So, yeah. 77 degrees out today.
It’s December 22nd.
I saw what looked a helluva lot like a Least Tern over Jordan Lake yesterday. They’re rare inland and always gone by the end of October. I’m getting moths at the porchlight in December, most of which should probably have finished their flights in November. The bluebirds are house-hunting very early.
Nothing impossible, nothing completely out of range, but every improbability starts to pile up.
Seriously, gang…this is kinda scaring me. When they say “a few degrees warmer by the end of the century” I said “That’s terrible!” and I meant it—really, I meant it!—but realistically I expected to be pretty dead. (That doesn’t stop me feeling bad and trying to help, let me add–“I’ll be dead, so I don’t care!” is a shitty excuse for bad behavior. Still.)
I didn’t really expect that I would be spreading manure on my garden three days before Christmas. In short sleeves. With the AC on in the house. Or that temperatures would then plunge (as they are predicted to do) and be in the forties by Tuesday.
Or that this would be the second or third time this has happened in the last couple months.
Weather is always weird, there are never normal years, all that’s true. But we’re shattering heat records locally. This is not just weird, it’s record weird and it keeps on happening.
I’ve said before that I kinda feel like us gardeners in this weird new world are trying to hold the line and passing word back and forth between us—“Still here. Still got frogs. Still got bees. Still alive.”
So, um. Still here. Still alive. Have to assume the frogs and the bees are overwintering. But a little freaked out anyway.