👋 Hi, everybody. This week, we’re reflecting on summer. Not just the one that’s currently setting, but the very nature of what summer means in communities across the U.S. Grist writers all over the country shared vignettes of how summer, and the beloved traditions and feelings that go along with it, is changing — from crowded river floats in Montana to increasingly frequent tick checks in New England. I was inspired to share my own reflections on how summer is shifting where I live, and would love for you to do the same. 

We’ve also got some news for you about coastal resilience, geologic hydrogen, and Gen Z slang trends (yes, really). 

This post originally appeared in Grist’s weekly solutions newsletter, Looking Forward. Not on our list yet? Subscribe here to get it in your inbox every Friday.

Across the country, summer traditions are changing

Grid of threes photos, including a rainbow behind a cactus after a storm, two people swimming in a blue lake, and a child sitting on a rocky coast.

Grist

Summer has never been my favorite season. But when I moved to Seattle (from the steamy Southeast), I had to reevaluate my relationship with it. Here, summer is a hard-earned prize — a glorious stretch of sun-drenched days that rapidly melts away the nine months’ worth of seasonal depression. The “Seattle Freeze,” a cute phrase for the common experience that Seattleites can be hard to make friends with, also seems to melt, as everybody is out making the most of the spectacularly long daylight hours and the gorgeous nature that surrounds us. My first full summer in Seattle was the first time I actually felt at home in my new home.

But even as a transplant, I know that summers here aren’t quite what they used to be. The type of oppressive heat that used to rarely affect Seattle is coming more and more often. The number of days when wildfire smoke chokes the air and makes being outside uncomfortable or downright dangerous is increasing. That moment of the year that once felt like a glorious respite, and the one time when new Seattleites like me can find their community, feels more tenuous. 

That feeling — that something is just different now — is true in so many places, in so many ways. 

The Grist team tried to capture some of the changing customs, rituals, and feelings of summertime in a project published this week, featuring vignettes from staffers spread out all over the country. 

As people put their stories on paper, “It was really surprising and really wistful and emotional to read them,” said Teresa Chin, one of the editors who spearheaded the project (and contributed her own write-up about California, featuring the personified weather phenomenon Karl the Fog). “It brought something that felt both universal and really specific to these different places in the country.”

My colleague Jesse Nichols, who also lives in the Pacific Northwest, described the now familiar routine of checking the air quality index before planning outdoor activities. In a place where summer once meant open windows and refreshing breezes, it’s now more common to have to shut the windows tight to keep smoke out — and in my home anyway, the breeze is often not enough to keep the indoor temperature from climbing into the high 80s. (Like many other Seattleites, I recently caved and bought an air conditioner.)

Grist’s editor-in-chief Katherine Bagley painted a picture of iconic New England summers filled with lobster rolls and ice cream and blueberry picking, now punctuated by nightly tick checks. 

Lyndsey Gilpin, Grist’s senior manager of community engagement, described the bloom of yellow goldenrod, coral honeysuckle, and purple coneflowers in Kentucky — and the subtle shift from a familiar summer stickiness to levels of heat and humidity that make it almost unbearable to be outside unless it’s near a body of water. 

And Director of Partnerships Rachel Glickhouse described how the Arizona desert’s once-predictable afternoon monsoons have become such an infrequent visitor that now, when the rains do come, it can feel like an exciting surprise, creating a rush to take advantage of momentarily full watering holes.

Two side-by-side photos show a rainbow over a saguaro cactus and a closeup of a cup of ice cream with a spoon in it

From left: A rainbow over the Arizona desert; summer sweet treats in New England. Courtesy of Rachel Glickhouse; Courtesy of Katherine Bagley

“I think what the piece does is it gives readers another entry point into climate change that’s not numbers-heavy, that’s not policy-heavy, accountability-heavy,” said Naveena Sadasivam, who edited the project along with Teresa. “This is something pretty much anybody across the country can probably find something to relate to.”

Though each region and each person’s story is unique, there is an undeniable element of sadness that carries throughout the piece — the loss of what summer once meant, and how people are adapting in subtle, emotional ways. 

“If you haven’t lived through something obvious, a hurricane or a big wildfire, you may think that climate change hasn’t yet touched your life,” Teresa said. “I’d hope that someone would read this and start thinking about the changes that they have already started experiencing. And just because it isn’t catastrophic doesn’t mean it’s not meaningful.”

But for Teresa, the project was also a reflection on what’s still there to save. The loving way that our colleagues described the summers in their regions made her want to visit many of these places, even despite the creeping threats of ticks or smoke or oppressive heat. 

“I look at these photos, I’m like, ‘Oh my god, we live in such a beautiful place. We must protect it against all odds,’” she said. 

I had my own experience like that this summer. On a visit to Washington’s San Juan Islands. I had the thrill of seeing orcas for the first time. It was a pod of three Bigg’s killer whales, a transient population that has been thriving in this area.  

An orca's dorsal fin and black-and-white back is visible over dark blue waters with mountains and clouds in the background

A pod of orcas spotted in the Salish Sea. Courtesy of Claire Elise Thompson

As special as it was to see those iconic dorsal fins, there was a bittersweetness to it, too. I had hoped we might be lucky enough to get a glimpse of the Southern Residents, a distinct (and endangered) population of killer whales that have become a much rarer sight in the Salish Sea, as they’ve had to travel farther afield to seek out their main food source: salmon.    

We did spot a minke whale and a sea otter, along with more familiar sightings of harbor seals and bald eagles. Through that trip I felt more of an appreciation for this region than I think I ever have before — and a sense of just how delicate this rich web of life is, and how vulnerable to changes beyond what the Pacific Northwest can control as a region, or Seattle as a city, or me as an individual. But it surely made me want to keep trying.

Dive deeper:

Share your thoughts

The Grist team is far-flung, but we can’t cover every corner of the U.S. (let alone the world!), nor every experience of summer. We would love to hear your vignettes. What does summertime mean where you live? What events, activities, foods, or flora and fauna define it? And what changes have you seen to those customs? 

Please drop me a note to tell me about it. 

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In other news

And finally, looking forward to …

… a future of adaptable summer traditions and rituals. 

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The story goes that the summer Heat Harvest Festival started decades ago, when the temperature climbed so high one July that fruit threatened to wilt on the vine, and the local farmers invited everybody to come out and pick as much as they could. People brought cold drinks and fans and ice vests to share, and everybody weathered the scorching days together. A proper “stone soup” tale. 

Nowadays, it’s more a way of celebrating the more stable temps — and honoring history, too. It always falls on the summer’s first heat wave, though that term doesn’t mean what it once did …

— a drabble by Claire Elise Thompson

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A drabble is a 100-word piece of fiction — in this case, offering a tiny glimpse of what a clean, green, just future might look like. Want to try writing your own (and see it featured in a future newsletter)? We would love to hear from you! Please send us your visions for our climate future, in drabble form, at [email protected]

👋 See you next week!