I am not cut out to live on the surface of the sun. For someone who absolutely loves boating, swimming and anything that involves being on the water, it turns out I am not able to handle real tropical heat.
Last week, we had a heat wave that was a record-setting series of highs. I’m honestly too tired to even look up what record it set. Suffice to say, I am not a fan.
Rich. In all my childhood, I don’t remember it being this hot, and I grew up in a time when no one except retail establishments and rich folk had air-conditioning. Air conditioning at home was considered a luxury, right up there with owning your own yacht like you were Ari Onassis or something.
Middle class? You got one box fan in a window and hoped it pulled in cool night air. It did not. It merely redistributed the misery. It was very helpful in making “robot voices” if you spoke directly into the blades however.
Our coping mechanisms in extreme heat were popsicles, sprinklers and holding the refrigerator door open until a parent screamed at us. We may have caught a breeze from a slamming screen door as we were chased outside. Come back in at suppertime. Maybe. Hydration? Never heard of it. I don’t think I saw a reusable water bottle until I was well into my 30s. We sustained ourselves like camels in the desert, rarely stopping for water and only then what we swallowed from a garden hose. The first blast of water tasted like hot rubber and pennies and could scald you if the hose had been coiled in the sun. We learned early to test spray first.
Tan. I don’t remember using sunscreen in the 1970s. I’m not saying that was a good idea. I am just saying that is what did — or did not — happen. I think my mom had the same bottle of Coppertone “suntan lotion” on the bathroom closet shelf for my entire childhood. She may still have it today. I should check.
Modern vehicles have air-conditioned seats and climate zones. Models from the 1970s and earlier had exactly two temperature settings in the summer: hot with the windows down or hotter without.
Since more people smoked back then, you also had the added thrill of dodging flying cigarette ash coming back in the open windows at you. Meanwhile, the vinyl seats reached temperatures capable of branding the naugahyde pattern on the back of the thighs.
We played outside to beat the heat which made zero sense really. Who looked at a giant metal slide sitting in direct sunlight over the blacktop and thought, “Perfect. Let’s put children on that”? A hot steel slide could remove a layer of skin before you reached the bottom.
Flip flops? Crocs? Shoes you say? Half the time we weren’t wearing any. We sprinted barefoot across asphalt hot enough to fry an egg. Someone would demonstrate that on the local news every summer without fail.
Still, I loved every minute of childhood summers. As a kid, blistering summer days meant adventure. Summers may be hotter now. However, I strongly suspect the bigger issue is that somewhere between childhood and adulthood, our internal thermostat transformed from “let’s ride bikes for miles” to “If this restaurant insists on patio seating, we’re leaving.”
Somewhere along the years, my body became dramatically less enthusiastic about tropical weather. At my age, 95 degrees means I swoon like a frail Victorian female. In any temperature above 72 degrees, I fan myself while declaring I simply cannot abide the heat. I’m about three degrees away from parroting entire paragraphs of a Tennessee Williams play.
The truth is, we didn’t have superpowers as kids. We weren’t tougher. We were not built differently. We were simply too young and used to mild discomfort to let it slow us down.
Honestly, I still love summer. I adore boating. I love floating around in cool water. Nonetheless, after surviving metal slides, lava hot vinyl car seats, and parents who thought “drink some hose water” was a valid survival plan, I think we’ve earned the right to clutch our giant water tumblers and complain about the heat.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt welcomes comments in care of FosterSeabolt@gmail.com; P.O. Box 38, Salem, Ohio 44460; or KymberlyFosterSeabolt.com.)
