most of the country is below sea level, with seawalls on the country’s coast stopping the atlantic current from rushing in. as the sea levels have risen, the walls have been able to do less and less, and guyana’s capital georgetown and the rest of the coast have been the subject of devastating flooding. lack of adaptability and infrastructure have led guyana to suffer from excessive flooding during la niña events and crippling drought from el niño events.

these events can often leave infrastructure incapacitated for months at a time, giving no time to prepare for the next natural disaster coming ahead. often, a complete damage report cannot even be filed for weeks as many roads remain flooded long after the initial event has subsided. 

guyana, exxon, and the world bank

as this has been happening, oil was found off the coast of guyana, and exxonmobil jumped at the opportunity to begin operations with the country, and commence drilling for an estimated 11.3 billion barrels of oil. in 2020, the world bank contributed 55 million usd to aid fossil fuel extraction from guyana, a direct contradiction of their support of the 2015 paris agreement.

at a time when most of the rest of the world is seeking to stray away from reliance on fossil fuel extraction, guyana is traveling in the opposite direction with powerful influence from actors like exxon and the world bank. to a country already vulnerable to the growing effects of climate change, to begin extracting fossil fuels will have devastating effects on the country and the coast of guyana, where 90% of its people live and where 75% of economic activity takes place.

if exxon is allowed to continue mining off the guyanese coast, it will become one of the world’s largest oil producers by 2030, coinciding with a timeline established by the research group, climate central, which suggests that guyana’s capital of georgetown will be underwater by the same year. the situation in guyana is a precarious one, and the devastation that the guyanese people have experienced as a result of climate change is only worsening.

fighting back

however, some people are taking the fight to exxon. lawyers melinda janki and ronald burch-smith are currently fighting exxon in the courts to hold them accountable for the externalities that guyana and its ecosystem will face as a result of exxon’s drilling. janki is an accomplished international lawyer whose impact can be seen on the guyanese constitution, having implemented the idea of natural capital, and the people’s right to a healthy environment.

going up against hundreds of lawyers and the vast resources of exxon, it is hard to imagine a more one-sided fight, but it is a fight that the two lawyers have taken on with vigor. janki took a resounding win for guyana in 2020 when a court brought exxon’s permit for oil field development down from 20 to five years. but many court battles lie ahead for janki and smith as they seek to take on the oil giant that is exxon.

“traditionally, economists treat the natural world as if it has no value.” – melinda janki

hanging in the balance

the name ‘guyana’ hails from the indigenous peoples who first inhabited this land, and it means, ‘land of water.’ guyana is home to many rivers that intertwine throughout the country, and much of the diverse sea life and nature that the people depend on comes from these rivers. not to mention the coast that is the base for most of guyana’s economic activity. if the coast and the rivers of guyana are not protected from the drilling of exxon, then the results will be disastrous for the people of guyana. exxon also maintains the practice of burning off its excess gas, which has already taken place in guyana.

“in the first 15 months of production alone, that flaring contributed nearly 770,000 metric tons of greenhouse gas emissions – the equivalent of driving 167,000 cars for one year.” – the guardian

the fate of the guyanese people and their ecosystem depends upon whether exxon’s advances can be stopped. there is already much to be done to help guyana with climate change, and what happens there will be important for the rest of the world to see whether the profits of corporations are valued, or the survival of our earth and the well-being of its people.

