane Seskin, LCSW

Older Wiser Shorter is an intimate collection of 89 poems from Jane Seskin, a working psychotherapist and author. Seskin, authentic, funny, insightful, quirky and heartfelt, acknowledges the disappointments, physical vulnerability and emotional loss taking place in her senior years. She is able to discover within herself a solid sense of power, resilience and new-found joys through her struggles to acknowledge, accommodate and accept her aging. Seskin's ability to make the very personal universal, will resonate with readers seeking to discover new ways to honor the past, celebrate the present and welcome the future. A Reading Guide to the poems will inspire further reflection and discussion for book and women's groups. Praise for Older Wiser Shorter: “Even tho I’m not a fan of poetry, I found Jane Seskin’s poems to be a delight. They hit home.” — Jane Brody, former Personal Health columnist, New York Times “I sat down to read one poem last night and I ended up reading half the book. I feel as though I know you. You have definitely captured the experience of aging.” — Mary Pipher, author of Women Running North and My Life in Light “Candid, funny, and best of all inspiring, the poems in Jane Seskin’s Older Wiser Shorter throw open a window on aging. Suddenly a breeze of resilience sails through. I learned from Seskin’s poems; they became like mentors for the strange adventure of late-life living. Kindness infuses them. The ‘enormous optimism’ of this intrepid book might prove the greatest wisdom of the ages.” — Molly Peacock, author of The Analyst

Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Bookshop.

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