Born in Maine, trained in climate chaos
Much of the reason for the extreme fluctuations we experience is due to geography. In Massachusetts, we have areas close to the ocean, others that are farther away, places with deep valleys, and cities like Worcester
Advertisement
Spring
Uniformly, it is likely more people anticipate spring than any other season. My guess is it also disappoints the most as well. Meteorologically, spring arrives March 1, and astronomically, it gets here three weeks later. If your idea of spring is sunshine with temperatures in the 60s, you're going to be really disappointed living around here. Ocean temperatures are near their minimums in March, and that cold pool of Atlantic water influences our Lenten season. To embrace spring is to notice the light increasing, surpassing 12 hours in the middle of March and nearing 15 by the end of May.
March can bring snow and cold, but it can also usher in unusual heat. Keep the winter tools close at hand, and don't be ruffled if you're shoveling one day, cursing the weather gods, and heading to the beach the next.
Advertisement
People were sledding in Beacon Hill after a blizzard pummeled the area on April 1 in 1997. It had been sunny and in the 60s the day before.
RYAN, David L. GLOBE STAFF
Spring can also bring longer bouts of drizzle, clouds, and raw temperatures, which feel like you can't even warm up. In this type of weather, the crocuses last a little longer, the daffodils shine with small droplets of moisture, and the birds are singing up a storm, from an early March crescendo into a cacophony of music throughout May.
Sea breezes are a hallmark of this part of the country. From Gloucester through Lynn into the city of Boston, south to Scituate and Marshfield, and onto Cape Cod, temperatures can struggle out of the 50s on an April day, while inland areas along Interstate 128 westward to Route 495 and to the southwest can enjoy temperatures in the 70s and even near 80 degrees. While you may curse the sea breeze in April, you'll rejoice for it in July. The Boston Marathon takes place on Patriots Day, and weather is big business for the race and can mean the difference between slogging in a sweat or dashing in dampness.
Summer
Over the past 30 years, our summers have continued to grow warmer. A season in which air conditioning was more of a luxury in the middle of the 20th century is now a necessity. Afternoon temperatures are routinely in the 80s or higher for much of July and August, but it's the nights that have really warmed up. The humidity can be oppressive, keeping midnight temperatures over 70 degrees and making it difficult to sleep.
Advertisement
The good news? The ocean remains chilly for the first half of summer but warms to comfortable swimming levels throughout July, warmth that can linger past Labor Day.
QUINCY - Beach-goers flocked to Wollaston Beach during a heat wave last June.
David L. Ryan/Globe Staff
Whereas rainy days can be a staple of the spring, summer precipitation comes in the form of showers and scattered thunderstorms. As these make their way toward the Atlantic, they often fall apart quickly, with the stability of the Atlantic air eroding the moisture and lift so necessary in warm season precipitation. If you are a gardener, be prepared to get out the hoses, and in a wet summer, fungus will abound. Some of these thunderstorms can become quite severe, and while not common, a tornado or two spins up somewhere in the area in most years.
Extreme heat can also be a part of summer, with the mercury reaching the century mark as it has done 27 times in Boston. The highest ever, 104 degrees, was set on July 4, 1911. Perhaps it's the reason why the saying 'as hot as the fourth of July' came about. That summer was a
scoahchah
, with
four days of 100-degree weather in just over a week.
The hottest corridor of Massachusetts stretches from the Merrimack Valley down to the southwest suburbs of Boston. This area runs north through Manchester and Concord in New Hampshire and then into the western part of Cumberland and York counties in Maine.
The summer heat and humidity do eventually break — sometimes just for a couple of days — but by September the chances of heat and humidity start to diminish.
Autumn
F. Scott Fitzgerald may have been talking about New England when he wrote in 'The Great Gatsby' that, 'Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.'
If you polled folks on what their favorite season is, I surmise that many would say autumn, with September leading the list.
Advertisement
SALEM - A nonnative bald cypress provided the last of fall foliage color at Greenlawn Cemetery in October 2023.
Lane Turner/Globe Staff
The ninth month means windows are open, there is less humidity, and shadows are longer;
yet don't be surprised if you get a beach day, too. An early morning walk might require a light jacket, but shorts can be donned most afternoons.
If you live on the coast, an ever-present eye to the tropics is warranted this time of year. Although the last hurricane to reach New England hit in late August, perhaps the most famous storm came on shore across Connecticut as a Category 3 on Sept. 21, 1938, dropping trees like matchsticks and flooding Narragansett Bay with a storm surge of 12 to 15 feet. The storm submerged downtown Providence with nearly 20 feet of water. Falmouth and New Bedford had about 8. Hurricanes are rare in this part of the world but should not be discounted, as we are long overdue.