“one people, one nation, one destiny” – guyanese national motto

dorfer, 46, owns and runs cobblestone farm, a community-supported agriculture (csa) farm. she has invited university students to visit the farm and ask her questions.

as she shepherds the students back to the parking area, someone asks her how far in advance she plans for the growing season. it seems like a practical question with a straightforward answer, but she pauses, looks to the sky and sighs. “that’s actually more of a mental health question than anything else.”

mental health in farming

farming has one of the highest suicide rates of any occupation in the country, according to rebecca toms, communications coordinator for solid ground, a program created by uconn’s college of agriculture, health, and natural resources extension. the program aims to provide support, training, and a community of like-minded people to new farms and farmers around connecticut. 

as well as being a farmer herself, toms, 36, received her master’s degree in social work. her current role at solid ground has allowed her to use both of her fields of expertise. earlier this year, she hosted a series of webinars on farmer stress and solutions. 

farming fosters a certain culture that may make getting mental health help harder.  “within the farming industry there is a strong vein of self-sufficiency, which makes it hard to say ‘i have a problem,’” says toms. in agriculture, there are so many other problems to address first.

finances pose the biggest challenge to small farmers, followed by legal and land issues. in connecticut especially, land is prohibitively expensive, making it difficult to get into and stay in farming. moreover, supply-chain issues and inflation in recent years have dramatically increased the cost of raw materials.

many newer small farmers start their careers for emotional, physical, and spiritual satisfaction; both dorfer and toms cite these reasons. but small-scale farming is not a lucrative business. for some, the job itself is the yield. 

“my financial goal was to be able to afford to do the job,” says dorfer.

climate and physical stress

physical health is another major factor to mental health. the intensive labor of farming takes a major toll on the body. farming is not just time-consuming, but all-consuming: it takes up such a large part of a person’s life that it can put a major strain on their relationships. often, they have to choose between farming and their families.

some farmers cannot pull through and must leave the profession because they do not have the time, resources, or physical strength to continue.

these aspects are stressful enough by themselves, but climate change has been making the job increasingly difficult. rising temperatures, shifting season lengths, and changes in precipitation are just a few of the climate threats that loom over the farming industry. these factors make it hard to reliably predict and plan for the growing season; looking at the past year or two doesn’t provide enough data, yet looking too far into the past doesn’t help either due to climate change. “every year is new data,” says dorfer.

one weather anomaly can compromise an entire season’s worth of crops. a one-day spike or dip in temperature could kill off an entire batch; a false start to spring might cause crops to start growing early, only to be killed off by frost. 

secondary issues arise from the more direct effects of climate change. warmer winters allow insects that would otherwise die off during the cold weather to survive, increasing the number of pests that can damage crops. during droughts, mammals eat the vegetables for their water content. farmers then have to spend more money to keep the damaged crops alive and the pests at bay.

toms recounts a moment over the summer where thinking about climate change gave her a panic attack. “it’s terrifying,” she says.

dorfer says that this past summer was particularly hot and miserable; her work felt “demoralizing” and would sometimes make her think, “why am i doing this?” even so, she could not imagine doing any other job.

making resources available to farmers, toms says, is the most effective way to decrease farmers’ stress. this is solid ground’s biggest priority. a large part of their work consists of making things as easy as possible for farmers, as they have little time to deal with the many administrative aspects of farming. this includes facilitating access to legal help, assisting with grants and subsidies, and making farming supplies available and easy to find.

the movement for farmers’ mental health is very new, but toms is hopeful that it will gain traction and help farmers everywhere. “it’s something that’s just beginning, and personally, i hope i can be a part of it.”

frame 1:

our story begins in a classroom. 16-year-old wren sits in her earth science class at buffalo high school. it’s her last period. there are two more weeks until summer break and they’ve just started their last unit on climate change. mrs. weaver has assigned all of the students different topics that contribute to climate change for their end-of-term papers. wren was assigned ‘generating power: coal’ and winced as she read it.

frame 2:

when wren gets home she lets out the dog and starts researching for her paper. she already knows everything there is to know about coal, her dad is a second-generation miner. she also knows that the coal he mines is sold and burned to generate energy and that the process of burning coal contributes to global warming. he knows she doesn’t like it, every time the topic of work comes up he sees her disapproving frown but they’ve never talked about it. she can’t stand looking at the graphs and figures one more minute so she decides to go to bed early.

