Stone Mattress

By Margaret Atwood

At the outset Verna had not intended to kill anyone. What she had in mind was a vacation, pure and simple. Take a breather, do some inner accounting, shed worn skin. The Arctic suits her: there’s something inherently calming in the vast cool sweeps of ice and rock and sea and sky, undisturbed by cities and highways and trees and the other distractions that clutter up the landscape to the south.

Among the clutter she includes other people, and by other people she means men. She’s had enough of men for a while. She’s made an inner memo to renounce flirtations and any consequences that might result from them. She doesn’t need the cash, not anymore. She’s not extravagant or greedy, she tells herself: all she ever wanted was to be protected by layer upon layer of kind, soft, insulating money, so that nobody and nothing could get close enough to harm her. Surely she has at last achieved this modest goal.

[…]

There’s a lot of sportswear in the room, much beige among the men, many plaid shirts, vests with multiple pockets. She notes the nametags: a Fred, a Dan, a Rick, a Norm, a Bob. Another Bob, then another: there are a lot of Bobs on this trip. Several appear to be flying solo. Bob: a name once of heavy significance to her, though surely she’s rid herself of that load of luggage by now. She selects one of the thinner but still substantial Bobs, glides close to him, raises her eyelids, and lowers them again. He peers down at her chest.

“Verna,” he says. “That’s a lovely name.”

[…]

(…)“Bob Goreham,” he adds, with a diffidence he surely intends to be charming. Verna smiles widely to disguise her shock. She finds herself flushing with a combination of rage and an almost reckless mirth. She looks him full in the face: yes, underneath the thinning hair and the wrinkles and the obviously whitened and possibly implanted teeth, it’s the same Bob—the Bob of fifty-odd years before. Mr. Heartthrob, Mr. Senior Football Star, Mr. Astounding Catch, from the rich, Cadillac-driving end of town where the mining-company big shots lived. Mr. Shit, with his looming bully’s posture and his lopsided joker’s smile.

[…]

Back then she’d had no choice. By the end of that week, the story was all over town. Bob had spread it himself, in a farcical version that was very different from what Verna herself remembered. Slutty, drunken, willing Verna, what a joke. She’d been followed home from school by groups of leering boys, hooting and calling out to her: Easy out! Can I have a ride? Candy’s dandy but liquor’s quicker! Those were some of the milder slogans. She’d been shunned by girls, fearful that the disgrace—the ludicrous, hilarious smuttiness of it all—would rub off on them.

[…]

Then there was her mother. It hadn’t taken long for the scandal to hit church circles. What little her mother had to say through her clamp of a mouth was to the point: Verna had made her own bed, and now she would have to lie in it. No, she could not wallow in self-pity—she would just have to face the music, not that she would ever live it down, because one false step and you fell, that’s how life was. When it was evident that the worst had happened, she bought Verna a bus ticket and shipped her off to a church-run Home for Unwed Mothers on the outskirts of Toronto.

There Verna spent the days peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors and scouring toilets along with her fellow-delinquents. They wore gray maternity dresses and gray wool stockings and clunky brown shoes, all paid for by generous donations, they were informed. In addition to their scouring and peeling chores, they were treated to bouts of prayer and selfrighteous hectoring. What had happened to them was justly deserved, the speeches went, because of their depraved behavior, but it was never too late to redeem themselves through hard work and self-restraint. They were cautioned against alcohol, tobacco, and gum chewing, and were told that they should consider it a miracle of God if any decent man ever wanted to marry them.

Verna’s labor was long and difficult. The baby was taken away from her immediately so that she would not get attached to it. There was an infection, with complications and scarring, but it was all for the best, she overheard one brisk nurse telling another, because those sorts of girls made unfit mothers anyway. Once she could walk, Verna was given five dollars and a bus ticket and instructed to return to the guardianship of her mother, because she was still a minor.

[…]

She’d chosen her acceptances with an eye to the medical condition involved, and once married she’d done her best to provide value for money. Each husband had departed not only happy but grateful, if a little sooner than might have been expected. But each had died of natural causes—a lethal recurrence of the heart attack or stroke that had hit him in the first place. All she’d done was give them tacit permission to satisfy every forbidden desire: to eat arteryclogging foods, to drink as much as they liked, to return to their golf games too soon. She’d refrained from commenting on the fact that, strictly speaking, they were being too zealously medicated. She’d wondered about the dosages, she’d say later, but who was she to set her own opinion up against a doctor’s?

