#bosgreenfest

After our One Big Snowfall this winter, I left the house and walked for two hours around my neighborhood by myself.

(I live in North Carolina, so we’re lucky to get six inches in a year. A slight dusting can shut down school for a day; any more than that, and we might get a week.)

I wasn’t in any particularly unstable emotional state. I didn’t have any deep philosophical life questions to ponder. I was just stir crazy—being trapped in my house was getting to my head—and besides, I like to walk. It is a tradition I established a couple years ago with one of my best friends, who lives two hundred meters down the street. He went to boarding school, but on the rare occasions that we were home at the same time, we would meet up and go on walks together. They could span three or four miles if we had enough to talk about (since we didn’t see each other very often, and I talk a lot, they generally did) and I always looked forward to them. While I sometimes make fun of my mom for the sheer amount of walks she takes—sorry, Mom—I’ve realized just how much I enjoy them.

I run a lot. So when I don’t exercise for more than two or three days, my body rebels (Veronica, what are you doing? it says. Where are these miles of pain you’ve promised me? The trails? The hills? The pure torture?). I start feeling a weird pent-up mix of energy and lethargy and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with all of the jittery thoughts that my head conjures up in an attempt to deal with the sudden lack of running happy hormones. Unfortunately, snow in NC, however infrequent, means that—due to the state’s general inability to handle even the lightest snowfall—I lose access to my favorite running trails. And after the roads clear, it is often still cold enough that I am loath to step outside and inhale freezing wind as I suffer my way through my daily run. But I still need to do something active, or I forget how to function properly.

Thus, the impetus behind my two-hour solitary neighborhood trek.

I put on hiking boots and a jacket that originally felt too thin for the below-freezing temperatures—although I had worked up a sweat by the end—and just kind of went for it, picking my way through slushy puddles, stomping over banks shoveled to the sides of driveways, arms held out beside me for balance. The sun was out, and pitiful snowmen (you can only do so much with four inches of snow) smiled crookedly from their front yards. My neighborhood is a loop, and every time I passed my house I considered going back in—then kept walking. I don’t remember what I thought about. I don’t remember how far I went. But when I finally returned home, cheeks flushed and breathing heavily (was I out of shape already?), I felt refreshed and happy and alive.

Running is a way to clear my head. When I’m especially upset or angry or frustrated or simply overwhelmed, I go on a run. For one thing, I’m often hurting too much to really focus on life’s woes by the time I finish. And the combination of alone time and my body’s natural response to the exercise—endorphin production—really does help me feel better. Walking isn’t quite the same. When with my friend, I talk with him about my life and his (this is harder to do on a run, seeing as I’m usually too busy focusing on my breathing to produce actual words). When walking alone, I have time to think, to process, to analyze each of my thoughts in a much more thorough way. It’s a different kind of catharsis.

The health benefits of walking are no secret. This past October, the Washington Post published an article about the pros of walking just thirty minutes per day, which include “improved body composition (higher muscle-to-fat ratio) and decreased risk for metabolic syndrome (high blood sugar, excess body fat around the waist, high cholesterol and high blood pressure, which together increase the risk of heart disease, diabetes and stroke).” Beyond the physical benefits, says the Post, “walking is man’s best medicine.”

And of course, environmentally speaking, walking is lightyears better than driving. Obvious issues such as air pollution from vehicle emissions can lead to less overt but equally dangerous problems—increased probability of respiratory illnesses in children, for example, or noise pollution. While driving is easier than walking, such susceptibility to convenience heightens likelihood of obesity. Furthermore, the stress of traffic or other bad drivers on the road, when compounded, can contribute to other health problems such as heart disease.

Just yesterday, I went on another walk with my friend. This one was shorter but no less gratifying. It was morning, and the summer air hung heavy over the sidewalk and the houses, practically dripping with the possibility of rain. I had already been on a run and received my daily dose of endorphins, but I was infused with a different kind of spirit—maybe because walking hurts a lot less than running, or maybe because I just love to be outside. Despite off-the-charts humidity levels, it was my favorite kind of warm, the kind that wraps your entire body up like a particularly good hug. It was early enough that I was excited about the day. All in all, an ideal situation.

You should try it sometime.

--

The trees in California are dying.