frame 3:

at the end of the week, mrs. weaver begins to lecture on global warming. they had already covered deforestation and conserving water but this was the topic wren dreaded most and not because of her dad’s occupation. she tried to tune out her words, “over the past 50 years us average temperature has increased more than 2*f. heatwaves and droughts have also become more frequent and intense, and the arctic ice…” wren’s attention drifts to the window, the sun is just visible at the top of the frame, she stares at it unblinking but she sees something else.

frame 4:

she was six years old when they heard the news. her dad had taken the week off to look after her while her mom visited her sister in california. he held it together in front of the officer but after he shut the door, her dad dropped to his knees in front of her and held her tight. they sat like that for over an hour but then her dad wiped off both their tears and put on her favorite movie to watch. she could hear him on the phone in the other room, her eyes were still running. the funeral was a week later, and by then she saw had heard the newscaster on tv, a massive heatwave in california, and the death toll was up to 85. apparently, wren’s aunt had been at work and her mom had just opened the door for a minute when the dog slipped between her legs and ran, she ran after it, and apparently, they found her a quarter mile away off the trail slumped against a tree, like she was sleeping. they moved into the small trailer a month later.  

frame 5:

when she got home from school that day she sees the heavy dust-covered boots outside the trailer door which means it was one of her dad’s off days. she walked in wanting to pick a fight, she told him she hates that he was a part of it all. he was confused so she went on. she brought up her mom and their voices got louder. he didn’t like to fight with her but he was upset. he had no other skills or experience, it was the only way he was able to pay the bills. he called her ungrateful and then she stomped off and slammed doors. he immediately regretted it. he knew it wasn’t not true and if he was being honest, he hated working in the mines. he hated knowing that his employer had been destroying the planet for decades and he hated knowing the heat is a result of that, the heat that killed his wife.

frame 6:

two days later and he’s been laid off, they all were, and the mine was shutting down. they were calling it the great recession, people were losing jobs and companies were going bankrupt. he was relieved but terrified, having no idea what to do next. wren knew something was wrong when she saw his boots, he was supposed to be on for three days. they talked and they decided to move, his grandparents lived in florida and he remembered making the drive every winter. wren was devastated to leave her friends but she remembered her dad’s stories of the white sand and turquoise water, she didm’t mention it but she was also happy that he was finally done with the mines.

frame 7:

the drive took them three days. as they drove, her dad talked to her about how the land has changed. there had been a bad drought again this year and they drove past entire fields of wheat dried up and dead in kansas. as they drove through towns in missouri, wren watched as people lay out sandbags in preparation for flooding that was rumored to hit in the next few weeks. on the radio “despite repeated warnings” by paul mccartney began to play. wren and her dad shared a look and shook their heads simultaneously. her dad told her it never was this bad before, that there were always natural disasters but it was different now. wren told him what she learned in earth science, that these events have steadily become more frequent and more intense. they drove in silence for a while, it felt like mourning.

frame 8:

they decided to get a trailer in a small park outside bradenton on the west coast of florida. they spent the summer working part-time jobs, every night her dad would scan different sites and send in applications, he got one interview but it never went further than that. one hot july night though their luck finally changed. he got an email from a company called sun-tec, they explained that they were a nonprofit organization and had a program that focused on transitioning those who worked in fossil fuels to start working in the renewable energy industry. they paid for his training and within the month he began his new job of installing solar panels all over the state. wren had never been more proud.

frame 9

our story ends in a classroom. it had already been a month since wren started her junior year at palmetto high school. she stood at the front of the room with a paper in her hand, the entire classroom staring back at her. the assignment had been to write about their heroes and how they have inspired them. wren wrote about her dad, she decided she was going into a career in conservation work, they were both going to make the world a better place. when she showed him the paper that night, he cried for the first time since her mom died.