[…]

(…)But there had been no true words for the act then: rape was what occurred when some maniac jumped on you out of a bush, not when your formaldance date drove you to a side road in the mangy twice-cut forest surrounding a tin-pot mining town and told you to drink up like a good girl and then took you apart, layer by torn layer. To make it worse, Bob’s best friend, Ken, had turned up in his own car to help out. The two of them had been laughing. They’d kept her panty girdle as a souvenir.

Why should she be the only one to have suffered for that night? She’d been stupid, granted, but Bob had been vicious. And he’d gone scot-free, without consequences or remorse, whereas her entire life had been distorted. The Verna of the day before had died, and a different Verna had solidified in her place: stunted, twisted, mangled. It was Bob who’d taught her that only the strong can win, that weakness should be mercilessly exploited. It was Bob who’d turned her into—why not say the word?—a murderer.

[…]

“Terrific,” Verna says. She sits down, unzips her backpack. “Look,” she says. “I found a perfect specimen.” She turns, positioning the stromatolite between them, supporting it with both hands. She takes a breath. “I think we’ve known each other before,” she says. “I’m Verna Pritchard. From high school.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “I thought there was something familiar about you,” he says. He’s actually smirking.

She knows better than to swing widely. She brings the stromatolite up hard, a short sharp jab right underneath Bob’s lower jaw. There’s a crunch, the only sound. His head snaps back. Now he’s sprawled on the rock. She holds the stromatolite over his forehead, lets it drop. Again. Once again. There. That seems to have done it.

[…]

Stone Mattress

By Margaret Atwood

At the outset Verna had not intended to kill anyone. What she had in mind was a vacation, pure and simple. Take a breather, do some inner accounting, shed worn skin. The Arctic suits her: there’s something inherently calming in the vast cool sweeps of ice and rock and sea and sky, undisturbed by cities and highways and trees and the other distractions that clutter up the landscape to the south.

Among the clutter she includes other people, and by other people she means men. She’s had enough of men for a while. She’s made an inner memo to renounce flirtations and any consequences that might result from them. She doesn’t need the cash, not anymore. She’s not extravagant or greedy, she tells herself: all she ever wanted was to be protected by layer upon layer of kind, soft, insulating money, so that nobody and nothing could get close enough to harm her. Surely she has at last achieved this modest goal.

[…]

There’s a lot of sportswear in the room, much beige among the men, many plaid shirts, vests with multiple pockets. She notes the nametags: a Fred, a Dan, a Rick, a Norm, a Bob. Another Bob, then another: there are a lot of Bobs on this trip. Several appear to be flying solo. Bob: a name once of heavy significance to her, though surely she’s rid herself of that load of luggage by now. She selects one of the thinner but still substantial Bobs, glides close to him, raises her eyelids, and lowers them again. He peers down at her chest.

“Verna,” he says. “That’s a lovely name.”

[…]

(…)“Bob Goreham,” he adds, with a diffidence he surely intends to be charming. Verna smiles widely to disguise her shock. She finds herself flushing with a combination of rage and an almost reckless mirth. She looks him full in the face: yes, underneath the thinning hair and the wrinkles and the obviously whitened and possibly implanted teeth, it’s the same Bob—the Bob of fifty-odd years before. Mr. Heartthrob, Mr. Senior Football Star, Mr. Astounding Catch, from the rich, Cadillac-driving end of town where the mining-company big shots lived. Mr. Shit, with his looming bully’s posture and his lopsided joker’s smile.

[…]

Back then she’d had no choice. By the end of that week, the story was all over town. Bob had spread it himself, in a farcical version that was very different from what Verna herself remembered. Slutty, drunken, willing Verna, what a joke. She’d been followed home from school by groups of leering boys, hooting and calling out to her: Easy out! Can I have a ride? Candy’s dandy but liquor’s quicker! Those were some of the milder slogans. She’d been shunned by girls, fearful that the disgrace—the ludicrous, hilarious smuttiness of it all—would rub off on them.

[…]

Then there was her mother. It hadn’t taken long for the scandal to hit church circles. What little her mother had to say through her clamp of a mouth was to the point: Verna had made her own bed, and now she would have to lie in it. No, she could not wallow in self-pity—she would just have to face the music, not that she would ever live it down, because one false step and you fell, that’s how life was. When it was evident that the worst had happened, she bought Verna a bus ticket and shipped her off to a church-run Home for Unwed Mothers on the outskirts of Toronto.

