Keeps Me Burnin’, Burnin’

Hot town,

Summer in the city 

Back of my neck

Gettin’ burned and gritty 

Was that the way that old song went? It doesn’t matter because that’s the way I used to sing it, at least. Thing is, I sang it every time I lived in a city (except for one which I might tell you about some day), I hated it, the city life, especially in June, July, August. In my opinion, cities are not a place to be in the summer. It’s that gritty thing that bothers me the most, probably.

If you’re going to be caught up in a heat wave, do it right. Find a village or a small town, preferably near the coast of almost anywhere. Not in a desert. You’ll fry. In fact, you’ll probably not even be able to tell you’re in a heat wave in a place like that. Besides, you’ll miss the real fun, further east.

This is day three of our local heat wave. This is Maine. Any high heat two days in a row or more, is considered a heat wave. But still. This year the higher than normal temperatures started in July, though, and have melted over into August. As a result, summer is still sitting now, quite nicely, and the heat keeps edging up each day. People everywhere in town seem to be gasping, begging for relief yet thinking about the two days of ‘Indian Summer’ we have here. (Please don’t think I’m unaware of the term I just used. My point was that people in my neck of the woods call the pair of warm days that come in October by that name. I have no idea where it came from.) our second summer is much, much cooler.

This day started pretty early, because I wanted to do a few things before the sky iron started pressing the cotton tee shirt I had put on. I was aware that the scent everybody knows means ‘freshly laundered, just out of the dryer’, would be burned off long before noon. Because I had those errands to do, I wanted to move fast, work up a... 

Yes, you understood perfectly. I wanted to rush around getting tasks completed, because then I planned to float. Not in the lake, given that I can’t swim hardly at all, but rather in my own sweat. That isn’t easy, you know. You hear some people mention how we should be happy in our own skins. But happy in their own sweat? Not so much. That is too bad. It’s part of us and does some interesting boundary-marking, as I hope to explain to you now.

Anyway, today I went early to the post office. I kind of just wanted to remind myself where it was (just kidding) and kind of wanted to remind myself what a stamp looked like (also just kidding, although not as much). Because of the hour, I was in and out in less than fifteen minutes and ten sticky drops of sweat on my upper lip. Success.

After leaving the red brick post office on Pleasant Street, I headed toward the farmers’ (or is it farmer’s?) market in the Village Green on Maine Street. They’re just starting to bring in ripe tomatoes, along with the already truck-sized zucchini that grows in this area. I have no idea what I am going to make and as a consequence have no shopping list, mental or otherwise.

Anyway, food that starts simple and is, if not totally un-planned, remains a vague notion, is always going to be successful. I like philosophizing about food as well as eating it, but I do consider myself to be a hungry person. I’m a lot like Twoie, the starving plant in Little Shop of Horrors... Feed me! Feeeeeeeeddd me! Or throw some olive oil, some Celtic salt, basil, and tomatoes on me, and I’ll be edible, too. Trust me.

These items I’m buying at the outdoor market (trying to solve the dilemma of where to put the apostrophe, although at least I know there’s a dilemma; most people haven’t a clue what to do with an apostrophe). The salads I make are not city fare. In should mention that in urban areas, I get the impression people just eat and run, sometimes just because they’re hurrying to find the next air-conditioned enclosure where they can hang out. So sad, don’t you think?

Hot here, even in the shade. It must be at least ninety degrees here by the gazebo. I heard there’s a wasps’ nest (check out my correct use of the apostrophe) Under the steps and will ne careful not to disturb them. It’s very humid. Coastal areas don’t generally get days of high humidity, but climate changes has recently been bringing us remnants of tropical storms. I feel rather overcome by the temperature, maybe because I have two mammoth zucchinis in tow. And the tomatoes.

I sit on a nearby bench, wanting very much to curse the heat, but I just can’t. My tee shirt is drenched to the point where I feel self-conscious, and I am certain my cheeks are beet red. I wonder if I need to go back to the market for some of those? Do I need another salad? Do I really need to struggle with those vegetables when I am dying of thirst? Which is the priority here?