my story focuses on a family that is deeply affected by climate change in the us. i wanted climate change to drive the story and be part of the setting. this is why i included a heatwave killing the mom to give the dad and daughter a past affected by climate change and motivation for the dad to leave the fossil fuel industry completely. i also used the earth science class to drive the daughter’s actions and give her the knowledge to explain their observations on their drive to florida. i decided to try to make this a very realistic story and set it in america to potentially make a voter who doesn’t believe in climate change realize that they have already seen it with their own eyes at home. i also wanted to end the story with hope and love, having them work to make the world better. these emotions are humanity’s driving force, and i wanted to use this to inspire the reader.

earlier that day, he had gone to home depot with his crew: shelly, his wife of 42 years, and caleb johnson, a longtime friend. he and johnson loaded up two-by-fours to rebuild the roof that sheltered animals at southern fresh farms, a non-profit educational farm in fort myers. shelly remained in their dodge ram pickup and turned down fox news to answer concerned calls.

she texted a friend coping with the destruction from hurricane ian that pounded the west coast of florida at the end of september. the storm had subsumed her friend’s home in floodwaters. still, he had made the time to check in on the farm. shelly responded with several hearts, and her blue eyes glistened like morning dew. as messages asking to donate surged, so did her tears.

back at their farm, robert leaned over the cherry picker bucket lift, hammering each timber one slab at a time. a-rat-a-tat-tat, an echo of the woodpeckers on the oaks surrounding them. johnson and jake stevens, another friend of the mcmahons since his childhood, stood nearby, the two swapping turns directing the crane and clamping down the wood. manure encircled them, musky, but they didn’t seem to mind. the pair joked that they were dating. stevens had come by with a pack of ale the night before, and “not many people show up with a cold beer for no reason,” johnson said. johnson’s wife, michelle, swept away glass shards by the farm’s central market, where visitors sit on wooden benches and buy harvested crops. the three of them, in cream cowboy hats, guffawed like father and sons.

hurricane ian trampled over 5 million acres of agricultural land in florida. the storm ranks among the top storms in u.s. history. for small, family farmers, the recovery is a long season, a brutal winter, fruitless. they face flooding, scattered debris and long-term crop losses. sea water deposited salt in some soils, parching the plants, making them impossible to nurture back to life. 

southwest florida’s barrier islands are familiar with the walloping winds and waters. in 1926, a hurricane choked sanibel island farmland. farmers gave up seeding fruits and vegetables like tomatoes on the island.

the loss is also palpable for fruit orchards, especially the state’s citrus industry, which leads the nation in growing oranges for juice. hurricane ian uprooted the trees, and with them, years of growth. once oranges tumble to the soil, they cannot be sold.

the mcmahons, 15 miles from the beach, were far enough from the bay that salt didn’t inundate their five acres. robert and shelly moved onto the land in 1980, the year they married. in 2014, they stacked rows of pots in vertical towers, tall as longleaf pine saplings. lettuce, tomatoes, peppers and green beans sprouted from those towers, with some, like hops and watermelon, embedded in the earth. a spaghetti tube wove through the lined containers, irrigating them with compost. the mcmahons scattered seeds of education in the soil, welcoming students to learn agriculture. they became an agritourism park and offered paper cups of chopped carrots and kibble to feed the livestock and fish. the livestock shuffled in the grass, the chickens squabbled. the hens were too old to lay eggs, but they cracked up the guests.

in that first weekend after the storm, robert prioritized the roof over replanting. he did so to shelter the animals from rain. the goats, donkeys, sheep, chickens and cows braved the category 4 hurricane, except henry, a bulking mass of 2,200 pounds. the steer’s hoof, matted by mud, had cracked under his weight and the sloshing waves. he was on medication from blue pearl, the only pet hospital that was open in the storm’s aftermath. shelly and robert had bought him when he was only an hour old, 30 pounds. they saved him from the butcher block and coddled him with gatorade and milk replacement, after he left his mother. he had laid his spotted head on shelly’s shoulder, dwarfing her. he snoozed in her lap. now, henry’s eyelids hung heavy, as though to conceal the fractured farm.