There Verna spent the days peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors and scouring toilets along with her fellow-delinquents. They wore gray maternity dresses and gray wool stockings and clunky brown shoes, all paid for by generous donations, they were informed. In addition to their scouring and peeling chores, they were treated to bouts of prayer and selfrighteous hectoring. What had happened to them was justly deserved, the speeches went, because of their depraved behavior, but it was never too late to redeem themselves through hard work and self-restraint. They were cautioned against alcohol, tobacco, and gum chewing, and were told that they should consider it a miracle of God if any decent man ever wanted to marry them.

Verna’s labor was long and difficult. The baby was taken away from her immediately so that she would not get attached to it. There was an infection, with complications and scarring, but it was all for the best, she overheard one brisk nurse telling another, because those sorts of girls made unfit mothers anyway. Once she could walk, Verna was given five dollars and a bus ticket and instructed to return to the guardianship of her mother, because she was still a minor.

[…]

She’d chosen her acceptances with an eye to the medical condition involved, and once married she’d done her best to provide value for money. Each husband had departed not only happy but grateful, if a little sooner than might have been expected. But each had died of natural causes—a lethal recurrence of the heart attack or stroke that had hit him in the first place. All she’d done was give them tacit permission to satisfy every forbidden desire: to eat arteryclogging foods, to drink as much as they liked, to return to their golf games too soon. She’d refrained from commenting on the fact that, strictly speaking, they were being too zealously medicated. She’d wondered about the dosages, she’d say later, but who was she to set her own opinion up against a doctor’s?

[…]

(…)But there had been no true words for the act then: rape was what occurred when some maniac jumped on you out of a bush, not when your formaldance date drove you to a side road in the mangy twice-cut forest surrounding a tin-pot mining town and told you to drink up like a good girl and then took you apart, layer by torn layer. To make it worse, Bob’s best friend, Ken, had turned up in his own car to help out. The two of them had been laughing. They’d kept her panty girdle as a souvenir.

Why should she be the only one to have suffered for that night? She’d been stupid, granted, but Bob had been vicious. And he’d gone scot-free, without consequences or remorse, whereas her entire life had been distorted. The Verna of the day before had died, and a different Verna had solidified in her place: stunted, twisted, mangled. It was Bob who’d taught her that only the strong can win, that weakness should be mercilessly exploited. It was Bob who’d turned her into—why not say the word?—a murderer.

[…]

“Terrific,” Verna says. She sits down, unzips her backpack. “Look,” she says. “I found a perfect specimen.” She turns, positioning the stromatolite between them, supporting it with both hands. She takes a breath. “I think we’ve known each other before,” she says. “I’m Verna Pritchard. From high school.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “I thought there was something familiar about you,” he says. He’s actually smirking.

She knows better than to swing widely. She brings the stromatolite up hard, a short sharp jab right underneath Bob’s lower jaw. There’s a crunch, the only sound. His head snaps back. Now he’s sprawled on the rock. She holds the stromatolite over his forehead, lets it drop. Again. Once again. There. That seems to have done it.

[…]

Stone Mattress

By Margaret Atwood

At the outset Verna had not intended to kill anyone. What she had in mind was a vacation, pure and simple. Take a breather, do some inner accounting, shed worn skin. The Arctic suits her: there’s something inherently calming in the vast cool sweeps of ice and rock and sea and sky, undisturbed by cities and highways and trees and the other distractions that clutter up the landscape to the south.

Among the clutter she includes other people, and by other people she means men. She’s had enough of men for a while. She’s made an inner memo to renounce flirtations and any consequences that might result from them. She doesn’t need the cash, not anymore. She’s not extravagant or greedy, she tells herself: all she ever wanted was to be protected by layer upon layer of kind, soft, insulating money, so that nobody and nothing could get close enough to harm her. Surely she has at last achieved this modest goal.

[…]

There’s a lot of sportswear in the room, much beige among the men, many plaid shirts, vests with multiple pockets. She notes the nametags: a Fred, a Dan, a Rick, a Norm, a Bob. Another Bob, then another: there are a lot of Bobs on this trip. Several appear to be flying solo. Bob: a name once of heavy significance to her, though surely she’s rid herself of that load of luggage by now. She selects one of the thinner but still substantial Bobs, glides close to him, raises her eyelids, and lowers them again. He peers down at her chest.

