It
has been almost two years since message number 7 from Fluff, the female
cottonwood tree that lives very near our house along the ditch in Tulsa. When
my wife and I go walking along the ditch, I usually say hi to Fluff. (She gets
this name from the fluffy seeds she produces in the spring.) But until just
recently, she has had no new messages for me. I will let her speak now.
“Hi,
Stan. Thanks for remembering me. I have been keeping an eye, or a phytochrome
in my case, on your world news. It has been, from your viewpoint, pretty
horrific.
“But
not from mine.
“Stan,
you used to write in your books and blogs about the future effects of global
warming. This year, it has become apparent that the future is now. There have
been heat waves and wildfires all over the northern hemisphere. Alternating
with those, there have been catastrophic floods, including in places that
seldom get them, such as the American Southwest desert. Hurricanes are normal,
but you have been getting much more powerful ones. One after another,
temperature and drought and flood records have been broken. And already,
insurance companies are refusing to provide coverage for new homes in
California and Florida.
“I
wouldn’t want to be one of you humans right now. Your survival depends on your
economy, which depends on the stability of conditions. To use the insurance
example above, home buyers cannot get mortgages unless they have flood and fire
insurance in the danger zones, which are now as big as whole states. The
economic effects are that only very rich people, who do not need mortgages, can
buy property, and rent it out at exorbitant rates to middle-class workers who
have no choice but to pay them. Hurricanes disturb trade routes, industry, and
everything else.
“And
many of my fellow plants are suffering too. That is, the rare ones who grow
only in a narrow range of conditions. But us cottonwoods can grow in almost any
disturbance that you humans cause—in our case, anywhere that has enough water.
Us cottonwoods can grow anyplace except a desert. We can even grow along rivers
in deserts.
“From
where I stand, I can look at the ditch, which you dignify by calling a creek.
It is lined with big limestone boulders, trucked in decades ago. In between the
boulders there is soil that has eroded from other places, and garbage that has
piled up. My seedlings grow abundantly in such places—I see them every day with
a feeling of matronly satisfaction. If it gets hot enough to endanger the
health of you humans, my seedlings and I just transpire more water vapor to
cool our leaves off. Our wood is very light, which means it consists of xylem
pipes that conduct a lot of water. And we can tolerate cold conditions far beyond
any that occur in Tulsa. Even the extra carbon dioxide that you put into the
air—we can such that carbon right out of the air and turn it into new growth
and, later, new seeds. When you Tulsans had the big blackout in June, your
streets were crowded, because everyone was driving around so they could use
their car or big truck air conditioning. The vehicles were pouring carbon into
the air, which was good for me but not for you.
“Because
my seedlings grow so fast, we can take almost immediate advantage of any disruptions
you cause, whether it is fire, or soil erosion, or pollution. Your
self-inflicted bad luck is our good fortune. And then, when we get old, and the
wind blows, we fall over on your houses and destroy your roofs—I can see, from
where I stand, several examples from the recent windstorm.
“So
I will just stand here and photosynthesize, storing up for next spring’s crop
of seeds, while you humans continue to deny the truth to yourselves. You humans—even
you, Stan—find solace in alcohol from the liquor store just around the corner
from me.”
Fluff
the Cottonwood, Tulsa, Oklahoma, September, 2023
