Hot, I Die

The Old Man's mom used to say that this time of year. Miss Alma was quoting some character she had known in her past. When asked how he was doing, his reply was always, "I hot, I die". This became mom's summertime mantra. She used it to good advantage for as long as I can remember.

It hit 99 here today.....and while running errands on the fringes of Hades, her phrase kept coming back to me. Finally done, the utter delight of the quiet "whoosh" of air conditioning reminded me of the wimp I have become. Hot weather memories began to float up from somewhere.

Bedford was hot. It still is, just like most everywhere else in that part of the world in summer. Everyone knew it; that is except for the Park Street Battalion. No one told us. We'd still go out each morning, roam around the town, play pick-up baseball games, or just generally enjoy being a kid out of school. If indeed there is such a thing as "global warming", it's not a new concept. Then, as now, it was hot. We managed.

Air conditioning existed in, to the best of my memory, only three places; Coleman's Restaurant....sign on the door had a picture of a penguin saying, "Come in, it's cooooool inside", the local movie theater, and the place my dad worked. Everywhere else, you were left to your own devices and ingenuity.

We all had screen doors. No one shut the "big door" at night, but did hook the screen to keep the wind from banging it around. This in an attempt to allow some cooling breeze to exhaust the scorching 2-story house. Upstairs bedrooms by bedtime would rival Death Valley. Fortunately, by around 11:00 or so, my room would become tolerable. I would reverse my bed position and put my pillow down at the normal "foot" of the bed so my face was in an open window. Even with the oppressive heat, there is a degree of magic and mystery in the sounds and smells of a summer night. I miss that part. As I grew older, the magic was enhanced by far away radio stations that played to a pre-teen's heart. Listen to The Five Satins sing"In The Still of The Night", turned down nice and low so as not to incur parental wrath, enhanced by dreams and night sounds, and you'll understand.

Far and away, the hottest and most miserable time in those summers was the ritual of getting ready for Sunday night church. Sunday night services were pretty casual affairs, but not so much as this day and time. You just didn't wear a tie. I had one of the short sleeve shirts that really looked like it would be cool and comfortable. It was made of nylon and had a texture that resembled a Belgian waffle. I remember it was blue. Wearing a Hefty Bag would have been cooler.

We'd go to church and one of my favorite pass-times (what kid really listened, anyway?) was watching to see who was waving the hand-held fans the fastest. We had one lady who I would swear approached the sound barrier. It always seemed odd and disconcerting that these fans were provided by the local funeral home. What did they know that I didn't? About time the Reverend AG thundered, "Where will YOU spend eternity", I'd catch the slogan on the back of the fan, "Let us plan your final journey".  Made a kid wonder.

So now that "whoosh" is my comfort. I sit huddled inside in all my wimpiness, waiting for twilight so I can go out to do my outside chores. But I take comfort in the fact that I can still find The Five Satins on the radio, and that accursed blue Belgian waffle shirt is long since gone.