At 2:18 this afternoon (Pacific time), fall 2009 begins, and for that I am grateful. This summer I spent a lot of time trying to get to the bottom of my aversion to summer. I know that heat and sunshine are essential for growth. The Missouri-grown tomatoes that are part of my own personal mythology, for example, would not have been possible without heat, nor would the stunning array of fruits and vegetables that now crowd roadside stands and farmers markets all over Oregon. Even I can appreciate the precision of the math here: if it’s not hot and clear for a number of consecutive months, plants don’t grow, and if plants don’t grow, we don’t eat.
I have other heat-driven memories, many of them good: seemingly endless weeks at the swimming pool, barbecues, haphazard family outings to the riverfront – the Mississippi, that is – to behold the spectacle of fireworks casting brilliant reflections on the Gateway Arch, the German festival in South Saint Louis, especially the one when the woman threw up all over the sidewalk in a way that was both traumatic and thrilling, and, of course, discovering the wonders of sex back when we all thought the things we did with each other would have never occurred to our parents.
But the older I get, the more I realize that I really do not like summer. In fact, I dislike it. Heat, and the prediction that heat is on the way, riddles me with anxiety. This summer I spent a week in Saint Louis in June, something I’ll do my best not to do again. One evening it was still 80 degrees – and equally humid – at midnight. I thought the weather people described it perfectly with a one-word banner beneath the forecast: Oppressive. The weather in Portland was equally offensive, I thought. “We’re smashing records left and right!” one of the local weather monkeys screeched. My main objection to heat, I think, is the way it’s talked about. It’s no longer sufficient to hear on the evening news that it’s going to be 95 tomorrow. Instead, we are told what the temperature will be at 7 in the morning, and at noon, and at 6 in the evening, and how this compares with this time last week, and how “that’s nothing!” compared to how hot it’s going to be two days from now, and how we’re going to “smash” a record for this day, this particular day, let’s say July 27, and it hasn’t been this hot ever on July 27 since 1968, so we are smashing a goddamn record and let’s break out the champagne and noisemakers and, finally, by the way, it’s only going to get down to 72 by midnight so it’s not going to be very comfortable sleeping weather.
As a person who finds solace in a sky illustrated with big, billowy clouds, I find these two statistics troubling: in Portland, we’ve had more days where the temperature has surpassed 90 degrees than ever before; at the same time, we’ve had almost no rain. The shrill tone the weather broadcasters use to convey this news is as annoying as mosquitoes. They talk about “smashing” records as if their year-end bonus depends on it. Of course, I could always turn the television off.
So here we are. Even though it’s going to go above 90 today in Portland, and even though there are warm winds blowing out of the east, and even though the fire alert is at the highest possible level – thank God it hasn’t rained! – today is the first day of fall according to the calendar. The sky is perfectly soulless this morning, a flat, textureless blue, but the end is in sight, and I’m looking forward to welcoming the other half of the growth equation: rain.
I have other heat-driven memories, many of them good: seemingly endless weeks at the swimming pool, barbecues, haphazard family outings to the riverfront – the Mississippi, that is – to behold the spectacle of fireworks casting brilliant reflections on the Gateway Arch, the German festival in South Saint Louis, especially the one when the woman threw up all over the sidewalk in a way that was both traumatic and thrilling, and, of course, discovering the wonders of sex back when we all thought the things we did with each other would have never occurred to our parents.
But the older I get, the more I realize that I really do not like summer. In fact, I dislike it. Heat, and the prediction that heat is on the way, riddles me with anxiety. This summer I spent a week in Saint Louis in June, something I’ll do my best not to do again. One evening it was still 80 degrees – and equally humid – at midnight. I thought the weather people described it perfectly with a one-word banner beneath the forecast: Oppressive. The weather in Portland was equally offensive, I thought. “We’re smashing records left and right!” one of the local weather monkeys screeched. My main objection to heat, I think, is the way it’s talked about. It’s no longer sufficient to hear on the evening news that it’s going to be 95 tomorrow. Instead, we are told what the temperature will be at 7 in the morning, and at noon, and at 6 in the evening, and how this compares with this time last week, and how “that’s nothing!” compared to how hot it’s going to be two days from now, and how we’re going to “smash” a record for this day, this particular day, let’s say July 27, and it hasn’t been this hot ever on July 27 since 1968, so we are smashing a goddamn record and let’s break out the champagne and noisemakers and, finally, by the way, it’s only going to get down to 72 by midnight so it’s not going to be very comfortable sleeping weather.
As a person who finds solace in a sky illustrated with big, billowy clouds, I find these two statistics troubling: in Portland, we’ve had more days where the temperature has surpassed 90 degrees than ever before; at the same time, we’ve had almost no rain. The shrill tone the weather broadcasters use to convey this news is as annoying as mosquitoes. They talk about “smashing” records as if their year-end bonus depends on it. Of course, I could always turn the television off.
So here we are. Even though it’s going to go above 90 today in Portland, and even though there are warm winds blowing out of the east, and even though the fire alert is at the highest possible level – thank God it hasn’t rained! – today is the first day of fall according to the calendar. The sky is perfectly soulless this morning, a flat, textureless blue, but the end is in sight, and I’m looking forward to welcoming the other half of the growth equation: rain.
