This book tells the story of the year without a summer. The year that a volcanic eruption caused such disparate events as cholera outbreaks, the upsurge of the opium trade, snow in June in upstate New York, a famine (no, not that one) in Ireland, the beginning of Westward expansion in the US, and the writing of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. We stan an inciting incident.

Weather impacts society in so many ways, and yet we rarely learn from it. I type this while looking out at Beagle belly deep snow, in single digit temperatures. The other day my father asked me if I believed in climate change, since he knew that many people said it couldn’t be real, due to this cold and snowy winter. I assured him that I am smarter than that, and I know how this all works. I just wish more people did.

I received this book in the summer, from my trusted book dealer Syd. I didn’t finish it then. It was engrossing, but not so engrossing that I couldn’t put it down. I am glad that I am combining the completion of seven books with the month of no cannabis. I love pot, I really do. I miss it. I would love to be zooted and in da couch, playing Candy Crush Soda Saga and barely listening to the episode of Forensic Files that would invariably be on tv. I am sure I’ll return to that next month. But having all of this spare time (that’s what nobody ever tells you about sobriety; all of the fucking hours in a day. I remember that from quitting alcohol, way back in 1998, like it was yesterday) is allowing me to get deep in books, and I am grateful.

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