The second half of autumn turns colder, and by Halloween, there's already a slight risk of snow. Thanksgiving brings the start of 'stick season,' with more clouds and precipitation, mostly in the form of rain. There is a gloominess to the decreasing light and early sunsets, but November can also be beautiful, with the crunch of leaves underfoot and a crispness in the air, a warm fire, and the comfort of bulkier sweaters to hide the results of your holiday feasting.
Winter
It's perhaps the least-liked season, although it's one I love.
Advertisement
There's high variability, and it's the toughest one for forecasters. A slight wobble in a storm track can mean the difference between a major snowstorm and rain. Even a forecast of a plowable storm can result in just a few flurries. Stay tuned to the latest predictions, and expect them to change day to day and sometimes in just a few hours.
Christmas is notoriously disappointing for folks wanting the ground to be white, with more than three-quarters of the years showing bare ground, not sleigh-ready surfaces for Santa.
Daylight reaches its absolute minimum in the middle of December, although in a ray of hope for those suffering from seasonal affective disorder, the sunsets actually start getting a little bit later by the ninth of December. But the morning darkness continues to grow until early January.
Bird feeders help to liven up the doldrums of winter. If it's cold enough, the ice can grow to multiple inches thick and allow for pond skating. Winter walks in the afternoon in late January and February can still be taken up to and even past 5 p.m. Just after Valentine's Day, you'll begin to hear the morning sounds of singing birds seeking out a mate with the hopeful promise of another spring.
Send comments to
.
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Newsweek
3 hours ago
- Newsweek
Inside the Life of a Woman Hotshot Battling Blazes in the American West
Newsweek AI is in beta. Translations may contain inaccuracies—please refer to the original content. Based on facts, either observed and verified firsthand by the reporter, or reported and verified from knowledgeable sources. With wildfires getting more severe and unpredictable, the work of firefighters is increasingly significant—and dangerous. January's Los Angeles County fires caused up to $53.8 billion in property losses and billions more in economic and tax hits to the economy, according to a February report from the Southern California Leadership Council and the Los Angeles County Economic Development Corporation. Often referred to as the "special forces" of wildland firefighting, hotshot crews tackle the most difficult and remote wildfires. Most people who come to a hotshot crew have a few fire seasons under their belt; but when Kelly Ramsey joined her hotshot crew, she was the only rookie to both the crew and to fire—and the sole woman, as well as the first in nearly a decade. To many of the men, she was the only woman they'd ever worked with. In this exclusive excerpt from her book, Wildfire Days: A Woman, A Hotshot Crew, and the Burning American West (Scribner), Ramsey talks about fighting the 2020 North Complex Fire in California. BACKBURN. Intentionally burning the forest in advance of an oncoming wildfire, as Ramsey is doing with a drip torch near Quincy, CA, can help create a barrier of burned vegetation to stop a wildfire's progress. BACKBURN. Intentionally burning the forest in advance of an oncoming wildfire, as Ramsey is doing with a drip torch near Quincy, CA, can help create a barrier of burned vegetation to stop a wildfire's progress. Parker Kleive The day after Labor Day, we woke to the wind. It threw dirt on our tarps and whipped hair into my mouth as I zipped my bag. The morning was sunny, which should have been a warning. Sun means the inversion has lifted—a temperature inversion happens when warm air "caps" cooler air, trapping smoke in the valley overnight, dampening fire activity. Once the temperature rises, the fire awakens. We stood in a circle to brief. "The East Wind Event they've been talking about arrives today," Van said. He had gone to morning briefing with all the other superintendents, where they'd learned about the weather situation. "As you can see, it's already here." Red flag warnings stretched from California to Washington State. The wind was historic, a once-in-a-hundred-year phenomenon. Incident management teams along the West Coast were on edge. They would have increased staffing, but there was nobody to add; everyone was already committed, and short-staffed at that. "You really need to be heads-up today," Van said. "Lotta trees could come down," Salmon added. We broke the circle, trudging through deep dirt. I could feel the wind inside my yellow, and I shuddered. "Come on, load up," Fisher called, and fired the engine. I collected my hairbrush and stuck a boot on the bumper and pulled myself up, and the back door of the buggy clanged shut, a lid closing. "All in!" Trevan yelled, and we were wheels rolling toward the black. We hiked in on the same dirt-powder line. Cloud of dust, choke, cough. We reached the black and spread out along the line. Everything here was holding, and we were set up with a hose lay and engines pumping water from either end. We moved as a group, finding hot spots and digging as the wind picked up. 