I feel like I’m living in a terrarium. The humidity here in Alabama is like the inside of a rain cloud that just holds its cargo out of some kind of cosmic spite.
I feel an odd affinity with Oz’s wicked witch when she croaks “I’m melting! I’m melting!” But if she lived Down South instead of in Kansas’s alter ego of Oz she wouldn’t be wearing black.
Actually, in this kind of weather (90+with 99% humidity) my normally good sweet personality (shut-up, peanut gallery) takes on a decided witchy transformation. I-R-R-I-T-A-B-L-E spells witch. Occasionally I’ve been called the She-Wolf-From-Hell, though my lips are sealed about the Georgia-cracker’s identity. And since the Devil annexes the Deep South for the summer (I suspect he designates and goes on vacation to Alaska), I don’t feel too badly about the title.
But I will say my name-caller’s reaction to a hot, humid climate is more on a NORMAL level. He grew up in south Georgia (USA) where it’s often ten degrees hotter — and worked in his family’s tobacco fields. All I can say is . . . when he was born, somebody gave him a Get-Out-of-Hell-Free card. Me? I’m just enduring after 20 years in the fiery furnace of menopause. That’s hell on the inside as well as without. Case in point is my above profile picture from last summer. I had been outside in the heat. The hat covers hair hanging in wet shreds. The big happy smile? I’m indoors in blessed air-conditioning with North to Alaska playing in the background. (Just joking about the song – not the AC).
In this weather my brain goes into hibernation until the Hell Advisory is lifted. I eat cantaloupe and lettuce and drink gallons of cold, cold milk. Heaven would be a road-ready RV and a retirement package. We could actually find some place with S-N-O-W and I could walk around outdoors. I wouldn’t even need a coat. Or shoes. I could sun-bathe.
Several years ago I wrote a poem describing how heat affects people and animals entitled Southern Discomfort. It’s a wonder we don’t get vultures dropping out of the sky. A fellow blogger Susan Alton, who posts Travel Bug, and who once worked in Texas, said she could identify with its sentiments. (There is also a famous poem called “Hell in Texas”). But you will simply have to make do with my poem at the moment, if you care to read on. Here is a repeat of my composition.:
Cats drip from deck rails;
Dogs splatter porches, felled by Fahrenheit.
Azaleas cast narcotic nets, holding senses hostage.
Bees droooooooone . . .
Flies buzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
Eyes glaaaazzzzzze . . .
and . . . ummmm . . . . . . .
Wha? Oh, yeah . . .
Summer puts you in a daze
In the South.
P.S. The above name-caller just breezed through and informed me that it is in the 70’s in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. Get thee behind me, Satan. And wave that fan a little faster, would you?