“Verna,” he says. “That’s a lovely name.”

[…]

(…)“Bob Goreham,” he adds, with a diffidence he surely intends to be charming. Verna smiles widely to disguise her shock. She finds herself flushing with a combination of rage and an almost reckless mirth. She looks him full in the face: yes, underneath the thinning hair and the wrinkles and the obviously whitened and possibly implanted teeth, it’s the same Bob—the Bob of fifty-odd years before. Mr. Heartthrob, Mr. Senior Football Star, Mr. Astounding Catch, from the rich, Cadillac-driving end of town where the mining-company big shots lived. Mr. Shit, with his looming bully’s posture and his lopsided joker’s smile.

[…]

Back then she’d had no choice. By the end of that week, the story was all over town. Bob had spread it himself, in a farcical version that was very different from what Verna herself remembered. Slutty, drunken, willing Verna, what a joke. She’d been followed home from school by groups of leering boys, hooting and calling out to her: Easy out! Can I have a ride? Candy’s dandy but liquor’s quicker! Those were some of the milder slogans. She’d been shunned by girls, fearful that the disgrace—the ludicrous, hilarious smuttiness of it all—would rub off on them.

[…]

Then there was her mother. It hadn’t taken long for the scandal to hit church circles. What little her mother had to say through her clamp of a mouth was to the point: Verna had made her own bed, and now she would have to lie in it. No, she could not wallow in self-pity—she would just have to face the music, not that she would ever live it down, because one false step and you fell, that’s how life was. When it was evident that the worst had happened, she bought Verna a bus ticket and shipped her off to a church-run Home for Unwed Mothers on the outskirts of Toronto.

There Verna spent the days peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors and scouring toilets along with her fellow-delinquents. They wore gray maternity dresses and gray wool stockings and clunky brown shoes, all paid for by generous donations, they were informed. In addition to their scouring and peeling chores, they were treated to bouts of prayer and selfrighteous hectoring. What had happened to them was justly deserved, the speeches went, because of their depraved behavior, but it was never too late to redeem themselves through hard work and self-restraint. They were cautioned against alcohol, tobacco, and gum chewing, and were told that they should consider it a miracle of God if any decent man ever wanted to marry them.

Verna’s labor was long and difficult. The baby was taken away from her immediately so that she would not get attached to it. There was an infection, with complications and scarring, but it was all for the best, she overheard one brisk nurse telling another, because those sorts of girls made unfit mothers anyway. Once she could walk, Verna was given five dollars and a bus ticket and instructed to return to the guardianship of her mother, because she was still a minor.

[…]

She’d chosen her acceptances with an eye to the medical condition involved, and once married she’d done her best to provide value for money. Each husband had departed not only happy but grateful, if a little sooner than might have been expected. But each had died of natural causes—a lethal recurrence of the heart attack or stroke that had hit him in the first place. All she’d done was give them tacit permission to satisfy every forbidden desire: to eat arteryclogging foods, to drink as much as they liked, to return to their golf games too soon. She’d refrained from commenting on the fact that, strictly speaking, they were being too zealously medicated. She’d wondered about the dosages, she’d say later, but who was she to set her own opinion up against a doctor’s?

[…]

(…)But there had been no true words for the act then: rape was what occurred when some maniac jumped on you out of a bush, not when your formaldance date drove you to a side road in the mangy twice-cut forest surrounding a tin-pot mining town and told you to drink up like a good girl and then took you apart, layer by torn layer. To make it worse, Bob’s best friend, Ken, had turned up in his own car to help out. The two of them had been laughing. They’d kept her panty girdle as a souvenir.

Why should she be the only one to have suffered for that night? She’d been stupid, granted, but Bob had been vicious. And he’d gone scot-free, without consequences or remorse, whereas her entire life had been distorted. The Verna of the day before had died, and a different Verna had solidified in her place: stunted, twisted, mangled. It was Bob who’d taught her that only the strong can win, that weakness should be mercilessly exploited. It was Bob who’d turned her into—why not say the word?—a murderer.

[…]

“Terrific,” Verna says. She sits down, unzips her backpack. “Look,” she says. “I found a perfect specimen.” She turns, positioning the stromatolite between them, supporting it with both hands. She takes a breath. “I think we’ve known each other before,” she says. “I’m Verna Pritchard. From high school.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “I thought there was something familiar about you,” he says. He’s actually smirking.

She knows better than to swing widely. She brings the stromatolite up hard, a short sharp jab right underneath Bob’s lower jaw. There’s a crunch, the only sound. His head snaps back. Now he’s sprawled on the rock. She holds the stromatolite over his forehead, lets it drop. Again. Once again. There. That seems to have done it.

[…]

Stone Mattress

By Margaret Atwood

At the outset Verna had not intended to kill anyone. What she had in mind was a vacation, pure and simple. Take a breather, do some inner accounting, shed worn skin. The Arctic suits her: there’s something inherently calming in the vast cool sweeps of ice and rock and sea and sky, undisturbed by cities and highways and trees and the other distractions that clutter up the landscape to the south.

Among the clutter she includes other people, and by other people she means men. She’s had enough of men for a while. She’s made an inner memo to renounce flirtations and any consequences that might result from them. She doesn’t need the cash, not anymore. She’s not extravagant or greedy, she tells herself: all she ever wanted was to be protected by layer upon layer of kind, soft, insulating money, so that nobody and nothing could get close enough to harm her. Surely she has at last achieved this modest goal.

[…]

There’s a lot of sportswear in the room, much beige among the men, many plaid shirts, vests with multiple pockets. She notes the nametags: a Fred, a Dan, a Rick, a Norm, a Bob. Another Bob, then another: there are a lot of Bobs on this trip. Several appear to be flying solo. Bob: a name once of heavy significance to her, though surely she’s rid herself of that load of luggage by now. She selects one of the thinner but still substantial Bobs, glides close to him, raises her eyelids, and lowers them again. He peers down at her chest.

“Verna,” he says. “That’s a lovely name.”

[…]

(…)“Bob Goreham,” he adds, with a diffidence he surely intends to be charming. Verna smiles widely to disguise her shock. She finds herself flushing with a combination of rage and an almost reckless mirth. She looks him full in the face: yes, underneath the thinning hair and the wrinkles and the obviously whitened and possibly implanted teeth, it’s the same Bob—the Bob of fifty-odd years before. Mr. Heartthrob, Mr. Senior Football Star, Mr. Astounding Catch, from the rich, Cadillac-driving end of town where the mining-company big shots lived. Mr. Shit, with his looming bully’s posture and his lopsided joker’s smile.

[…]

Back then she’d had no choice. By the end of that week, the story was all over town. Bob had spread it himself, in a farcical version that was very different from what Verna herself remembered. Slutty, drunken, willing Verna, what a joke. She’d been followed home from school by groups of leering boys, hooting and calling out to her: Easy out! Can I have a ride? Candy’s dandy but liquor’s quicker! Those were some of the milder slogans. She’d been shunned by girls, fearful that the disgrace—the ludicrous, hilarious smuttiness of it all—would rub off on them.

[…]

Then there was her mother. It hadn’t taken long for the scandal to hit church circles. What little her mother had to say through her clamp of a mouth was to the point: Verna had made her own bed, and now she would have to lie in it. No, she could not wallow in self-pity—she would just have to face the music, not that she would ever live it down, because one false step and you fell, that’s how life was. When it was evident that the worst had happened, she bought Verna a bus ticket and shipped her off to a church-run Home for Unwed Mothers on the outskirts of Toronto.

There Verna spent the days peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors and scouring toilets along with her fellow-delinquents. They wore gray maternity dresses and gray wool stockings and clunky brown shoes, all paid for by generous donations, they were informed. In addition to their scouring and peeling chores, they were treated to bouts of prayer and selfrighteous hectoring. What had happened to them was justly deserved, the speeches went, because of their depraved behavior, but it was never too late to redeem themselves through hard work and self-restraint. They were cautioned against alcohol, tobacco, and gum chewing, and were told that they should consider it a miracle of God if any decent man ever wanted to marry them.

Verna’s labor was long and difficult. The baby was taken away from her immediately so that she would not get attached to it. There was an infection, with complications and scarring, but it was all for the best, she overheard one brisk nurse telling another, because those sorts of girls made unfit mothers anyway. Once she could walk, Verna was given five dollars and a bus ticket and instructed to return to the guardianship of her mother, because she was still a minor.