'Head on a Swivel' The wind howled and roared, bending the trees. Big old conifers creaked and popped. Some were burned out at the bottom, some were cat-faced (with a burned hole or hollow, like a cave), some crispy carbon sticks all the way up. It didn't feel safe. Boom! A massive tree fell, somewhere out of sight. The big ones sounded like bombs. The ground shuddered, meaning it hadn't landed far away. Boom! Another tree. Everyone's head was on a swivel. "Head on a swivel" was a shorthand phrase of Van's, but that's also what it looked like: a tree fell, and our heads snapped around, our expressions asking where and how close. Boom! "That was too close. Too f****** close." Luke looked unnerved. A crew got on the radio and said they were pulling out. Too many snags comin' down, the crew boss said. "The wind's too high, and we don't feel safe to continue." They said they were hiking out. Division said he copied. "You think we'll leave too?" I asked. "Oh, hell no." "No way. Hotshots gotta be the last ones to leave." "Don't worry, Rowdy River'll do it!" "Perfect time to get after it." "Find the boys an outlet. We're gettin' plugged in." Bitter sarcasm was our only resort. The eerie wind stirred the stump holes and swirled embers into the air. Where we were, the wind threatened to coerce a dead fire back to life. But elsewhere, where we couldn't see, the risk was much worse. Salmon, who was posted on the ridge as lookout, came on the radio. "Hey, uh, this thing is making a decent run. It's starting to put up a pretty good column." Van confirmed that he was seeing the same thing from wherever he was hiding out. We kept digging. Then Air Attack came on the radio. "This is making a big push," Air Attack said. "The fire has jumped the Feather River drainage and is making a big run to the south. It's moving fast. I'm seeing—I'm seeing a campground and some structures here, in front of the fire, and you need to send people out there to evacuate anyone in this thing's path. Tell everyone to get out of the way. It's—it's not stopping." My skin prickled. We couldn't see any of it—the column, the fire pushed by these winds, jumping the river and racing toward a campground—but even I had been doing this long enough that I could picture the flames, and the urgency in Air Attack's voice made my blood run cold. Author Kelly Ramsey portrait Author Kelly Ramsey portrait Lindsey Shea/Courtesy of Scribner 'Intergalactic Columns' He came on again to say that this wasn't the only fire seeing explosive growth. "I've flown everything from here to Redding," he said. "And I hate to tell ya, but it's just columns everywhere. All of California is columns, far as you can see. Intergalactic columns." "Intergalactic?" "Did he really say that?" We'd never forget it—it was a joke for the ages. We'd later get to a fire that was putting up a column and someone would intone, Intergalactic, with a wink, and people would laugh, and I would feel a chill. Because that is how a single column looks, like a rope from earth to space, and to imagine them spread over the breadth of this nation-sized state was to apocalypse. Alien invasion. Armageddon. With one word, Air Attack had conjured a vision of the end times. And he wasn't wrong. We kept working our way down the line, mopping up. Opening my pack to grab a snack, I saw I'd missed a call from Jossie, the friend in Happy Camp who was watching our animals. I called back. "Everything OK?" "I'm at your house," she said in a rushed voice. "I have the dogs. Is there anything you want me to grab?" Huh? I was so confused, the best response I could summon was, "What?" "There's a fire in Happy Camp. I thought you knew." "What? No, I didn't know." Ice. As if someone had poured a bucket of it over my head. Cold water flowing over my body and entering my veins. "Yeah, it's right outside town, they're evacuating everyone. I have to leave, and I've got my dogs. Do you want me to take yours?" "Yes," I said. "Please." "I tried to get the cat, but he ran away." "That's OK. Cats are smart. Tommy will hide." My voice caught in my throat. Poor Tommy, the scrappy stray I'd bribed into our home. "What about Sam?" F****** Sam. There was no loading a large goat into Jossie's small SUV. "Um. Why don't you let him free in the yard, so he can escape? I guess." Poor old Sam. "OK, I'll do that. Is there anything else you want from the house? Any important papers or anything?" My throat was closing. The trees around us, columns of carbon, creaked in the howling wind. "No, just the dogs." It was almost a whisper. "Please take the dogs." June 7, 2021 on the Telegraph Fire outside Globe, AZ. June 7, 2021 on the Telegraph Fire outside Globe, AZ. Parker Kleive Smothering Smoke The sky had gone orange. The atmosphere hung low, bloody and dark, as if someone had steeped the sky in an amber tea, the smoke like cloudy billows of just-poured cream. We were all taking videos, because it was insane that morning could look like the middle of the night. We'd left the North Complex, headed home. Miles upon miles spooled out under the buggies' tires, wildfires in every direction. Everywhere we turned, roads were closed. We had to reroute because I-5 was shut down: a fire near Ashland, where my friends lived. Cold prickled my neck. We took a back road, a two-lane highway between orchards, their gnarled limbs