the five acres, once orange with marigolds and sunflowers beaming up at the sun — gone. the mcmahons had planted the flowers just days before ian. but the storm drowned them in its current. perhaps the marigolds, called flor del muerto in latin culture, foretold the death to come. 

the arrival of hurricane ian

as the swirling winds approached at 8 a.m. on sept. 28, robert and shelly huddled at home with their daughter and son-in-law and their two children, aged 13 and nine. forecasters had predicted the storm would hit tampa bay, so the mcmahons didn’t bother to shutter the windows. they didn’t do too much to prepare. they left the farm in mother nature’s palms. 

but then the storm swerved south. and mother nature didn’t spare them.  

robert said he recalls looking out the windows and saw the roof insulation trickle down, like fluttering snow. the wind rustled, tousling all the crop towers, round and round. the children played games on their ipads and sat idly by.

they lost power at 11 a.m. still, robert assured everyone everything would be all right. as the grandfather, he said he felt the paternal tug to protect, later recounting that he said, “we’ll get through this,” to his family. 

robert said that he thought the roof might upend as the wind roared, louder than a groaning tractor. he told everyone to grab their shoes and a flashlight. 

“why?” blake, his grandson, asked him. 

“just put your shoes on. let’s be ready,” robert said. 

he remembers clenching his boots and the kids their tennis shoes. no thoughts of other possessions flashed in his mind, only getting his family to safety.

hours went by. time wavered, flickering unsteadily. robert said he felt helpless as time passed, only able to watch as the roofs atop the market and animal shelter blew away.

finally, at 2:30 a.m. the hurricane bands receded.

at first light, the family walked outside. shelly wept. hurricane ian had wiped away everything they had built. within hours, their livelihood – lost. the hydroponic crops, the lettuce a week away from harvest, smothered and withered. the seminole pumpkins, which had crept up a wire trellis, hung brown and shriveled. the golden sunflowers, once on fire under the sun, submerged and floated away.

at the time, shelly thought they were “screwed.” 

she figured the farm and upcoming seventh-annual fall festival were over. every year, the mcmahon’s welcomed vendors and locals to the farm where they sold animal feed, pumpkins and vegetables in woven baskets and offered hay rides. the festival raked in much of the family’s profit. she had no idea how they would survive without their fruits and blooms.

they spent three nights in darkness without power. shelly had collected oil lamps for years, one of the many memorabilia and handmade creations stashed in the home. now, they had utility. she lit them in the darkness, cradling the orbs aglow.

over the next week, her fears were extinguished. dozens of folks from neighboring areas arrived, some bearing only the clothes on their backs. they had lost everything themselves, but they had come to help the mcmahons rebuild. the farm meant so much to them over the years, especially during the pandemic. an alcove, a nature trove brimming with vegetables, chirping birds and mangoes. those gleaming sunflowers blazed in their memories.

changing climate

robert remembers when the surrounding neighborhoods, like paseo, were sleepy areas. his father first bought the land in 1978. daniels road, now six-lane daniels parkway, was still one-lane and dirt. their mailbox was in town. at the time, the farm had some cows and a couple of horses. 

robert mcmahon sr. farmed most of his life, tending to mums and gladiolus with his wife, lillian, in iona, florida decades before. they were truck farmers, driving the crops to the packing house, and didn’t live on the land. across the river near paseo, the family later leased the land and grew red potatoes. their farm was on the upland; no wetlands drained. with the sprawling housing developments built since, hurricane floods clog the homes, robert said, rather than sloshing through.