[…]

She’d chosen her acceptances with an eye to the medical condition involved, and once married she’d done her best to provide value for money. Each husband had departed not only happy but grateful, if a little sooner than might have been expected. But each had died of natural causes—a lethal recurrence of the heart attack or stroke that had hit him in the first place. All she’d done was give them tacit permission to satisfy every forbidden desire: to eat arteryclogging foods, to drink as much as they liked, to return to their golf games too soon. She’d refrained from commenting on the fact that, strictly speaking, they were being too zealously medicated. She’d wondered about the dosages, she’d say later, but who was she to set her own opinion up against a doctor’s?

[…]

(…)But there had been no true words for the act then: rape was what occurred when some maniac jumped on you out of a bush, not when your formaldance date drove you to a side road in the mangy twice-cut forest surrounding a tin-pot mining town and told you to drink up like a good girl and then took you apart, layer by torn layer. To make it worse, Bob’s best friend, Ken, had turned up in his own car to help out. The two of them had been laughing. They’d kept her panty girdle as a souvenir.

Why should she be the only one to have suffered for that night? She’d been stupid, granted, but Bob had been vicious. And he’d gone scot-free, without consequences or remorse, whereas her entire life had been distorted. The Verna of the day before had died, and a different Verna had solidified in her place: stunted, twisted, mangled. It was Bob who’d taught her that only the strong can win, that weakness should be mercilessly exploited. It was Bob who’d turned her into—why not say the word?—a murderer.

[…]

“Terrific,” Verna says. She sits down, unzips her backpack. “Look,” she says. “I found a perfect specimen.” She turns, positioning the stromatolite between them, supporting it with both hands. She takes a breath. “I think we’ve known each other before,” she says. “I’m Verna Pritchard. From high school.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “I thought there was something familiar about you,” he says. He’s actually smirking.

She knows better than to swing widely. She brings the stromatolite up hard, a short sharp jab right underneath Bob’s lower jaw. There’s a crunch, the only sound. His head snaps back. Now he’s sprawled on the rock. She holds the stromatolite over his forehead, lets it drop. Again. Once again. There. That seems to have done it.

[…]

Heat waves and climate change

Across the globe, hot days are getting hotter and more frequent, while we’re experiencing fewer cold days. (…) Heat waves are becoming more common, and intense heat waves are more frequent in the U.S. West, although in many parts of the country the 1930s still holds the record for number of heat waves (caused by the Dust Bowl and other factors).

By midcentury, if greenhouse gas emissions are not significantly curtailed, the coldest and warmest daily temperatures are expected to increase by at least 5 degrees F in most areas by mid-century rising to 10 degrees F by late century. The National Climate Assessment estimates 20-30 more days over 90 degrees F in most areas by mid-century. (…)

[…]

Human Health

[…]

Heat stress occurs in humans when the body is unable to cool itself effectively. Normally, the body can cool itself through sweating, but when humidity is high, sweat will not evaporate as quickly, potentially leading to heat stroke. High humidity and elevated nighttime temperatures are likely key ingredients in causing heat-related illness and mortality. When there’s no break from the heat at night, it can cause discomfort and lead to health problems, especially for those who are low income or elderly, if access to cooling is limited.

Hot days are also associated with increases in heat-related illnesses including cardiovascular and respiratory complications, kidney disease, and can be especially harmful to outdoor workers, children, the elderly, and low-income households.

[…]

Heat waves and climate change

Across the globe, hot days are getting hotter and more frequent, while we’re experiencing fewer cold days. (…) Heat waves are becoming more common, and intense heat waves are more frequent in the U.S. West, although in many parts of the country the 1930s still holds the record for number of heat waves (caused by the Dust Bowl and other factors).

By midcentury, if greenhouse gas emissions are not significantly curtailed, the coldest and warmest daily temperatures are expected to increase by at least 5 degrees F in most areas by mid-century rising to 10 degrees F by late century. The National Climate Assessment estimates 20-30 more days over 90 degrees F in most areas by mid-century. (…)

[…]

Human Health

[…]

Heat stress occurs in humans when the body is unable to cool itself effectively. Normally, the body can cool itself through sweating, but when humidity is high, sweat will not evaporate as quickly, potentially leading to heat stroke. High humidity and elevated nighttime temperatures are likely key ingredients in causing heat-related illness and mortality. When there’s no break from the heat at night, it can cause discomfort and lead to health problems, especially for those who are low income or elderly, if access to cooling is limited.

Hot days are also associated with increases in heat-related illnesses including cardiovascular and respiratory complications, kidney disease, and can be especially harmful to outdoor workers, children, the elderly, and low-income households.

