According to the Solar Energy Industry Association, the number of solar panels installed(安装)has grown rapidly in the past decade, and it has to grow even faster to meet climate goals. But all of that growth will take up a lot of space, and though more and more people accept the concept of solar energy, few like large solar panels to be installed near them.

Solar developers want to put up panels as quickly and cheaply as possible, so they haven't given much thought to what they put under them. Often, they'll end up filling the area with small stones and using chemicals to control weeds. The result is that many communities, especially in farming regions, see solar farms as destroyers of the soil.

"Solar projects need to be good neighbors," says Jordan Macknick, the head of the Innovative Site Preparation and Impact Reductions on the Environment(InSPIRE)project. "They need to be protectors of the land and contribute to the agricultural economy." InSPIRE is investigating practical approaches to "low-impact" solar development, which focuses on establishing and operating solar farms in a way that is kinder to the land. One of the easiest low-impact solar strategies is providing habitat for pollinators(传粉昆虫).

Habitat loss, pesticide use, and climate change have caused dramatic declines in pollinator populations over the past couple of decades, which has damaged the U.S. agricultural economy. Over 28 states have passed laws related to pollinator habitat protection and pesticide use. Conservation organizations put out pollinator-friendliness guidelines for home gardens, businesses, schools, cities—and now there are guidelines for solar farms.

Over the past few years, many solar farm developers have transformed the space under their solar panels into a shelter for various kinds of pollinators, resulting in soil improvement and carbon reduction. "These pollinator-friendly solar farms can have a valuable impact on everything that's going on in the landscape," says Macknick.

When I was 9, we packed up our home in Los Angeles and arrived at Heathrow, London on a gray January morning. Everyone in the family settled quickly into the city except me. Without my beloved beaches and endless blue—sky days, I felt at a loss and out of place. Until I made a discovery.

Southbank, at an eastern bend in the Thames, is the center of British skateboarding, where the continuous crashing of skateboards left your head ringing .I loved it. I soon made friends with the local skaters. We spoke our own language. And my favorite: Safe. Safe meant cool. It meant hello. It meant don't worry about it. Once, when trying a certain trick on the beam（横杆）, I fell onto the stones, damaging a nerve in my hand, and Toby came over, helping me up: Safe, man. Safe. A few minutes later, when I landed the trick, my friends beat their boards loud, shouting: " Safe! Safe! Safe!" And that's what mattered—landing tricks, being a good skater.

When I was 15, my family moved to Washington. I tried skateboarding there, but the locals were far less welcoming. Within a couple of years, I'd given it up.

When I returned to London in 2004, I found myself wandering down to Southbank, spending hours there. I've traveled back several times since, most recently this past spring. The day was cold but clear: tourists and Londoners stopped to watch the skaters. Weaving（穿梭）among the kids who rushed by on their boards, I found my way to the beam. Then a rail—thin teenager, in a baggy white T—shirt, skidded（滑）up to the beam. He sat next to me. He seemed not to notice the man next to him. But soon I caught a few of his glances. "I was a local here 20 years ago," I told him. Then, slowly, he began to nod his head. "Safe, man. Safe."

"Yeah," I said. "Safe."

    Look to many of history's cultural symbols, and there you'll find an ancestor of Frosty, the snowman in the movie Frozen. It appeared on some of the first postcards, starred in some of the earliest silent movies, and was the subject of a couple of the earliest photos, dating all the way back to the 1800s. I discovered even more about one of humanity's earliest forms of life art during several years of research around the world.

    For example, snowmen were a phenomenon in the Middle Ages, built with great skill and thought. At a time of limited means of expression, snow was like free art supplies dropped from the sky. It was a popular activity for couples to leisurely walk through town to view the temporary works of chilly art. Some were created by famous artists, including a 19-year-old Michelangelo, who in 1494 was appointed by the ruler of Florence, Italy, to build a snowman in his mansion's courtyard.

    The Miracle of 1511 took place during six freezing works called the Winter of Death. The city of Brussels was covered in snowmen—an impressive scene that told stories on every street corner. Some were political in nature, criticizing the church and government. Some were a reflection of people's imagination. For the people of Brussels, this was a defining moment of defining freedom. At least until spring arrived, by which time they were dealing with damaging floods.

    If you fear the heyday of the snowman has passed, don't worry: I've learned that some explosive snowman history is still being made today. Every year since 1818, the people of Zurich, Switzerland, celebrate the beginning of spring by blowing up a snowman. On the third Monday of April, the holiday Sechselauten is kicked off when a cotton snowman called the Boogg is stuffed with explosive and paraded through town by bakers and other tradesmen who throw bread to the crowds. The parade ends with the Boogg being placed on a 40-foot pile of firewood. After the bells of the Church of St. Peter have rung six times, representing the passing of winter, the pile is lit. When the snowman explodes, winter is considered officially over—the quicker it is burnt down, the longer summer is said to be.