Since 1945: New Amenities, New Hazards

If the average citizen's surroundings defined the national climate, then the United States grew markedly warmer and drier in the postwar decades. Migration continued to carry the center of population west and began pulling it southward as well. The growth of what came to be called the Sunbelt at the "Snowbelt's" expense passed a landmark in the early 1960s when California replaced New York as the most populous state. Another landmark was established in the early 1990s when Texas moved ahead of New York. In popular discussion, it was taken for granted that finding a change of climate was one of the motives for relocating as well as one of the results. It was not until 1954, though, that an American social scientist first seriously considered the possibility. The twentieth-century flow of Americans to the West Coast, the geographer Edward L. Ullman observed in that year, had no precedent in world history. It could not be explained by the theories of settlement that had worked well in the past, for a substantial share of it represented something entirely new, "the first large-scale in-migration to be drawn by the lure of a pleasant climate." If it was the first of its kind, it was unlikely to be the last. For a set of changes in American society, Ullman suggested, had transformed the economic role of climate. The key changes included a growth in the numbers of pensioned retirees; an increase in trade and service employment, much more "footloose" than agriculture or manufacturing was; developments in technology making manufacturing itself more footloose; and a great increase in mobility brought about by the automobile and the highway. All in one way or another had weakened the bonds of place and made Americans far freer than before to choose where to live. Whatever qualities made life in any spot particularly pleasant thus attracted migration more than in the past. Ullman grouped such qualities together as "amenities." They ranged from mountains to beaches to cultural attractions, but climate appeared to be the most important, not least because it was key to the enjoyment of many of the rest. Ullman did not suppose that all Americans desired the same climate. For most people, in this as in other respects, "where one was born and lives is the best place in the world, no matter how forsaken a hole it may appear to an outsider."

Postbellum America

One of the earliest historians of the Civil War saw it as a fundamental clash between the peoples of different latitudes. Climate had made the antebellum North and South distinct societies and natural enemies, John W. Draper argued, the one democratic and individualist, the other aristocratic and oligarchical. If such were the case, the future of the reunited states was hardly a bright one. But Draper saw no natural barriers to national unity that wise policy could not surmount. The restlessness and transience of American life that many deplored instead merited, in his view, every assistance possible. In particular, he wrote, Americans needed to be encouraged to move as freely across climatic zones as they already did within them. The tendency of North and South to congeal into hostile types of civilization could be frustrated, but only by an incessant mingling of people. Sectional discord was inevitable only if the natural law that "emigrants move on parallels of latitude" were left free to take its course. These patterns of emigration were left free, for the most part, but without the renewed strife that Draper feared. After the war as before it, few settlers relocating to new homes moved far to the north or south of their points of origin. As late as 1895, Henry Gannett, chief geographer to the U.S. Census, could still describe internal migration as "mainly conducted westward along parallels of latitude." More often as time went on, it was supposed that race and not merely habit underlay the pattern, that climatic preferences were innate, different stocks of people staying in the latitudes of their forbears by the compulsion of biology. Thus, it was supposed, Anglo-Saxons preferred cooler lands than Americans of Mediterranean ancestry, while those of African descent preferred warmer climates than either. Over time, though, latitude loosened its grip and exceptions to the rule multiplied. As the share of the population in farming declined, so did the strongest reason for migrants to stay within familiar climates. Even by the time Gannett wrote, the tendency that he described, though still apparent, was weaker than it had been at mid-century. It weakened because a preference for familiar climates was not a fixed human trait but one shaped by experience and wants, and capable of changing as these variables changed.

Antebellum America

In 1810, more than four in five Americans lived in one of the original thirteen seaboard states. Half a century later, though those states had grown considerably, they held less than half of the nation's population. The reason lay in the post-1815 rush of settlers beyond the Appalachians into the continental interior, "one of the great immigrations in the history of the western world." Chaotic though this movement was in many ways, it showed at least one orderly pattern. Individually these settlers followed many paths, but the typical ones moved due west, erring to the north or south only when their path was blocked by mountains or water or political boundaries or when they were pulled aside by the easier travel routes along navigable rivers. Most of the inhabitants of every inland state in i860 came from the states to the east within its own latitudes. It was mostly New Englanders and upstate New Yorkers—themselves mostly of New England origin—who occupied the territories and states bordering on British North America. They left the central and southern parts of Ohio and Indiana and Illinois mainly to settlers from the middle states and the Chesapeake. The frontier of the Deep South was colonized from the far southern coastal states much more than from Virginia or North Carolina, states that furnished Kentucky and Tennessee and Missouri with the bulk of their inhabitants. "Ohio Fever" swept the rural Northeast after 1815, followed by "Michigan Fever" in the 1830s, but it was "Alabama Fever" and "Texas Fever" that gripped the southern states. Modern research has documented what many Americans at the time spotted for themselves, what some who could agree on little else agreed was a constant truth of human behavior growing out of a basic law of climate-society relations. "The great law that governs emigration," announced a Massachusetts congressman during an argument against the spread of slavery, "is this: that emigration follows the parallels of latitude." It was "a great law of emigration," "fixed and certain," echoed a Louisiana editor in a defense of the South and its institutions, "that people follow the parallels of latitude." People were presumed to do so in order to avoid the change of climate that traveling north or south would have entailed.