A couple days ago, my mom and dad and I visited the house of some old family friends. Fondly dubbed my surrogate grandparents, they welcomed us into their beautiful log cabin in the Sierra Mountains, where cats (six fluffy Maine coons) lounged between the footprints of a rowdy young golden retriever and an old spry pug, named Molly, whom I have known since puppyhood. Hummingbirds hovered beside sugar-water feeders hung on the front porch. In the kitchen, homemade snickerdoodles cooled on a rack beside a chocolate cake; I was shooed away from both with the warning that I would have to finish dinner before getting any dessert.

Architecturally, the house blended effortlessly with its surroundings; my art history teacher, with a special affection for structures such as Fallingwater, would have loved how organically the walls seemed to sprout from the ground, like trees. Out the back door, a wide wooden deck reached over a small gorge above which the trees parted, affording a perfect view of the setting sun, bleeding into the sky. It was July, but Christmas lights were wound around the railing, made from logs cut and carved by hand.

On the drive up the mountain, my parents and I had noticed that the landscape was dotted with dying, rust-colored trees. It was on the deck that I was shown two pieces of bark, taken from the trunk of a dead pine. Small holes were bored through the surface, and the inside of the tree was grooved, lined with little trough-like structures, known as “galleries,” created by bark beetles. They had devoured the pine from the inside out.

According to the San Francisco Chronicle, pine tree mortality doubled between 2013 and 2014, and nearly 460,000 acres of dead or dying trees were mapped last year. Usually, trees are able to defend themselves against bark beetles; they produce sap, which pushes the beetles back out through the holes from which they come. However, with California in its third year of drought, the pines are weakened and dehydrated, easily overcome by the beetles, which attack by the millions. Furthermore, since average seasonal temperatures are higher than they have ever been, the bugs thrive even in the winter, meaning the trees are susceptible year-round.

We hiked halfway up Yosemite Falls the next day, and sat on a rock from which we could see everything—the Half Dome arching into the sky, the river winding its way through the trees and meadows a thousand feet below. My heart was pounding, the elevation gain thudding through my veins. It was so still that I felt like I had intruded on a photograph. But from up there, the destruction was even more visible—the landscape markedly red, like someone had taken a paintbrush and started slashing out the trees, dripping that distinctive rust color everywhere.

In February 2015, the United States Department of Agriculture released a report entitled “Bark Beetles in California Conifers,” which expounded upon the aforementioned title but also offered treatment options for afflicted pines. However, most treatments require spray pesticides—an inconvenient option for trees that can grow to be 150 or 200 feet tall. The treatments seem relatively futile; not only are pesticides environmentally harmful, but the particular brand used to kill bark beetles is also restricted in California, meaning only a certified applicator can handle it, and trees are dying at a faster rate than can be handled. If problems couldn’t get any worse, dead and desiccated trees pose a higher fire hazard than living ones. It is not uncommon to see “Fire Danger” signs on mountain drives with an arrow pointing directly at “Extreme.”

Interestingly enough, human efforts to preserve trees in the past century may be contributing to this problem. The focus on nature and wildlife reserves has led to denser and more tightly-packed forests in some places, which, according to the Los Angeles Times, “has made trees more vulnerable as they compete for limited amounts of water.”

Warmer weather, drier seasons—perhaps the most worrying part about dying trees is the global effect of the loss. As the pines die, less carbon dioxide is absorbed from the atmosphere, and climate scientists and activists around the world are struggling to find a long-term solution that will prevent worse changes from occurring.

We ate lunch at a hotel in Yosemite, and the menu read: Due to the California drought, water is served upon request. Driving past a reservoir on the way down from the mountains, we noticed that the water line was twenty or thirty feet lower than it should have been. I’m headed to California for college next year; my dad joked that maybe I shouldn’t go if there won’t be any water by the time I arrive.

A joke that is quickly becoming a reality. I laughed along with my dad, but one thing is clear: there is not enough water in California. And with no water, the trees will continue to die.

I heard my first fireworks at the age of two. Alone in the tub for my nightly bath, I thought the loud explosions could only mean one thing: an evil green dinosaur come to consume my entire family and destroy our house. (Yes, I was that imaginatively specific even as a child.) Prepared for the worst, I began to scream for my parents, who—although it must have been only ten or fifteen seconds—arrived after what seemed like forever, my dad stopping to wrap me in a towel before scooping me into his arms and carrying me out of the bathroom.

