Why would anyone live in New England, you might ask? We’re all mobbed up, we have some of the highest skin cancer rates in the nation, and we have some truly painful-on-the-ears accents (Boston and Cranston, I’m looking at you. Connecticut, on the other hand, has no accent and everyone should speak like us).
One of the reasons why I live in New England—besides the fact that my family lives here which is really the only reason I stay, but since that wouldn’t make for much of a blog post, let’s assume I have other reasons—is because you never know what to expect from Mother Nature here in the upper six. Sure, we have seasons, but even those seasons are not clearly defined. Last year, fall lasted from August through December, then winter was January through April, spring was in May, and we hit summer by Memorial Day. We’re heading into fall again, and it’s been tricky trying to figure out what sort of curve balls the weather will throw at us next.
Last week, the news was full of reports about Hurricane Joaquin. (I love this name. So much fun to say! Waah-keen. Wah-kien. Like a whip cracking. But I digress.) Over the course of a week, we here in New England were told to fill our tubs with water and start our generators in preparation; then we were told to expect flooding, because we were going to get slammed with lots and lots of rain; then we were told to be grateful we don’t live in New Jersey. (Note: I am thankful every day that I don’t live in New Jersey.) Block Island cancelled their ferries for three days in anticipation of this huge weather event. Then Monday hit: a crisp, sunny day, with nary a Joaquin, hurricane or otherwise, in sight. I looked at the stagnant and slightly dingy water in my tub, my thirty cans of corned beef hash, and thought: wasn’t that fun?
There was a cold front coming in this week, and by Monday afternoon, I’d pulled out the flannel pajamas. I was looking my schedule for the rest of the week to see when I could squeeze in switching my closet over from my summer to winter wardrobe (you southerners don’t even have a clue as to what I’m talking about). I wore a scarf and winter coat to work on Tuesday, and started looking up beef stew crockpot recipes. On Wednesday, it was 72 degrees. One of the radio DJs even said the words “beach day.” I peeled off my layers and basked in the sun. But by Friday, I was digging out the winter gloves. See? Fun, right?
This weekend, we’re looking at sunshiny days, a frost that should knock all of that pretty fall foliage off the trees in one fell swoop, and perfect summer “apple-picking” weather Sunday afternoon. It’s all part of the wacky, wonderful life we’ve chosen to lead here in New England.
Seriously, if it weren’t for family, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.
One of the reasons why I live in New England—besides the fact that my family lives here which is really the only reason I stay, but since that wouldn’t make for much of a blog post, let’s assume I have other reasons—is because you never know what to expect from Mother Nature here in the upper six. Sure, we have seasons, but even those seasons are not clearly defined. Last year, fall lasted from August through December, then winter was January through April, spring was in May, and we hit summer by Memorial Day. We’re heading into fall again, and it’s been tricky trying to figure out what sort of curve balls the weather will throw at us next.
Last week, the news was full of reports about Hurricane Joaquin. (I love this name. So much fun to say! Waah-keen. Wah-kien. Like a whip cracking. But I digress.) Over the course of a week, we here in New England were told to fill our tubs with water and start our generators in preparation; then we were told to expect flooding, because we were going to get slammed with lots and lots of rain; then we were told to be grateful we don’t live in New Jersey. (Note: I am thankful every day that I don’t live in New Jersey.) Block Island cancelled their ferries for three days in anticipation of this huge weather event. Then Monday hit: a crisp, sunny day, with nary a Joaquin, hurricane or otherwise, in sight. I looked at the stagnant and slightly dingy water in my tub, my thirty cans of corned beef hash, and thought: wasn’t that fun?
There was a cold front coming in this week, and by Monday afternoon, I’d pulled out the flannel pajamas. I was looking my schedule for the rest of the week to see when I could squeeze in switching my closet over from my summer to winter wardrobe (you southerners don’t even have a clue as to what I’m talking about). I wore a scarf and winter coat to work on Tuesday, and started looking up beef stew crockpot recipes. On Wednesday, it was 72 degrees. One of the radio DJs even said the words “beach day.” I peeled off my layers and basked in the sun. But by Friday, I was digging out the winter gloves. See? Fun, right?
This weekend, we’re looking at sunshiny days, a frost that should knock all of that pretty fall foliage off the trees in one fell swoop, and perfect summer “apple-picking” weather Sunday afternoon. It’s all part of the wacky, wonderful life we’ve chosen to lead here in New England.
Seriously, if it weren’t for family, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.
This was Thursday.
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