That to Which I Perspire

The temperatures have been rising into the 90s this week in Vermont. Here in the Northeast, where no one seems to appreciate central air conditioning, the heat tends to creep into the house like a fog that doesn’t lift for days on end. I have never been one for summertime, with the breath-sucking humidity, the shocking brightness and the unbearable scorch of the sun. I dread the scourge of biting insects and colorful outdoor event invitations that accompanies the first May heat wave. “Come languish in my backyard for the better part of the afternoon!” “Join us for a dip in our wonderful new (urine-filled cess)pool, with singed meat and boisterous conversation to follow!”

I am the Scrooge of summer.

As a child, I would play outside all day long, despite suffering from “heat migraines” on particularly sweltering days. Occasionally I would come inside, dirt on my bare feet and calves like a henna tattoo, for glasses of ice water to cool off, but most days my mother had to call and call for me to come in at dusk. My grandmother’s house had no air conditioning, and I spent countless hours with my face pressed against the metal grill of the electric fan, or twirling a wet washcloth in the air and then pressing it to my eyes and forehead. There, the preferred activity of my cousins and me was to “play in the hose pipe.” We started off filling a baby pool with water, which was sufficient enough for a half an hour of splashing around, until the Southern sun would begin to poach us like so many dressed hens. A fresh stream of cool water was soon necessary, so we would turn the hose back on and lay back and let the warm water overflow the sides all around us until the pool felt fresh again. Then, after another half hour, when we grew tired of simmering in a cartoon-covered pool now filled with dirt and grass clippings like a broth of cooking herbs, we turned the hose on full-time. We covered the nozzle with our thumbs and power-sprayed each other in the face. We would arc the water into the sky to make rainbows, put the hose down our bathing suits, lean over and let water flow into our mouths and fall out again, spray down the windows and all the cars, the dog…until the entire backyard was flooded with wasted water and mud. Then, in the tamed heat of the late afternoon, we would bike and scooter and dig in the dirt until our bathing suits were dry.

As an adult, I find no such novel remedy when the temperature rises. Now, like then, I am cursed in the heat with a very, very red face. Extremely red, like my cheeks might break out into blisters at any moment. I cannot escape this, and no cool cloth or iced drink will remedy it. At the slightest bit of physical exertion in summer weather, I begin to feel my heartbeat in my face, like mercury surging through a thermometer, my head the red, bulbous tip about to burst for lack of an outlet. I become physically drained, sometimes nauseated, and have the constant sensation of someone breathing on me, hot, hot breath all around me. My one objective these days is to lessen the time I spend between my air conditioned car and my air conditioned bedroom. In the afternoon, after walking the dogs in the direct sun, I want only to retreat upstairs, toss my damp clothing into a pile, and sprawl out underneath the ceiling fan. Luckily, in Vermont, snow flurries are always right around the bend!

But Scrooge is meant, at the end of the story, to find some level of appreciation for that which he has come to detest in his jaded old age. And since I am the Scrooge of summer, it was only a matter of time before I had my own Tiny Tim moment. Last night, because we felt like cockroaches being bombed out of our own mega-hot home, we decided to dine out on the back deck, which is shaded by the shadow of the house in the evening time. The temps were still in the mid-80s as I stood over a hot grill to prepare two very delicious small pizzas (tomato/garlic/basil/asiago and pesto/sundried tomato). My feet were swimming in my Crocs. My face was a glistening crimson, of course. Sweat was permeating every inch of my clothing and cascading down over my temples like a Mad TV skit. But at some point, the eastern sky turned a brilliant golden color. I looked out over my yard—weeds are taking over everywhere—and felt the most gentle breeze. I questioned whether it was a breeze at all, certainly not something to move the hair matted to my forehead, but it was definitely not “hot, hot breath.” As beads of sweat rolled downwards from my fiery face, I was filled with a sense of myself and my body. I felt a tickle on the nape of my neck and in the small of my back. Perhaps in a heat-driven delusion, the ghosts of my past, present and future rushed over me. I appreciated where I had been and where I am headed. Two days before, this yard had been graced with its own plastic pool, and my friends’ toddlers laughed with delight as they dipped toes and faces into the water. I envisioned my own children someday muddying the yard and spraying down our unsuspecting pugs.

Matea and the dogs appeared at the sunroom window, and a feeling of satisfaction and contentment for the present moment came over me like a gulf stream of fresh water from the hose. We slid the cooler, still filled with ice from the weekend barbecue, between two opposing camping chairs and ate the grilled pizzas and watermelon as the sun set. I didn’t smack one mosquito, and never once sighed with exhaustion. I knew, when the winter comes, I will long for the intimacy of sweat evaporating into the summer night.