Our fascination with New England weather and its many variations deserves some forgiveness. The intricacies of atmospheric conditions command our attention in ways that rival even the dramatic proceedings within the State House, such as watching an expanded gambling bill meet its demise on Beacon Hill. The summer of 2010 appears destined to be remembered as the hottest, sunniest, driest, and most cloudless summer season ever recorded. July alone has already earned the distinction of being the hottest month in the entire history of weather record keeping. August has arrived, and with it comes more than a full month of opportunities ahead—beach visits or journeys to the lakes and mountains of New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine. There is something deeply satisfying about having so much summer still to experience. For those of us accustomed to New England’s unpredictable summer patterns, five weeks remaining represents an almost limitless stretch of time. This remarkable turnaround becomes even more meaningful when we consider that 2009 brought one of the worst summers in history. The contrast makes this season all the more precious and unforgettable. New Englanders carry with us cherished recollections of summers both glorious and disappointing. Our experiences of summer are shaped entirely by the weather; the season itself becomes intertwined with the significant moments and memories that define our lives. Summer serves as the season for new meetings and new love. Yet it can equally be a time of heartbreak and isolation, watching from the sidelines as others enjoy their companionship at beaches, outdoor dining establishments, or during evening walks where such connections flourish. Summer also represents a mindset in which we must embrace each day as it comes, never forgetting that winter’s arrival is inevitable. We all carry romantic visions of summers yet to come and summers long past. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30 captures this sentiment most eloquently, speaking to all that has come before and all that awaits us. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
The perfect summer