“do i go along with the climate change thing? i don’t know. i’m not that guy,” robert said, as he dragged a hoe across the soil, digging up weeds. “all’s i can tell you is what i’ve seen in my 63 years of being here, and what i see is development, what i see is concrete, what i see is asphalt, what i see is roofs. and to me if you want to blame something, that’s the thing to blame.”

gravel slabs, spread by human machines, harbor heat. and he’s felt the blaze of hotter days on his nape since his childhood, even since the ‘90s.

david zierden, state climatologist, said that the number of hurricanes has not changed, as many climate change deniers point out. the intensity has. the heating atmosphere, increased sea surface temperatures and sea level exacerbate the storms.

“the rising global sea level is getting close to about a foot now in the last 100 years,” he said. “so now you’re adding a foot more to the potential storm surge.”

rapid intensification, as seen with ian, has also risen, zierden said.

“we can’t say that hurricane ian would not have happened without climate change, but we could certainly see the fingerprints,” he said.

the climate, of course, is not the only thing changing for florida’s farmers. brad hawkins, a fellow farmer who robert said will one day run southern fresh farms, comes from a multi-generation farm family. his father helped robert back when he grew solely red potatoes. hawkins said he searches for answers on google, such as solutions for ravaging rabbits. as a kid in the ‘60s, robert gathered with farmers at a southern restaurant on weekends at 5:30 a.m., where they sat at a big table, ate breakfast and shared what they knew. lee county is not the same, robert said. everyone knew a farmer back then, with six to seven million farms in the u.s. from 1910 to 1940. now, there are about two million. 

robert and shelly have felt the farming struggles in their relationship, each ding to their livelihood. they met in high school, shelly at cypress lake and robert at riverdale, when robert hosted a toga party. shelly arrived in sheets and said she immediately knew that she wanted to speak with him when she saw him at the door. from there out, he became her partner, her protector. she laughed with johnson’s wife, michelle, saying she only got drunk a handful of times and never smoked. she had no need. she was content with life with robert on the farm. she grew up, after all, going to her grandparents’ illinois farm and was accustomed to dirt under nails. 

the mcmahons are the kind of family who wake up with the sun each day and sometimes crave chicken gizzards from a gas station. they call themselves rednecks proudly. they are entwined with their land, as sure as the mycelia woven below. they certainly were not the kind to be stopped by a hurricane.

hacking losses and sowing seeds – recovery

a wooden gazebo, once washed up from the swirls of hurricane charley, still stands. robert found it toppled over on sanibel island while cleaning up from that 2004 tempest. the arches have overseen weddings and birthday parties. and it survived hurricane ian.

but their pond and a mango tree did not. after a couple years of growth, it had finally begun bearing fruit. 

the first steps were to scrap the losses and hack the fallen trees like the mango, just as farmers once took to the woods with a trusty backhoe. clearing and cleansing the land prepares it for new plantings.

the first weekend after hurricane ian, robert and shelly debated a facebook post asking for volunteers to help. they decided against it, not wanting hundreds to show up. already in a gofundme campaign, they had raised $21,050 by the first week of october. that’s how beloved they were in their community.

shelly and her daughter amy swept debris in the marketplace. they wore rubber boots, chicken proof for when the birds pecked at their feet. they knew rain could return. but they hoped that it wouldn’t and drown the delicate seedlings.

michelle rode a golf cart over to the animals and huffed along, carrying a hefty bag of “sweet feed,” as good as any southern tea. she dumped the protein-rich grains into bowls like she would for any beloved pet.

“this is what we do,” robert said, and he opened the gate. one bullock, bob, shoved him with his head in greeting. bob then mulled over his bowl, and food scattered everywhere, his black hide, dark as subversive sheep fleece. he’s “full of piss and vinegar,” robert said.

robert worked on the roof the rest of the day, cracking jokes and smiling, while shelly struggled not to cry. her gratitude shone around her like the glow of her oil lamps in her home. 

by the end of the day, the mcmahons said they felt good about the progress they had made. the animal roof offered ample shade, the market floor was almost safe to hobble barefoot on. so the next morning, they departed the farm to chip in elsewhere.