[…]

Leia o texto para responder as questões 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21,22 e 23.

Água pouca, meu poço primeiro

Abraão F. M. de Oliveira

O lugar onde vivo é o município de São Mateus, situado ao norte do Espírito Santo, com uma população de aproximadamente 125.000 habitantes, segundo estimativa do IBGE em 2015. Apesar de possuir importantes atividades como o comércio, a agropecuária e o turismo, a economia dessa cidade polo está baseada, principalmente, na exploração e produção de petróleo.

Nossa história foi construída às margens do rio Cricaré, local de desembarque de escravos negros africanos comercializados até o século XIX. Além disso, através desse rio, era feito o transporte da produção de farinha, açúcar, café e madeira. Uma paisagem belíssima de nossa cidade é o vale do Rio Cricaré, onde o rio, lentamente, percorre seu caminho, desenhando o “S” e o “M” do nome da cidade.

Assim como grande porção do território brasileiro, nosso município apresenta lençóis freáticos abundantes e inúmeras nascentes. Contudo, desde meados do ano passado, a falta de chuvas tem feito que o nível do Cricaré abaixe, e o mar, em maré alta, invada o estuário do rio, chegando até o ponto de captação do Serviço Autônomo de Água e Esgoto (SAAE). Nesses 471 anos de sua fundação, a Rainha do Cricaré – como a cidade é conhecida – nunca passou por uma crise hídrica tão intensa.

De acordo com a Organização Mundial de Saúde (OMS), o máximo permitido de sal na água para o consumo humano é de 250 ppm, ou seja, até 0,25 gramas de sal por litro de água. Porém, segundo o jornal Tribuna do Cricaré, a “água nas torneiras de São Mateus tem 4 gramas de sal por litro”, o que equivale a 16 vezes mais que o recomendado.

Com isso, eclodiu na cidade um grande caos, marcado pela perfuração de poços artesianos de forma irregular e sem fiscalização por parte da gestão pública local. Sou contrário a essa postura de perfurar poços desenfreadamente, pois seus impactos, a médio e a longo prazo, podem ser irreversíveis.

Os que perfuram poços artesianos em suas casas e empresas – em geral pessoas bem providas financeiramente – defendem que esse tipo de medida é imprescindível para seu sustento. Entretanto, a parte pobre da cidade, isto é, a maioria da população mateense, é forçada a coletar o líquido de bicas e fontes, todos os dias, numa rotina de sofrimento.

Se essa perfuração persistir, um risco muito alarmante, a médio prazo, é a contaminação dos lençóis freáticos; e, a longo prazo, pior: pode ser que até sequem. Um exemplo claro disso é o Estado da Califórnia, nos Estados Unidos. Conforme um estudo da Universidade da Califórnia, devido à exploração descontrolada dos aquíferos, os rios do Vale Central reduziram seu leito em um terço e há vários anos não é possível beber a água.

A crise em São Mateus desencadeou, ainda, uma discussão sobre a falta de água na região e suas responsabilidades. Segundo Ney Murtha, especialista em recursos hídricos da Agência Nacional de Águas (ANA), “o Espírito Santo precisa construir uma visão estratégica sobre o uso da água”, afinal, os problemas de estiagem do Estado não são castigo divino, mas efeitos da ausência de políticas públicas que garantam uma gestão responsável dos recursos hídricos. Sendo assim, utilizar água com consciência e otimizar seu uso já é imperativo. Porém, é preciso encontrar alternativas para o abastecimento, tendo no planejamento seu principal aspecto. Em primeiro lugar, deve ser feita a transferência do ponto de captação da água para um local a montante do rio, para amenizar, pelo menos por alguns meses, a situação. Outra medida importante é a recuperação da bacia, através do reflorestamento das nascentes e restabelecimento da mata ciliar, além da construção de barragens, açudes e reservatórios que garantam água por mais tempo.

Há um ditado muito comum na região que diz: “Farinha pouca, meu pirão primeiro”. Tal expressão atende à lógica capitalista que tem a desigualdade como critério de progresso. Além da esperança de ver as torneiras de nossa cidade ricas em água limpa e potável, anseio, ainda mais, ver a Rainha do Cricaré banhada pela justiça social. Como afirma a minha conterrânea Elisa Lucinda: “Sei que não dá para mudar o começo, mas, se a gente quiser, vai dar para mudar o final.”