menacing under the heavy sky. Happy Camp wasn't the only tragedy in California. A headline about the North Complex read: "Tiny California Town Leveled By 'Massive Wall of Fire'; 10 Dead, 16 Missing, Trapped Fire Crew Barely Escapes Blaze." The North had grown explosively, barreling southwest and consuming the town of Berry Creek, leaving only three houses out of 1,200 standing. Meanwhile, in the western Sierra Nevada, almost 400 campers were trapped when the Creek Fire blew up; the Army National Guard rescued them in Black Hawk helicopters. By October, Governor Gavin Newsom would request a federal disaster declaration for six major wildfires in the state. The windstorm had also fueled five simultaneous megafires in Oregon, damaging 4,000 homes, schools and stores, killing several people, placing 10 percent of Oregon residents under an evacuation order and incinerating more of the Oregon Cascades than had burned in the previous 36 years combined. The Almeda fire leveled, among many other structures, my friend's mother's Polish restaurant in Talent. In Washington, the towns of Malden and Pine City were mostly destroyed. The Cold Springs Canyon fire grew from 10,000 to 175,000 acres overnight, an insane rate of spread. The Pearl Hill fire jumped an almost unheard-of 900 feet to cross the Columbia River. Smoke blanketed British Columbia and the Western U.S. and, funneling into the atmosphere, drifted and spread to cover the continent. Air quality advisories were issued as far east as New York. College students hid in their dorms in Berkeley; older people sheltered from the dangerous particulates outside. We were a nation huddled, terrified. The smothering smoke implicated each one of us for our part in making a hotter world, enabling such a catastrophe. This was a disaster. There was no other word. The Slater fire had blitzed north through Happy Camp and crossed over Grayback. It had jumped Indian Creek east to west, then the wind had shifted and it had jumped back again. The fire had gone everywhere at once and made a 100,000-acre run up Indian Creek and over the ridge into Oregon. That ridge, where an undivided stand of Brewer spruce grew. Had grown? The canyon where so many been. Wildfire Days book cover Wildfire Days book cover Courtesy of Scribner ▸ Adapted from Wildfire Days by Kelly Ramsey. Copyright © 2025 by Kelly Ramsey. Reprinted by permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.
Yahoo
11 hours ago
- Yahoo
Warmer and brighter looking day tomorrow
The Latest from Storm Team 5… Clouds have held steady out there this afternoon, but I am expecting some late day rays of sunshine as clouds are starting to depart. For tonight, expect mostly clear skies with temperatures falling into the upper 50s and low 60s. A weak trough passing through Lake Superior might bring a passing shower late in the overnight up north. Great viewing conditions for the Full Strawberry Moon tonight. We will begin Wednesday with sunshine, however clouds roll in from the west during the afternoon. Highs will reach the upper 70s and low 80s. That weak trough may kick some early gusts to 30mph. A batch of wildfire smoke will move in for the afternoon as well. Current forecast calls for us to stay in the moderate category, but the WI DNR is monitoring for a possible upgrade and issuance of an advisory. Scattered showers arrive overnight Wednesday into Thursday along a stationary boundary setting up to our south. The focus of the rain for Thursday will be areas south of Oshkosh, with most staying dry. Highs Thursday will reach the low 70s. This boundary will move north overnight Thursday into Friday. I am expecting Friday to be our best chance to see rain this week, and its looking at being a washout as well. Highs will fall into the mid 60s. Flag Day on Saturday looks cool and dry, with warmer and more seasonal temperatures for Fathers Day. For all your latest updates on the weather, follow Ryan on Facebook, X and Instagram. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Early evening t-storm chance today, drier and warmer tomorrow
The Latest from Storm Team 5… An upper level low has slowly been moving across the state today, sparking scattered showers and a few embedded thunderstorms. For this evening, a few more scattered showers and storms are possible, one or two of which could produce small hail and a brief downpour, but we should be rain free around bed time tonight. Lows tonight will fall into the the upper 40s and low 50s. Tomorrow will start with clouds with a very small chance of passing shower, but the afternoon will feature more sunshine. Highs will return to the lower and middle 70s. Mostly sunny skies on Wednesday, with highs in the low to middle 80s. Thankfully, humidity should stay in check with dew points only reaching the low to mid 50s. Beyond this point, a fairly unsettled weather pattern will move in. A stationary boundary will set up to our south, bringing waves of rain showers and below average temperatures. First rain chance looks to be Wednesday night into Thursday, favoring areas south of Green Bay. Friday looks to be the day where all of us have a good chance to see rain. Early call is Flag Day and Fathers Day will both be dry. For all your latest updates on the weather, follow Ryan on Facebook, X and Instagram. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