they helped neighbors lug furniture, tarnished by mold to the street corner. they had already been collecting clothing donations and taking them to the beach and the churches nearby. 

the next day on the farm, a handful of volunteers arrived. they devoted themselves to the battered plants. the hydroponic crops, with four pots per tower, were skewed to the side or uprooted. water could not flow through. two men, one an elementary school teacher in sperry water shoes, another with his hair tied back in a bun, lifted them. the two stood on chairs, hammering the poles deeper into the soil. sweat dribbled down their faces in florida’s warm fall air. 

robert bought everyone wendy’s burgers for lunch. they also snacked on “monkey meat,” a scramble of bologna and mayonnaise spread on white bread. shelly said she and the kids grew up on the sandwiches. she intended to continue the tradition.

the fall festival was just a week away. even though they had come a long way, they had nothing to sell in the market. but they had an idea. they decided to purchase fruits and vegetables at the local market and ship pumpkins from north carolina too. they were determined to hold the festival, even though their farm was laid bare.

the day before, shelly raised the american flag in a ritual, her head tilted in awe toward the star-crested banner, as though gazing at the constellations themselves. “we’re raising the flag, baby,” her best friend, diane stevens, with similar short stature, said. shelly yanked the metal wire and the flag up, up, up. stevens sang “god bless america,” the chorus ringing alongside the rustling of the flag. when it reached the top, waving in the wind, shelly raised her arms triumphantly, her face splayed in a wide smile. 

but by night time, stress furrowed shelly’s brow. she hadn’t known this day would come; she didn’t think it would. 

“what else do we have to do?” she shouted at amy. 

“i don’t know,” amy said. 

they ran back and forth. “i feel like we are not even close to being ready for tomorrow,” shelly said.

“we always feel like that,” amy said in a reassuring tone. 

 in response, robert said, “what we get done, we get done.”

the fall festival

by 8 a.m., food trucks piled in, dozens of people they had known for years. stuffed animal making stations, apple butter and jelly merchants, friends who wanted to make a couple extra bucks frying doughnuts. shelly and robert allowed anyone in. they especially wanted those who had lost a lot from the hurricane to make some sales. admission was free for everyone, as always.

the kettle corn aroma, nutty and dusted with caramelized sugar, wafted about. children squealed, swinging in the playground. scorched sizzles of steak arose from the grill. robert flipped burger patties as deftly as he drops seeds.

“they’ve been here before,” shelly said, pointing at a family donned in rubber boots, their feet sinking in and sticking to the soggy soil saturated from rain. ‘course shelly knew almost everyone, and dished out “honey” and “sweetie,” as often as she sold cups of carrots to families. she set aside a dozen eggs for a past pet sitter. she whispered to teresa guilday, robert’s sister and fellow cashier, about a woman who taught kindergarten. she remembered a little girl who once drew her a minnie mouse picture when she was in diapers. shelly still keeps the picture, as she does with most sentimental items. the table was stacked with mementos, including a cloth pumpkin her mother sewed and a photo of her and robert, when her silver locks were ginger and voluminous in true ‘80s fashion.

each time someone came by that table, they exchanged hurricane stories. 

“i was a puddle here 17 days ago,” shelly said to one passerby.

frans kox, who owned a flower store on sanibel island, told her about the wreckage he faced: 17 feet of water assailing his home, only a few inches from their front door. he told her his street looked like a river, water churning through. every bloom drowned. 

shelly told him that she and robert lost 90 percent of their crops.