Leia o texto para responder as questões 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21,22 e 23.

Água pouca, meu poço primeiro

Abraão F. M. de Oliveira

O lugar onde vivo é o município de São Mateus, situado ao norte do Espírito Santo, com uma população de aproximadamente 125.000 habitantes, segundo estimativa do IBGE em 2015. Apesar de possuir importantes atividades como o comércio, a agropecuária e o turismo, a economia dessa cidade polo está baseada, principalmente, na exploração e produção de petróleo.

Nossa história foi construída às margens do rio Cricaré, local de desembarque de escravos negros africanos comercializados até o século XIX. Além disso, através desse rio, era feito o transporte da produção de farinha, açúcar, café e madeira. Uma paisagem belíssima de nossa cidade é o vale do Rio Cricaré, onde o rio, lentamente, percorre seu caminho, desenhando o “S” e o “M” do nome da cidade.

Assim como grande porção do território brasileiro, nosso município apresenta lençóis freáticos abundantes e inúmeras nascentes. Contudo, desde meados do ano passado, a falta de chuvas tem feito que o nível do Cricaré abaixe, e o mar, em maré alta, invada o estuário do rio, chegando até o ponto de captação do Serviço Autônomo de Água e Esgoto (SAAE). Nesses 471 anos de sua fundação, a Rainha do Cricaré – como a cidade é conhecida – nunca passou por uma crise hídrica tão intensa.

De acordo com a Organização Mundial de Saúde (OMS), o máximo permitido de sal na água para o consumo humano é de 250 ppm, ou seja, até 0,25 gramas de sal por litro de água. Porém, segundo o jornal Tribuna do Cricaré, a “água nas torneiras de São Mateus tem 4 gramas de sal por litro”, o que equivale a 16 vezes mais que o recomendado.

Com isso, eclodiu na cidade um grande caos, marcado pela perfuração de poços artesianos de forma irregular e sem fiscalização por parte da gestão pública local. Sou contrário a essa postura de perfurar poços desenfreadamente, pois seus impactos, a médio e a longo prazo, podem ser irreversíveis.

Os que perfuram poços artesianos em suas casas e empresas – em geral pessoas bem providas financeiramente – defendem que esse tipo de medida é imprescindível para seu sustento. Entretanto, a parte pobre da cidade, isto é, a maioria da população mateense, é forçada a coletar o líquido de bicas e fontes, todos os dias, numa rotina de sofrimento.

Se essa perfuração persistir, um risco muito alarmante, a médio prazo, é a contaminação dos lençóis freáticos; e, a longo prazo, pior: pode ser que até sequem. Um exemplo claro disso é o Estado da Califórnia, nos Estados Unidos. Conforme um estudo da Universidade da Califórnia, devido à exploração descontrolada dos aquíferos, os rios do Vale Central reduziram seu leito em um terço e há vários anos não é possível beber a água.

A crise em São Mateus desencadeou, ainda, uma discussão sobre a falta de água na região e suas responsabilidades. Segundo Ney Murtha, especialista em recursos hídricos da Agência Nacional de Águas (ANA), “o Espírito Santo precisa construir uma visão estratégica sobre o uso da água”, afinal, os problemas de estiagem do Estado não são castigo divino, mas efeitos da ausência de políticas públicas que garantam uma gestão responsável dos recursos hídricos. Sendo assim, utilizar água com consciência e otimizar seu uso já é imperativo. Porém, é preciso encontrar alternativas para o abastecimento, tendo no planejamento seu principal aspecto. Em primeiro lugar, deve ser feita a transferência do ponto de captação da água para um local a montante do rio, para amenizar, pelo menos por alguns meses, a situação. Outra medida importante é a recuperação da bacia, através do reflorestamento das nascentes e restabelecimento da mata ciliar, além da construção de barragens, açudes e reservatórios que garantam água por mais tempo.

Há um ditado muito comum na região que diz: “Farinha pouca, meu pirão primeiro”. Tal expressão atende à lógica capitalista que tem a desigualdade como critério de progresso. Além da esperança de ver as torneiras de nossa cidade ricas em água limpa e potável, anseio, ainda mais, ver a Rainha do Cricaré banhada pela justiça social. Como afirma a minha conterrânea Elisa Lucinda: “Sei que não dá para mudar o começo, mas, se a gente quiser, vai dar para mudar o final.”