If you are expecting a real poem in the tradition of Keats, Wordsworth, or Shelley, my apologies. I don’t have one now, and may never by touched by the eternal muse that inspired them and our many modern poets who toil with the fewest word for the greatest meaning. But I’ll settle for a secondary definition — “something that shows respect for or celebrates the worth or influence of another” — with our recent weather as a jumping off point.
My favorite season in New England has always been late spring into early summer. (The riot of color in our leaves in October prompts me to look around the corner to their imminent loss, the shortest of days, and my constant search for a warm, well-lighted place.) This year’s long period of blue skies, low humidity, warm days, and cool nights demands that I violate what Yankee magazine once identified as a central trait for New Englanders: “. . . complaining about the weather, always.”
From late May through early July, we have been blessed with “San Diego weather,” made all the more delicious because we aren’t in San Diego. (My late brother, who lived in another fair-weather haven near Silicon Valley, once noted a common greeting in coffee shops there: “Looks like another goddamn beautiful day.”) Our weather has exceeded all expectations, bringing joy to everything outdoors, bathing us in temperate sunlight before and after the solstice, when we got over 15 hours of daylight compared to the miserly nine in December.
The best “sleeping weather” of the year comes when fresh, cool night air flows through wide-open windows. Blessed with a screened porch on a dead-end street as dusk advances slowly, dogs and their people provide a murmur of humanity to complement melodic bird songs and the rustle of a breeze through towering maples and elms. There are no leftovers on our plates from the delicate spikes of local asparagus or the bright greens and yellows of squash, with the earliest corn on its way.
As my reverie continues, I consider our city, Greenfield, which alternates between bucolic and busy, infused with the political, social, and cultural influences of more populous areas. Our county fairground hosts a classic, fall agricultural fair (with horse drawing!) after summer festivals celebrating the newest and oldest voices in music, and a gathering featuring “food and stoners” in barbecue and cannabis competitions.
When I opened this paper on a recent Monday, I am stunned by the number of activities within a few miles: a garden tour; free music and poetry from a string of front porches; live theater and dance performances; an open-air market filled with flowers, herbs, and vegetables offered by our hardworking farmers; multiple nonprofits doing their best to improve the lives of our neighbors. Bill Danielson’s Speaking of Nature column always provides inspiration through his unbounded love of birds and their habitats. Paul Franz’s photos of landscapes, people, and animals are often suitable for a gallery.
But slowly, my reverie recedes. Are my thoughts just a form of escapism? Absolutely. Open windows allow allergy-inducing pollen; our beautiful, dry days may produce a drought for gardens and crops; our city is riven with calls for removal of a city councilor, the mayor, and/or the police chief. After wallowing in the beauty and diversity of our natural and human world, I am (willingly) assaulted by a Uvalde teacher’s account of his horrific ordeal, and a New Yorker article about the Hungarian near-dictator admired by some right-wing Americans: he is implementing a “constitutional coup” by first changing “the laws to give himself permission to do what he wants, and then he does it.”
Escaping has become essential in a world a friend recently described as “going/gone mad.” But this type of escape requires no physical movement or technical assistance. It is looking at a glass that may not be half-full, but at least it contains some healing water.
The best I can do for an ode (note the all-important space that creates two words, since this has nothing to do with electrical polarity) on New England weather is a bit of nursery-rhyme doggerel adapted from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very, very good, But when she was bad, she was horrid.” This spring and summer, our weather has been very, very good.
Allen Woods is a freelance writer, author of the Revolutionary-era historical fiction novel “The Sword and Scabbard,” and Greenfield resident. His column appears regularly on a Saturday. Comments are welcome here or at awoods2846@gmail.com.