I know the entire country is broiling under a post-apocalyptic nuclear sun. We are all hot. I get it. I'm sure in 6 months, half of us who have never seen snow before will be buried under feet of it, and those poor folks whose livelihoods depend on the white stuff will be stuck without.
I am not saying I am the only soul miserable in this heat wave. In fact, I have it better than most, and I know it. I don't have to labor outside. I don't have to fix air conditioners in attics, and I can sit inside and blog in the comfort of 76 degrees. If you're wondering why I don't set the thermostat to the more traditional room temperature of 72, I'll tell you, but it's gross. In this humidity, if I turn the air that far down, the water condenses on all the registers, drips and/or forms mildew. True. Gross.
Alabama, nationally beloved as the butt of every redneck joke ever invented, offers singularly awful weather. I posted this on a friend's Facebook page today, in fact. May through October are designated Hell. During these months, the air conditioning registers drip from the humidity extracted from the air. The outside feels like soup, I sweat profusely, embarrassingly, everywhere I go. I step out of my car, and the lovely diagonal line of my seat belt is outlined in perspiration. These months are occasionally interrupted with a hellacious unleashing of natural fury known as hurricanes. In my tenure in Alabama, we've been blissfully exempt from these tragedies, but New Orleans is only 100 miles down the road. I've seen it, don't need to experience it. We fend off mosquitoes that bring increasingly alarming diseases from equatorial regions. We hole up in our houses, occasionally dipping into the pool, or seeking refuge in the shade of an antique oak tree.
I've found that we usually don't have a spring or autumn in these parts. The trees generally don't turn beautiful shades of crimson and yellow. We don't have that brisk, cool air that heralds football and stews and fires in the fireplace--all the wonders of autumn in the northeastern parts of the nation. We usually go from hot as blazes to one November morning when the cars and roofs of our neighbors are glistening in frost and I haven't bought the boys long uniform pants.
Those chilly days lead to sub-freezing nights when I send M out to swaddle the pool equipment like a baby to avoid freezing. We are issued alerts on TV and radio to bring in all our pets, strays and elderly folks who didn't happen to die during the hellish summer. We crank up the heat, rummage through the backs of our closets to find the 3 sweaters that we still own. I dig through piles of athletic socks to find a pair, hopefully, that isn't white and won't show under black pants. I put headbands over cold ears, even if I am thankful that I can exercise outside without perishing.
These are my Alabama options. Blistering and burning or chattering and freezing. We have no brisk apple-picking season, no tulip-sprouting spring. We sit in the summer heat, watching the kudzu grow, waiting for that brief moment when the evening sun is setting and no longer burning us and before the mosquitoes come out. That moment, I run outside and drink my cocktail until the bugs drive me back in. Come winter, we will be running from car to shop to car to home as though the winter will kiss us with frostbite instantly.
Strangely enough, Alabama seems unprepared for both of these climate extremes. Frost kills all of the citrus crops, the palm trees, damages pools and cracks and freezes poorly insulated pipes. Summer heat and storms tear down above-ground power lines, threatens livestock, and kill the elderly. You'd think that EVEN Alabama could figure out how to cope with one of these extremes. Really. I'd take mastery over even one. Please.
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