Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

The local chapter of the Loafers’ Club was meeting.

“It’s hotter than blue blazes,” greeted one. Nobody asked how hot blue blazes were.

“Yes, it’s hotter than the hinges of Hades,” said another.

The rest chimed in, “Satan called. He wants his weather back.” “The trouble with Minnesota is that we get too much weather.”

It was hard to argue with the last one. I’ve never heard anyone say, “The problem is that we don’t get enough weather.” We get weather almost every day. Weather might be good or bad depending upon my viewpoint or it might not. Seasons change making it seem as if I’ve moved without changing addresses. Winter’s woes collide with summer’s doldrums on the highway of seasons leaving shards of broken dreams of perfect weather.

I know there are places that get hotter weather than us — hotter and more of it — where an air conditioner can only sigh. I tell everyone having an ear that it should never be allowed to get to 90 degrees in the Gopher State. Nothing good happens. It becomes humid, muggy, sticky, close, steamy and sultry. The combination of heat and humidity causes weather to do stupid things — drag in bad weather. It introduces a heat index. This nasty term is meant to hasten discomfort. Maybe calling it a heat chill would help. Meteorologists toss in the dew point to further enhance our misery. Summer is full of promise. It promises to give us enough bad weather to satisfy those who miss complaining about winter weather.

As a boy, I didn’t know anyone with air conditioning. People were big fans of fans. I loved going to the local grocery store on scalding hot days and hanging around the frozen food section for as long as I could before the guilt kicked in. Taking a dip in a cow tank was cooling even if it disgusted the cows. It wasn’t easy to disgust cows. On rare occasions, we’d go to the lake a few miles of gravel roads away. It covered about 75 acres and was filled with water, an important thing for a lake. This lake was number 7,612 of Minnesota’s 11,842 lakes. Minnesota DNR considers a lake to be 10 acres or more, making us the land of 11,842 lakes.

Perhaps we notice the heat more in our air-conditioned world. People become hot and bothered. Tempers flare. Heat rash causes that.

We’re happy when summer gets here, but it’s a fox in the henhouse. Summer plays hardball. The dog days hit. Often considered the hot period between early July and early September, the actual dog days of summer are the 20 days before and after Sirius (Dog Star) is aligned with the sun, July 3 to Aug. 11. They are named because Sirius, a bright star in the constellation Canis Major or Greater Dog, rises with the sun. The Romans thought its heat reinforced the sun’s heat.

John Brady wrote in 1813, “Dog Days (were) an evil time; the sea boiled, the wine turned sour, dogs grew mad and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics and phrensies.”

Brady penned that without a Bic to his name.

We subdue the unruly heat the best we can by air conditioning our world. But we need to spend time beyond the reach of a cooling system. How do you deal with the heat? Here are some ideas.

Stop blinking.

Just be cool.

Stay away from thermometers.

Turn the AC up (or down if you prefer) until a polar bear moves in.

Move to Greenland.

Have an air conditioner installed in your underwear.

Don’t be a wimp.

Repeat the mantra, “It could be worse.”

I try to ignore the heat. I worked in the yard on a day much too hot to be working in the yard, but I do things when I have the time. The mosquitoes were vampiric. According to MIT (Meriwether Ignatz Torkelson), the human body has 2 to 5 million sweat glands. Mine were working overtime. I didn’t necessarily want to beat the heat. I was playing for a tie. Then I remembered Mother’s method of dealing with the heat. Mom sang Christmas carols when it was hot. She said that fooled the mind into thinking it was cold. It worked for her.

I sang, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “Joy to the World” and “A Holly Jolly Christmas.” I even tossed in a “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

It didn’t help.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.