At the kitchen window, he pointed outside, where, in the distance, fireworks were lighting up the sky in dazzling colors: red, green, silver, gold. I had to stop crying to focus better on them, so I did, staring with wide eyes and open mouth at what could only be magical fairy dust against the night. The noises, now that I could see their source, weren’t nearly as frightening. All thoughts of an approaching and terrible T-rex disappeared with that beautiful light show.

Years later, fireworks (excuse the pun) continue to pop up in my life every now and then—most notably on the Fourth of July, but also in backyards with handheld sparklers, at bonfires surrounded by friends laughing as they scrawl pictures into the air, the fleeting images only visible in long-exposure photographs. They scream fun, and summer, and an inexplicable youth and freedom ached for even by teenagers such as me. Not five days ago, my family stood on a restaurant patio overlooking a baseball stadium after the sun had gone down, transfixed as fireworks shot into the sky.

But after the show was over, as the crowd turned away to check phones and return inside, I looked down to pick up my purse and saw ash. Flecks of it, dotting the patio, and I remembered, through the haze of lights, the sight of embers and sparks raining to the ground, nearly invisible against the much grander explosions behind them; in fact, I only noticed at all because some of them had drifted a little too close to the woman in front of me, who had jumped back, almost stepping on my toes.

Nearly ten minutes later, as my family and I enjoyed dessert, the haze of smoke still lingered in the air.

The main ingredient in a firework is fuel, which, when combined with an oxidizer—usually a perchlorate salt—results in a combustion reaction. Now, I hated chemistry, but I do remember this: combustion reactions take oxygen and react it with another material to produce carbon dioxide and water. The metals used to color and create fireworks are toxic. In short, fireworks may be awesome, but their explosions release massive amounts of harmful chemicals into the atmosphere.

Ironically enough, it is barium, which is used to make green-colored fireworks, that is the least “green,” environmentally speaking. Other metals, such as strontium (red) and copper (blue), can also have lasting effects. According to the Los Angeles Times, scientists in India during Diwali (a holiday celebrated by light displays) found that particulate measures during the festivities peaked at “nearly six times the federal health standard,” a level of pollution worse than that of Beijing.

Not only do airborne particles cause harm, but firework remnants that fall to the ground—the embers I witnessed raining down around the baseball stadium—also contain unused chemicals that eventually find their way into streams and rivers, where they affect both aquatic and human life. The EPA, in 2014, released a study that linked perchlorate exposure in drinking water to thyroid problems.

For places such as Disney World or Disneyland, frequent firework purveyors, the solution may be the “green” firework. According to the LA Times, scientists in Los Alamos have been experimenting with cleaner fireworks since the late 1990s, when Disney requested a more eco-friendly version of its Magic Kingdom display. Using nitrogen, they were able to produce “far less soot and smoke” while also, “because the high-nitrogen metals burn more cleanly,” were able to “get much nicer colors,” said David Chavez, materials chemist at the Los Alamos National Laboratory. In the end, they managed to reduce metal content by about 90 percent while retaining approximately the same sell price and improving the aesthetic appeal. Disneyland began using these fireworks in 2004 after developing cleaner technologies to launch them, replacing gunpowder with compressed air.

However, for smaller and more local firework manufacturers and vendors, green fireworks remain too expensive. Instead, they continue to purchase Chinese fireworks, which are about ten times cheaper but also much more environmentally destructive. Innovation in the field continues, nevertheless, and eco-friendliness remains the top priority.

And hopefully, when I rescue my own children from their bathtub imaginings to show them the beauty of fireworks for the first time, the experience will not be marred by lingering smoke or dying embers or ash underneath my feet. Instead, I’ll dry their tears, point, watch their eyes widen with the same awe I’m sure my dad saw in my own gaze, nearly sixteen years ago, at the kitchen window.

I spent almost every single weekend senior year at a local coffee shop exactly eight minutes from my house. Despite the fact that I’m about as far from your average hipster café-goer as you can get, I passed countless hours there, bent over a corner table with art history notes or English papers or physics problem sets spread over the two-foot-by-three-foot space. I learned quickly how to distribute my computer, homework, and nonfat vanilla latte in such a way to maximize efficiency while minimizing possible spill damage.