Introduction

IN THE MID-1830s, the young Nathaniel Hawthorne sat reading "what once were newspapers"—a bound volume of New England gazettes ninety-odd years old. Comparing the daily life that they portrayed with his own, Hawthorne was struck by how different and how much more severe the weather appeared to have been in the past. "The cold was more piercing then, and lingered farther into the spring," he decided; "our fathers bore the brunt of more raging and pitiless elements than we"; "winter rushed upon them with fiercer storms than now—blocking up the narrow forest-paths, and overwhelming the roads. 1 He was not alone in thinking so. Another resident of Salem, Dr. Edward Holyoke, had been of the same opinion. In his later years, the doctor spoke as the classic authority on the weather, the Oldest Inhabitant. Born in 1728, he lived until 1829, the full span of the century that Hawthorne judged mostly at secondhand, and he had kept a daily temperature log for the better part of it. A newspaper in 1824 reported a general belief that the seasons were "more lamb-like" than in earlier times. An English visitor a few years later was frequently told that the climate was moderating. Cold and snowstorms had grown less intense and less frequent: such had been, wrote John Chipman Gray in the 1850s, "and is perhaps still a prevailing impression among the inhabitants of New-England." All the same, that impression of the century gone by was wrong. Gray, who maintained that the winters had not changed, also tried to explain why intelligent observers could have supposed that they had. On one point, he granted, they were correct. Certainly the effects of the weather were not what they had once been. But there was no evidence that a shift in the weather was responsible. Holyoke's own records, analyzed after his death, did not bear out his belief that winter cold and storms had weakened in his lifetime. As Gray pointed out, if the impact of weather on New Englanders had changed, it was because New England society had changed.

Modernizing America

As late as 1911, a leading American geographer could confidently assert that blacks in the United States would always live chiefly in "the warm, moist air of the Gulf and South Atlantic states," "where they find the heat and moisture in which they thrive"; nature decreed that few would ever settle and fewer survive in the North because they could not withstand the cold. Events, though, were contradicting this blend of racial and climatic determinism. Black migration from the South to the colder states was already substantial. It intensified dramatically during World War I. A boom in labor demand in industry, along with a near-cessation of the immigration from Europe that had once filled it, drew black and white southerners alike in unheard-of numbers to the manufacturing cities of the North. The black exodus to Kansas in 1879 and 1880 had briefly looked as if it would become just such a mass interregional movement of population. But the pioneer Exodusters had suffered from the drastic change in climate, most of all because it affected their livelihoods in farming. Their skills, which lay in cotton growing, were useless in Kansas, and their experience did little to encourage others to follow. The great northward migration of the early twentieth century was a migration not to new farmlands but to the cities for factory and service employment. The difference in climate between southern origin and northern destination did not matter much to it. White southern farmers, fearing the loss of cheap labor, warned departing blacks that they would find the winters of the North too bitter to endure. The new exodus proceeded all the same, and it discredited in the process the long-held idea that either race or habit always imposed a latitudinal pattern on human movement. The change in climate from South to North did mean discomfort or worse for many who undertook it. They suffered especially from the unaccustomed cold that few could afford stoves and fuel to ward off—though they had suffered too from inadequate shelter and clothing in the southern winter.

Climates, Cultures, and Founding Myths

The size, scope, and variety of changes in weather-society relations that history records are a great embarrassment to climatic determinism, for they have occurred without the weather itself becoming drastically different. But if determinism cannot account well for change, it surely holds more promise in explaining continuity. And indeed a pattern that goes back to the earliest years of Anglo-American settlement has long been a favorite illustration for climatic determinists of how environments shape societies. The Atlantic seaboard communities in the North and South of what is now the United States have for centuries differed markedly in their political culture and social structure. The environment has often been held responsible according to a general law supposedly governing such matters. Here as elsewhere, the enduring influence of heat made the South "traditional and conservative"; that of cold made the North "innovative and progressive." But it is conceding nothing to determinism to note that those contrasts do indeed have something to do with climate. They are merely related to it by another and far more tortuous pathway, time- and place-specific rather than universal, than the one suggested. The contrasts were not imposed by different climates molding originally similar groups of settlers and their descendants. Rather, the mixes of resources and hazards that different climates seemed to offer in one particular period attracted different kind of colonists and colonization, giving rise to different institutions and societies whose effects are still apparent. The contrasts between North and South do not bear out any timeless truth about climate-society relations, nor do they reflect anything that higher and lower latitudes always mean for their inhabitants. They reflect, rather, what those latitudes happened to mean in a certain time and place and social order, what they meant to the elites of Tudor and Stuart England. Late-sixteenth-century England was not in an enviable position economically. It could feed and clothe itself, but its surplus productions for export were few and unimpressive. The most important of them was woollen cloth, which was not an article much in demand in the warmer Mediterranean countries that supplied England with many of its necessities and luxuries: wine, sugar, olive and other oils, citrus fruits, silks, and spices.