Some like it hot.
July 17, 2023
Another in a series of observations of life as I know it.
What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.
-Jane Austin
~~~~~
Last summer, the Cape was, essentially, the Sahara by the Sea. Lazy waves lapping at sandy shores, and dry as a proverbial bone inland. There were water restrictions, easily enforced when one neighbor had brown tundra and next door, the lawn was lush and verdant. There was shaming. And anger. Those gardeners among us who happily toil in earthen spaces were rendered moot. Useless. Made to watch as precious heirloom plants withered and died.
But not this summer. Noooooo. Those perennials passed from great grandma to Aunt Tilly are now drowning. My backyard feels like walking on a sodden sponge. The “marine layer”, Cape Cod’s idiotic euphemism for humidity, is floating in an ethereal sea. That is, it’s about 95% in the early morning hours. As the day progresses, if the sun appears (which has spawned a form of Draft Kings betting), then things start to simmer. No refreshing sea breezes caress the shore. Living as I did for, well, a very long time, in our Nation’s Capital, I was uneasily accustomed to the 3 Hs. Heat, haze and humidity. Foreign embassies gave their staff members “tropical leave”. DC was akin to Hong Kong on the Potomac. Soggy and ickily hot. So yes, I should be acclimated to this weather trend. Except that I deliberately moved away from Washington because of its dreadful summers. Well, that and because a certain orange creature emerged from the swamp.
So here I am. On my beloved Cape Cod. Sitting in the blissful cool of my air conditioned, shingled, traditional Cape architecture. The cushions on the screen porch render one’s shorts damp. Really damp. The Orioles have decamped to Maine, leaving my grape jelly feeders to the cat birds. Even the hummingbirds look wan. After an obligatory walk, the dogs retire to cold wood floors and do not stir until the dinner hour. We are limp, languid, and louche. Like something or someone out of a Fitzgerald novel. They won’t prognosticate on when this weather pattern will sail out to sea. But, we are far more comfortable than the Southwest. Or California. Or Washington DC, where climate change is still being debated. If it’s 110 in the shade, and you are indoors, does the heat, in fact, exist. Spare me.
Pass me the lilac water for my pulse points. I am going to retire to my lounge chair, cucumber slices on my eyes, and dream of Autumn.
Caption: Still life, “Emmie on iced floor”
