Friday, August 14, 2015

How you live -- average climate? not!

Well, this is the last question in our 20 question bioregional quiz. WIth or without Anthropogenic Climate Disruption, My Minnesota's climate is anything but average. If our extremes were closer to our averages, we'd be a four-season paradise. Here's a series of maps of Minnesota's state-wide climate information, but, to answer the specific questions we're considering today, our "region" is central Minnesota, with the specific location for temperature and precipitation the airport [MSP], just south of Minneapolis and St. Paul.

Summer clouds
Summer clouds
Photo by J. Harrington

What is the average temperature and precipitation for your region?
How has it changed in the past three decades?

Climate Summary for January 1, 2014 through December 13, 2014
MSP average temp     44.5 departure -2.8
MSP average precip   34.56 departure 4.79

Climate Summary for January 1, 1985 through December 13, 1985
MSP average temp     43.6 departure -2.7
MSP average precip   31.66 departure 1.05

chickadee in Winter snow
chickadee in Winter snow
Photo by J. Harrington

Although there does not appear to be a radical change in the past 30 years, the annual average temperature and precipitation aren't the best indicators of change, although the annual average temperature displays a slight increase, while the annual average precipitation has slightly diminished. The link at the end of this sentence takes you to a treasure trove of Minnesota climatological data.

The Center for Atmospheric Research

By Bin Ramke 
Pei designed the building with views,   
smooth masonry, and the mountains aligned
for a photo opportunity; inside are files
sufficient for forever, for fine tuning weather.

Great Spangled Fritillary, the watcher vaguely recalls
from Teach Yourself Lepidoptery, a book.
He wanted to live in a land of appropriate weather
with views of mountains and with music constant.

He wants to tell a story but no one would listen,
like opera: Black women clean the floors
and shine the walls like silver nightly.
Computers whir Platonic as nuns. Nothing

escapes naming; storms arranged in teacups
like anyone’s collection, like rows of butterflies
pinned and satisfactory: this is the new landscape.
Or there is a lewd father among the shrubbery

watching daughters in weather; he breathes heavily
and the wet wisdom begins, the storm gathering
to spill across the ridge, longed for.
Daughters must be warned against sincerity

of frantic violins: “He was a man of sympathetic   
tendencies,” read the official report. “He was
smaller than he looked and tended to lick chocolate
from his fingers in a lascivious manner.”

He tried his wife’s patience, it is true,
and lived alone through the marriage, kept
his own counsel. With such petty symbols as
weather, he kept his own counsel.

A butterfly like weather; the climate like
laughter, the movement of small air. Clouds, too,
have names. Clouds leave home to find themselves.
Good money after bad, the fathers say, and close   

the door called Nature against their coming back.
The funny little ways children have of making
the world the color they always wanted. Sunset.
Birds. The mathematics of memory begin

to swirl like cookie dough, like chocolate with egg
and sugar and vanilla and butter. A bowl to lick,
dangerous with delight, as ultraviolet. Home again!
begs the mother and soon the sorry child walks

that long allée as rain begins to pour.   Past   
such petty symbols the boy returns through architecture,   
a silly gauntlet: the butterfly, the mother, the fit
signatures of loveliness. His parents at the door,

the little cottage in the woods, Hansel home again
at last, the shining path. A little like a dream.
Ours is not a simple age, and things are what they seem
happily ever after in the malicious tiny rain.

Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.