Here Comes the Sun

Someone once complained, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco!”  Though often attributed to Mark Twain, this quote most certainly is not.  But let me be the first to say this:  the warmest summer I ever spent was this past winter in Boston.  Well, almost.

Back in late October, we were hit so hard by a snow storm that most of our town had no power for four to five days.  The trees were still festooned with dense foliage.  When a heavy wet layer of snow blanketed the trees, they could not bear the weight.  One by one, trees fell across yards, driveways, and main roads pulling down power lines everywhere.  This ignited a political firestorm between our town and the power company, each of whom believed it was the other party’s responsibility to remove the fallen trunks and limbs.  Locked in a stalemate, the power-challenged town opened a comfort station at the local high school so residents could charge their laptops and smartphones (the new definition of emergency assistance!); the townspeople stoked their fireplaces and hunkered down.

Save for a dozen or so flurries and flakes on Christmas morning, this was all we saw of Old Man Winter this year.  I realized the other day that my overcoat spent the season in cold storage.  I occasionally donned a fleece jacket or a wrap, but mainly ambled around in layered clothing without need for a coat.  This week at the Boston Marathon, as unseasonably warm temperatures approached 90 degrees, race officials even conceded that qualified runners who opted out due to the “extreme” weather would be pre-qualified for next year. 

It strikes me as funny that New Englanders fret over the heat, but never the cold.  Accustomed to bundling up, thick blooded Yankees do not think twice about braving the Patriots games at our outdoor stadium even during single-digit cold spells.   Cold weather is never a factor as fans tail-gate and pack the stadium, enduring the football action to the bitter end.  By contrast, South Floridians get their freaks on if temperatures dip into the 60s.  Living day after day in 80-plus temperatures with unbearable, palpable humidity, they manage to live comfortably despite being situated painfully close to the equator.

Growing up in Miami, I was never completely acclimated to the heat and humidity, always preferring refrigerated air over open window breezes.  This was perhaps due to my many allergies; a breath of fresh air normally filled my nose and lungs with enough pollen to render me breathless—and not in a good way.  Nonetheless, I spent an incredible proportion of my youth outdoors baking in the sun.  This was decades before the medical profession began to understand the damaging effects of the sun’s rays.

Back in those days, sun-bathing was considered an acceptable and wholesome activity for young kids, providing “fresh air and sunshine” and all-important Vitamin D.  After chores and homework were completed, it was not uncommon to spend the remaining daylight hours in the pool or stretched out on a lounge chair on the patio.  I have naturally olive skin (people who know me today will laugh at this), so at the end of a day in the sun I would have a very dark complexion.  It was a joke in my family—they called me the “chocolate Easter bunny” because I, literally, changed color.  I didn’t just get ordinary tan lines; I looked more like I had been carefully painted two contrasting colors.  It was difficult to discern whether I wore my birthday suit or my bathing suit!

I have distinct memories of being forced to sunbathe.  My grandmother would encourage me to do my homework in the sun, thus “killing two birds with one stone.”  To my mother and grandmother, pale skin was sickly, whereas a freshly burndt, reddened complexion made you glow with health.  In those days we did not have sunscreen; people covered their bodies with suntan lotion and oils to promote tanning.  As a natural tanner, I never put anything on my skin (except Noxema after a severe burn) and did not even own sunglasses.  I now live in fear of the damage I have caused that will someday catch up with me.

Today, as I look out my window at yet another beautiful day, it is undeniable that we were “spared” the harshness of another winter.  But I cannot help feeling that we should be a bit wary of all this “fresh air and sunshine.”  I am concerned that the summer ahead will sizzle, reflecting the lack of water in the reservoirs.  I worry that we are seeing the next stage of global warming, and that it is progressing too quickly.  I live in fear of the irreparable damage we have caused, and wonder whether Mother Nature is already catching up with us.

Tomorrow's blog:  I Remember