“i cry every day at what we accomplished and all the people who came to help,” she said to kox. 

true to word and form, shelly’s eyes welled with each embrace and conversation, her puffy cheeks flushing to a deep, tomato blush. “stop it,” guilday said to her, lightly slapping her on the arm. “they’re happy tears,” shelly said. 

the festival, envisioned as a weekend affair, stretched for three weeks. the winter season quickly approached. the productive christmas season was in the seeds tucked in the cooler, in the balsam trees and pine scent — a cold winter’s night, the rustling of their wreaths and dangling lights. shelly would cook five made-from-scratch meals again for the community with santa claus visits throughout december. 

robert and shelly had planted sunflowers the week before the festival with hopes of seeing their barren field blossom once more. palms to earth with their community, hope budded in their souls. and in the fields where they planted the flowers, little tendrils circled the soil, teeming beneath.

katie delk is a 2022-2023 florida climate institute fellow reporting a series of articles about the impact of climate change on florida’s farmers—and how they are adapting.

i traveled to “the end of the world” alongside climate leaders from over 36 countries, gathered to learn and connect over climate change mitigation.

to get there, we had to endure the 30-foot waves of the drake’s passage tossing us back and forth with formidable force. but as the ocean calmed, a glacier materialized out of the mist suddenly, jarring us out of our stupor.

the moment was one of pure wonder and elation – bundled up against the wind and snow, everyone sprinkled onto the deck to soak it in together. our first excursion took us out onto antarctic waters, stepping from the sturdy ship into little zodiac boats.

the enormity hit us then. the peace of the place is indescribable. the quiet, unfathomable. the awe and inspiration completely underestimated.

the following days, we experienced honest, raw interactions with the animals and landscapes of the antarctic.

the weather brought us harsh wind, soft snow, blizzarding and radiantly crisp blue skies, sometimes all within a matter of hours. in antarctica, the powerful notion of our planet as a living and breathing ecosystem came through with such strength.

but even immersed in the most untouched, pristine habitat on earth, it wasn’t long until the effects of climate change reached us. in early march, news had spread about a heatwave on the antarctic plateau. the concordia research station in east antarctica measured a temperature record high of -11.8 degrees celsius, 40 degrees above the month’s average. scientists reported they had never seen weather behavior like this in the history of antarctic weather recording. during our expedition, the typical antarctic snow turned to rain. rob shockingly revealed that in the dozens of times he had visited antarctica, this was the first rain he had witnessed.

witnessing climate change firsthand in a place so far away from the human-inhabited world hit me with massive impact. in the face of these monumental problems, it can feel like nothing you can do will make a difference. but as rob reminds us, believing we can’t make a difference or that someone else will instead is the greatest danger of all.

so, what can you do?

climate change is such a complex issue that it can be difficult to know where to begin and what can make the most impact. this is especially true since there are multiple related issues plaguing our environment at the same time, such as plastic pollution, excess waste and habitat destruction. i’ve found that it is easiest to start wherever you can find the greatest sense of fulfillment from your impact. easily implemented but effective changes help break through the barrier to habit change people so often face. when i returned from antarctica, i had more motivation than i’d ever had before. i felt where i could make the most immediate impact in my life was to move toward a less-waste lifestyle.

i swapped out my single-use bath and kitchen supplies for reusable alternatives. now whenever i order food or a drink to go, i bring my own containers or ask if they can serve me with washable dishes rather than plastic ones.

here are some other simple action steps you can take now:

• reduce your use of single-use plastics and swap them for reusable items
• reduce your carbon footprint: limit flights, carpool, bike-ride or walk, etc.
• join community environmental events, such as local clean-ups, climate action campaigns, community gardening events, etc.
• invest your money responsibly around environmental, social and governance (esg)
• make your voice heard by those in power and seek out leadership positions yourself

one of the most important things you can do is talk to others about climate change in your community. have conversations on what you’ve noticed about the climate, share sustainable news and practices that interest you and discuss what the best ways are for you personally to contribute to climate mitigation. this can be the most powerful step of all. conversation is a necessity in creating change in this world. you could talk with your professors and peers about how sustainability plays a role in your area of study and engage with politicians through discussion and voting. the most valuable contribution we can give comes from collaboration: the exchange of ideas big and small, working and creating, together. united, we can make all the difference in the world, for the world.