I am truly melting, so I think I need a survival strategy. I’m going to think of colors. Color always makes me happy. Then a rainbow falls - plop! - right smack in my lap. It’s the burning sun’s fault, because we know it’s not raining, not a drop. The rays of the sun are shining through a glass of mineral water on the table I’ve selected. I chose the spot for its crossroads location. It’s where the breezes criss-cross and depart. And my elderflower sparkling water in the glass sends the rainbows all over my lap. I think that the zucchini and beets must enjoy the rainbows, too. I pretend they do.

You might be wondering how I can write when it is so hot and there are so many rainbows. It’s not hard to explain at all. After I finish looking at how somebody has successfully trained the horrible, invasive Asian Bittersweet into a stunning green column with undulating tendrils, we can continue. It doesn’t matter what the pace is. We’ll make it. I’ll make it.

Well, it’s about three minutes and not a lot of steps later and I am feeling rather tempted to check out one of the wooden lawn chairs some thoughtful soul has placed beside the second-hand bookstore. I don’t have any books with me right now. Will I be allowed to sit here? Is there enough shade for the tomatoes and zucchini? I doubt the beets will mind.

I sit in the clean, painted chair and think how it looks handmade. I am hoping there are no brown tail moth caterpillars where I’m sitting. They love oak trees, but also nest in other places. I do not love those caterpillars because I am deathly allergic to them. Bees are great and wasps don’t bother me. Spiders are fine. Brown tail moths are not.

It looks safe. All I spot are some rapid ants scuttling about. They seem to be constructing their usual houses and hills. I wonder: Do ants sweat? Does it ever get too hot for them to bustle about nonstop like they usually do? I’d kind of like to know, but they’re not apt to respond in my language. I don’t mind. I also think any poison should be abolished. The caterpillars? The fewer, the better.

Speaking of banning things, I don’t think air-conditioning should be legal, either. At least not from Pennsylvania north. We simply don’t need it. Sweating has its virtues, among other things. Air-conditioning makes us forget we have bodies. We need to be able to feel our skin, even if it means gritty is part of it. (Again, that’s not a problem for me, since I don’t spend summer in the city.)

Time to start walking again. I left my car a few streets away so I’d be walking, and thus sweating, more. It was a decision I think I regret, then shake my head. 

That’s crazy. You wanted to walk. You wanted to swim. To look and hear. You usually do none of those when it’s cold, rainy, snowy. You love the glow of gold that presses on your head and back. You sought that, silly. You planned it. Own up.

I am up by the statue of U.S Civil War hero Joshua Chamberlain, on the corner of Maine Street and Bath Road. I stop to see if he is sweating in his heavy military garb. I wonder if the wore heavy wool in the southern battle areas, in Georgia and the Carolinas? I wonder how they managed to wash their clothing at all? I wonder how a student who was born in Brewer, Maine (a hole in the wall) came to study Classics, to fight in a major war and survive, although badly affected health wise, who was President of prestigious Bowdoin College, did all that and ended up with a statue in Brunswick, Maine? (I knew I would be reading up on him, filling in some blanks in the vague stories I had heard about Chamberlain.)

I sit on the curved stone bench by Joshua, or rather beneath him, because he towers above me. I can smell the day lilies planted in this intimate circle of four benches and a towering giant of a hero. A slight breeze sends the scent of barbecued something my way. I am not hungry, but more than that, I am far too hot to walk over the the Station Inn where people are dining on the patio. I wouldn’t make it.

Fortunately, I have made it to my car. At last! I drop into the driver’s seat, very relieved. My tee shirt sticks to the seat and my jeans cling to my thighs. You already know what my tee shirt looks like. I am a walking sauna.

Now I am home. I shower, throwing the nasty garments I was wearing as far as possible. This has been a real Inferno of a day. I felt like I was stopping every two feet.

Yet every time I stopped, I learned something. Today I stopped more than usual. I learned more than usual. I sweated more than usual. It made me stop more than usual, but the warm sweat all over me made me know exactly where the body that’s mine was stopping. My wet shirt and pants made sure I was aware of my place in the air. I moved through it like a sponge. And I absorbed things that were there, like a sponge. A very special transformation. My mind is now dripping with new sights, scents, and sounds. Those have not washed off in the shower.

I smell like I’ve been freshly laundered. I take a deep breath of me and slip bet the sheets, no other covering needed. It’s still wicked hot, as they say in Maine.

Tomorrow- oh dear! - the prediction is for it to be 5 degrees hotter.

Thank you, weather person. Yes, thank you.