By Frank Vandervort
On a recent morning, the sun rose just above the horizon, shooting spires of light through the trees and tinting the snow-covered ground orange. My exhalations froze in plumes as I walked our dog—or he walked me—amid the trees that cover most of our backyard.
Archie (our dog) waded through the couple inches of snow on his short legs, exploring the leafless underbrush, following his nose from one interesting thing to another, and tugging on the leash. Often, I am impatient to head back inside when he dawdles like this. But that morning, as he meandered, I watched the sky brighten, the moon and the stars fade. I stood still and listened—a light wind clacked the tree branches together, a few songbirds squabbled as they jockeyed for position at the feeder, and the interstate hummed low more than a mile away—and appreciated the day as it unfolded around me.
If it hadn’t been for Archie’s need to make his morning nature call, I likely would have been asleep. I would have missed that beautiful morning, one of the few snowy ones we seem to have these days.
I hear a lot of grumbling about winter—it’s too long, it’s too cold, there’s too much snow. But I love it. In fact, I miss what I call “real winter.” Until I was a young adult, I lived in the northwestern Lower Peninsula, near the shores of Lake Michigan. At that time, there was never a question of whether we’d have a white Christmas. Snow that came for Thanksgiving stayed for Easter—sometimes, Mother’s Day. It piled up and up. Some winters, parents warned their children not to climb the snowbanks and swing from the electrical wires. Roads sometimes became tunnels through the snow and drivers had to affix tall bicycle flags to their cars so that other drivers would see them around corners. Many a night we put a heater under the hood of the car and covered it with an old blanket to ensure that it would start in the morning.
But here in the southeast corner of the state, winter has always been a much milder affair. I have always felt disappointed by its meekness. So, I have regularly escaped north—and sometimes as far as New England—just to experience some of the beauty and joy of “real winter.”
In the past few years, as winter has seemed to all but disappear, I realized that my disappointment has grown into something more like grief for the loss of the season. When I realized this, I thought I was just feeling nostalgic for the snow forts and caves, long toboggan runs, and skating on frozen ponds of my youth. Not that nostalgia is a bad thing. In fact, psychologists are discovering that it can be a very good thing (more about that later).
Recent trends in climate change have winter growing shorter, warmer, and more volatile across the Great Lakes region. Meanwhile, summers are growing longer, hotter, and drier. A study published in Geophysical Research Letters in 2021 found that between 1952 and 2011—measured by temperatures above the 75th percentile—summer lengthened from 78 to 95 days while winter—measured by temperatures in the lowest 25th percentile of the year—was reduced from 76 to 73 days, on average. The researchers found that both autumn and spring also shrank and predicted that if these trends continue—that is, if warming does not escalate—winter will shrink to less than two months while summer will expand to six months by 2100. In the dozen years since 2011, spring seems to be arriving earlier. Writing in The New York Times last March, Margaret Renkl noted that spring flowers in her neighborhood bloomed a month earlier than typical, in late February rather than late March. This is a trend I’ve noticed in our yard, too.
Another indicator of our shrinking winter is the lack of ice cover on the Great Lakes. During the 2022-2023 winter, ice coverage was substantially lower than typical. For example, research by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration found that in mid-February of 2023, only about seven percent of the lakes were covered with ice. While earlier in the month, about 21 percent of the lakes were iced over. his compares to an historical average of about 35-40 percent at that time of year. The warmer temperatures and the resultant lack of ice have caused the cancellation of some winter festivals.
While climate will trend toward shorter, warmer winters, we will also continue to experience unpredictable—even crazy—weather. There are freak large storms like the massive ice storm that hit Washtenaw County last March bringing down hundreds of trees (three in our yard alone) and leaving many thousands of homes without power for days. Or the storm that buried Buffalo under multiple feet of snow in February 2023 (while overall the temperatures in the city were above average for the winter).
Over the past decade, the American Psychological Association and ecoAmerica have partnered to publish periodic reports on the psychological impacts of climate change. The most recent iteration, Mental Health and Our Changing Climate, published in 2021, details the impact of both acute climate disasters and chronic changes in climate (e.g., warmer temperatures and less snow) on well-being. While the mental health impacts of acute climate disasters—devastating wildfires, massive snow dumps, and catastrophic flooding—seem obvious, what is perhaps not so obvious is the very real, even if more subtle, impacts of chronic exposure to the changing climate which essentially effects everyone. Anyone may experience stress, anxiety, or depression because of their chronic exposure to a warming climate. This condition has led to the coining of the term “ecoanxiety” which describes “the chronic fear of environmental doom.”
We will all need to find strategies to cope with changes wrought by a warming planet. Nostalgia, it turns out, may help us lessen the psychological impacts. Engaging in nostalgic reflection can help us experience an increase in happiness and feeling more satisfied with our lives. It can help to comfort us when we perceive a psychological threat and contributes to an overall greater sense of well-being.
As winter has grown grayer, more snowless, and less fun, I have found myself mourning its loss—and feeling nostalgic for its delights. This sense of loss of the season that I love has me slowing down and appreciating more the ever-rarer experiences like that recent snowy sunrise. That morning, as the sun rose into a clear sky, it was me who wanted to tarry, to fill up my senses with my surroundings, and it was Archie who pulled me back inside.
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On a recent morning, the sun rose just above the horizon, shooting spires of light through the trees and tinting the snow-covered ground orange. My exhalations froze in plumes as I walked our dog—or he walked me—amid the trees that cover most of our backyard.