 Thus, my senior year passed. Anyone who knows me has heard me reference this coffee shop at least once—I seem to be drawn to it subconsciously, my writing always drifting to allude to its fairly standard atmosphere or its exceedingly good musical selection. This coffee shop holds more of my words than any other place—except maybe my own head—I have written countless college applications, essays, and personal vignettes within its walls. Being there activates some weird prolific switch inside of me. Added on to the external pressure to be productive felt when surrounded by complete strangers who all seem to be working harder than you are—well, it provided the perfect environment to write.

 I’ve recently started wondering exactly what it is about the concept of the coffee shop that so draws people—me included—through its doors. The fantasy of meeting the eyes of a beautiful, artistic, alternative stranger across the room while lifting your latte to your lips and instantly falling head-over-heels in love is so overused that it’s funny—but isn’t it also a little true for everyone? Coffee shops seem to hold some sort of romance lacking in every other locale; there’s something extremely personal, for example, in the barista remembering your order for the first time; something almost too rom-com-esque in nearly being knocked over by a college-age guy in his haste to grab two Splendas and a dash of half-and-half on the way out the door—even sans the meaningful eye contact. My recent motivation to become a barista is not only monetary; it stems from a preconceived notion of the coffee shop as one of the best ways to learn about people—to, by learning their drink orders, form with them some strange spiritual connection that can’t be found anywhere else. I find that the allure of the coffee shop is almost too tempting.

 That aside, coffee shops also figure prominently in many daily routines. The Harvard School of Public Health reports than 54 percent of American adults drink coffee every day. (Considering the fact that most of my coffee consumption occurred in high school before the age of 18, I would assume that number is a lot higher with teenagers factored in.) The U.S. spends $40 billion on coffee per year. I’ve probably purchased at least 50 vanilla lattes in the past twelve months—multiply that by $4 per drink, and you now understand why I need a job. Beyond the facts, coffee shops—and their main consumer item, coffee—fuel not only the daydreams of YA-romance-novel aficionados but also the economies of entire countries, making the institution of the coffee shop vitally important to the global population.

 Obviously, this constant demand for coffee necessitates more efficient means of production. And when it comes to the earth, humans have a track record of not being nice when looking for a way to maximize profit while minimizing effort. In the 1970s, traditional shade-grown coffee (which preserved both trees and topsoil) was first replaced by the allegedly more efficient method of “sun cultivation,” which, according to a 2011 article in The Guardian, has cleared more than 2.5 million acres of trees in Central America alone. Sun cultivation is plantation-style, requiring fertilizers, and thus further contributing to the destruction of animal and plant populations alike. The World Wildlife Fund reported recently that, out of the 50 countries with the highest deforestation rates, 37 are major coffee producers. Combine sun cultivation with the fact that 14.4 billion cups of coffee per year are served in disposable paper cups, and it’s clear—our desire for caffeine is detrimental.

 I confess that I’ve never considered whether or not my nonfat vanilla lattes were shade-grown, and have always dropped my empty cup in the trash on the way out the door. Despite my obsession with the cultural significance of the coffee shop, I have never dwelt extensively on its environmental effects. But while conducting research for this article, I stumbled across this eye-opener: Americans will throw away almost 31 billion disposable coffee cups in 2016. The chemical within the paper lining—which makes these cups non-biodegradable—contains enough energy to heat 8,300 homes for an entire year.

 Fifty of those disposable cups, tossed aside without a second glance, are mine.

 The choice to switch to a reusable mug goes beyond personal convenience, then. It’s quickly becoming necessary. Even then, websites and blogs more ecologically responsible than I am urge me to make sure my cute new thermos is also “eco-friendly, long-lasting, and BPA free.” And although it’s been a couple weeks since I last stepped foot into that coffee shop of mine—and I recently switched to chai tea in an attempt to curb my caffeine addiction—I’m beginning to care less and less about which of my fellow mysterious café dwellers could become a story worthy of a teen novel and focusing more, instead, on how the drinks passed over the counter, so innocuous in their summer-themed, disposable paper disguises, have made their way into my hands.

 Of course, I won’t be busting sun cultivation rings anytime soon. But my awareness is a start.