Angelo Caroselli: Summer (c. 1620s)

"Grace appears in these most unlikely places."

Summer turns merciless when July Heat arrives. Days bleach the lawn a buff-brown, and the gardens cower, praying for their morning or evening shower. The hanging pots need watering every morning, or they'll wither in the late afternoon sun. There's nothing to be done. I can work outside until noon. Then, I must flee back inside to hibernate until evening. I go effectively nocturnal, and the light seems more of a hindrance than helpful. Cold showers come back into fashion. It's not the Heat so much, but the humility of restricted latitude of movement. I daresn't go on a whim. I need a pretty darned good reason to venture out into it. It brings no discernable benefit.

They still say, "At least it's a dry heat." The humid heat people tolerate Back East does seem demonstrably worse. The natives there walk around with wet towels hanging on their heads, the evaporating moisture creating a cooling atmosphere around their faces. I found no defense other than to cower inside. I'd try to hide, reading and dozing, peering through tightly closed windows to catch glimpses of passing birds. The outside world seemed muted and dense; isolation seemed the only reasonable defense. I often felt useless.

I do not ever wear short pants or short-sleeved shirts. I fear the sun, being the son of a mother who suffered from multiple melanomas. I wear broad-brimmed hats and favor those with drapery hanging down over my neck: Havelocks. I wear dark sunglasses, too, to make the world seem a tad cooler than it actually could be. The air conditioner hums its monotonous tune. The sun insists it’s afternoon when the clock says it's still morning.

The saving Grace, if I find any, visits in the night. If the temp falls beneath seventy and my pillow doesn't get too sweaty, I move around the place in a definite state of Grace, along about two-thirty. A velvety feeling hovers over the yard and slips in through the windows The Muse left open when she finally retired. The air smells fresher than it will until about that time tomorrow, for a scant few hours, until just after that goddamned sun rises again to play for keeps. I'll sleep through the middle of the day; do not deny me these few respite hours before the cold showers resume. The workmen leave at noon.

When I was ten or so, my brother and I sometimes went out on late-night bike rides to the park. The park closed at dusk, but we'd bravely enter anyway, ducking behind and beneath shrubbery whenever headlights passed. We'd yell, "Heat," by which we meant the police were on our tail. We successfully evaded them, knowing we'd be in big trouble if caught out after curfew playing in the park. We were never once ever caught, though we tempted fate plenty. That park was cooling and moist after curfew, the finest few hours of its summer days. We were only playing, but our game was dead serious. I still play Heat when out late, concerned that our city's Finest might find me in violation. It's not merely harmless paranoia, but awareness I seek, presence. I sense how precious my stolen hours must be. Why else would the whole police force be sweeping the darkened park with their headlights searching for me?

Grace appears in these most unlikely places.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz