Just Geography

“It's 96 in the shade,” my friend Jen protests when she puts aside her guitar and takes a break,

“How do you stand it?”

“I try never to complain about the heat,” I tell her serenely, “It'll be gone soon enough.”

“Are we talking about the weather?” she frowns.

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug, “And maybe not.”

It's late August here in the south and while the heat is merely suffocating, the humidity is a heavy, water-soaked blanket settled over us all. It blots out the sun and makes it hard to breathe. We are encased in it. Rivers of sweat pour over into our eyes and down our necks, eye glasses and camera lenses fog up. Hairlines turn sauna-wet and dripping and faces glisten. The patio is covered and there are strategically placed industrial strength fans at every corner but still it feels like a blast furnace. Jen downs a glass of ice water, towels off, and returns to the stage. Hoping for just one clean shot, I pick up my trusty Nikon and aim it in her direction but some nights it just isn't there and I settle for listening to the music.

I think a lot about the weather these days. How unpredictable it is, how completely out of our control it is, how it can be almost impossible to prepare for and how it can change in the mere blink of an eye. Just when you get used to a certain season, it's gone overnight. The heat will fade soon enough, we will slip into a too short autumn and then a long and drawn out winter. It's not something I look forward to.

It's funny to me how friends are surprised at how much I mind the cold.

“But you're from New England,” they say, “You grew up with it.”

“And left it the first chance I had,” I point out, “Although in hindsight, I wonder if I shouldn't have kept going until I got to an ocean.”

Then again, maybe it's all just geography.