The Fish are Jumping and The Cotton is High

Today was one of those sultry days that typifies summertime.  Even before I got out of bed in my air conditioned home, my internal barometer was on high alert.  The cool, dry air mass of yesterday—the one that allowed my naturally frizzy hair to fall in longer, smoother locks—was overtaken by an extreme drop in air pressure.  With the first step outside I became aware that the time spent blow-drying and straightening had been wasted.

I grew up in South Florida, where such oppressive weather was commonplace.  After more than thirty-five years away from the deep, deep South I have lost my tolerance for this sweltering heat and humidity.  My blood and constitution have thickened against the bitter New England winters.  I walk around in mid-January and February with my winter coat boldly open, providing me with both warmth and cool in equal measure—the perfect sustaining balance.  Now, although the dog days of summer are few, I find them unpleasant to the point of debilitating.  It is just too darn hot for my taste.

Natural fibers and loose fitting clothing are a good strategy, but offer me only partial relief.  Although my inclination is to cower in my chilly basement, feigning the importance of reorganization, I am forced to brave the heat.  Having no choice but to tackle the long list of back-to-school errands, I spend the day climbing in and out of the car.  With each stop the dew point rises, encouraging tiny beads of sweat to congregate until they drip between my shoulder blades, running down to the small of my back.  The drops of perspiration and the leather upholstery are no match for the natural cotton of my blouse.  I saturate the fabric—first in random wet dots, then spreading out liberally to form one giant stroke of sweat down my back.  The crisp white fabric that I peeled from the dry-cleaner’s plastic that morning slowly wilts and curls, as do I.  My strength dissipates until I feel unbearably sleepy and a little bit sick.

With a resolve that only a mother can muster for the benefit of her children, I completed the procurement of college essentials.  The long list with which I began the day was transformed, bit by bit, into a collection of shopping bags in the trunk of my car.  Along the way, I gulped bottles of water—one, two, three—trying to replace the depleted fluids as efficiently as an IV of lactated Ringer’s.  

Finally, as my mandatory activities drew to a close, grey clouds congregated along the horizon, slowly pulling a dark curtain across the hazy sun.  I stumbled into my house nearly delirious.  Although I drank in the refrigerated air I was too shriveled to be easily reconstituted.  Off in the distance, thunder rumbled, bringing with it a promise of relief.  When the heavens finally opened, raining torrents down on the thirsty plants and lawn, I looked out the window and imagined wintertime.  When nature coats the boughs with lofty snow a few months hence, will I long for the sweltering heat of this day?