39 How Climate Laws Becomes Local
As the climate continues to shift and change, the struggle between sustainability and survival grows. The world’s food supply relies on decisions made by people like the Pettys, our rural Iowan farmers.
If these climate trends continue, the very landscape of farming may become unrecognizable in another fifty years. And it’s not just the Petty farm that’s at risk. The Midwest grows a huge portion of the food that feeds not just the U.S., but the world. If farms like theirs start struggling to produce, that means higher grocery prices, more food insecurity, and devastating consequences for communities already at risk of hunger.
What’s happening on their land isn’t just their problem, it’s everyone’s. The big question is whether farming can adapt quickly enough to keep up with a climate reality that’s constantly shifting. I wanted this chapter to reflect that urgency, but also to ground it in something personal.
That’s why I chose to interview Harlan and Janet Petty, my partner’s grandparents. To most people, they’re long-time farmers in Southern Iowa. But to me, they’ve always just been Mimi and Papa. I’ve shared meals with them, spent holidays on their land, and heard their stories for years. They’re not just witnesses to climate change, they’re living it. They’ve worked through droughts, floods, and economic recessions, all while raising four children and continuing to farm the same land they’ve tended since 1976.
Their story stood out to me not just because of what they’ve lived through, but because of how much they still care. About the soil. The water. The next generation of farmers. Harlan’s experience as a chemical engineer at 3M gave him a deeper understanding of environmental impacts, and Janet’s background in consulting helped her see how policy and real life often don’t match. They represent something we often overlook in climate conversations: the people who are directly affected by regulations but rarely consulted in their creation.
This interview was conducted respectfully, with full permission, and with the intention of honoring their experiences, not exploiting them. I’m incredibly grateful they trusted me to share their perspective as part of this larger project on climate, environment, and health.
Their insights remind us that environmental policy isn’t just theoretical, it’s personal. It’s local. And it’s urgently human.
From Cornfields to Climate Crisis
In Southern Iowa, climate change doesn’t feel like politics. It feels like mud too wet to plant in May. Or hay that dried out too fast to bale in July. I know this because I sat across from Harlan “Papa” Petty and Janet “Mimi” Petty, my partner’s grandparents, who’ve been farming corn and soybeans since 1976. Nearly 50 years. Same land. Same view. But not the same seasons anymore.
They’ve seen the changes in slow motion. One field at a time. More flooding. Harder rains. Less snow. Ditches that didn’t used to be there. Crops that don’t behave the way they used to, like they’re confused, too. What stood out most to me wasn’t just the weather. It was the way they talked about it, like something they were in a relationship with. This wasn’t about charts or global projections. It was about memory. Routine. Loss. The fact that they don’t plant the same way anymore because they can’t. Because the ground won’t let them.
And here’s the thing, they aren’t anti-environment. In fact, Harlan worked as a chemical engineer at 3M before retiring to farm full time. He’s studied water chemistry, knows the molecular makeup of fertilizers, understands nitrogen runoff and how it contributes to the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico. He knows pesticides can harm pollinators. He also knows that without them, it’s almost impossible to make a living. He talked about how hard it is to feel stuck between what’s necessary and what’s right. That sentence has stayed with me. Necessary versus right. It’s a constant equation for farmers.
That’s when I realized, this story isn’t separate from all the global stuff I’ve been researching. It is the global stuff, just in a pair of worn-out boots and a John Deere cap. When Denmark gives farmers subsidies to go organic, or China enforces top-down emission rules that shift how factories produce fertilizers, it eventually affects what American farmers compete with, and what policies U.S. lawmakers feel pressured to write. Even in Iowa. Even in Albia or Centerville or Ottumwa. These things echo.
But here’s the catch, while places like Denmark have support systems, financial aid, education, community buy-in, the U.S. often leaves farmers like the Pettys to figure it out alone. The EPA might tighten water quality standards, but that doesn’t always come with clear tools or funding. The Farm Bill might encourage conservation, but it rarely requires it. That difference matters. Especially when the land you depend on is changing faster than your equipment or income can keep up.
And there’s a health angle, too, one we don’t talk about enough. The air that carries pesticide drift. The runoff that leaches into drinking water. The stress that comes with another unpredictable harvest, or trying to explain to your insurance provider why your crop didn’t survive the heatwave. Climate change isn’t just about temperature. It’s about anxiety. Risk. And yes, public health.
That’s why I wanted this chapter in the book. Because environmental regulation isn’t just a legal topic. It’s a health story. A rural story. A story about the people who feed us, who get almost no say in the rules that govern the land they care for. And when we zoom out, when we look at the policies shaping emissions in Denmark or water access in China, we have to zoom back in, too. To gravel roads. To conversations around a kitchen table. To families like the Pettys.
Because the future of climate health policy isn’t just international. It’s interpersonal.