I can’t let summer go without a word.
When I lived in India, summer was the dominant season. It was almost always summer, except when it rained. The rains you could not fail to notice, because it was so abundant, often so violent. Accompanied by strong winds, they blew roofs, brought down energy poles and left streets flooded. Winter? There was no such thing in eastern India, where I lived. For about a month you donned a jacket you had, a flimsy blazer most likely, only because you left for work early or returned late from a party, and felt a gust of cool air on your face. For the rest it was all summer.
It was about the same in the Philippines, where I spent several years. In that country there are only two seasons, summer and more summer. Being an archipelago, when it rained it seem all hell was coming down, but it never seemed make the slightest difference to the temperature. The heat and humidity remained constant. In December, the Filipinos mentioned that winter had arrived, but I did see any difference. If I went for a walk at early dawn, I sweated before I had taken ten steps.
When I lived in India, summer was the dominant season. It was almost always summer, except when it rained. The rains you could not fail to notice, because it was so abundant, often so violent. Accompanied by strong winds, they blew roofs, brought down energy poles and left streets flooded. Winter? There was no such thing in eastern India, where I lived. For about a month you donned a jacket you had, a flimsy blazer most likely, only because you left for work early or returned late from a party, and felt a gust of cool air on your face. For the rest it was all summer.
It was about the same in the Philippines, where I spent several years. In that country there are only two seasons, summer and more summer. Being an archipelago, when it rained it seem all hell was coming down, but it never seemed make the slightest difference to the temperature. The heat and humidity remained constant. In December, the Filipinos mentioned that winter had arrived, but I did see any difference. If I went for a walk at early dawn, I sweated before I had taken ten steps.
So, when I came to Washington, after years of peregrination, I was impressed that I could see the change of season so clearly. Its distinctive brand of summer departed with a bang, to be replaced by gold and orange leaves, rustling in the pleasantly cool breeze of early fall. I could clearly see the fall maturing into something different as I shivered as I stepped out of my home. Then there was a thin layer of ice on the sidewalk and my shoes slipped; I knew winter had arrived. The trees looked denuded, I fished out my mail from the mailbox with a gloved hand, and I walked everywhere in intrepid boots instead of my comfortable shoes. That too passed and new leaves appeared on the trees. The weather turned congenial again, heralding the advent of spring. Neighbors started strolling in our barrio, their kids ran around kicking an orange ball, and I started on my leisurely walk around the lake.
Clearly, there is much to be said for the congenial air of spring and early fall, but I thought in those days that winter was overly maligned. Granted it is no fun to get up at six in the morning, gulp a mug of coffee and step out for work when it is still dark, much of the time I was quite comfortable in my office, in the car and back in my den. Then came the shameless but delightful overeating of Thanksgiving and the ethereal conviviality of Christmas, and I could not put my heart in running down winter as a miserable interval when life is dark and pleasures are verboten. I had my soft corner for winter, despite the cold beds and icy roads.
Clearly, there is much to be said for the congenial air of spring and early fall, but I thought in those days that winter was overly maligned. Granted it is no fun to get up at six in the morning, gulp a mug of coffee and step out for work when it is still dark, much of the time I was quite comfortable in my office, in the car and back in my den. Then came the shameless but delightful overeating of Thanksgiving and the ethereal conviviality of Christmas, and I could not put my heart in running down winter as a miserable interval when life is dark and pleasures are verboten. I had my soft corner for winter, despite the cold beds and icy roads.
Years passed, years since the time I spent my winter holidays happily in Minnesota, White Christmas and icy New Year’s Eve included. Parties did not seem lively enough, if the roads to them did not entail braving mountains of snow and overcoming detours through illusive roadside ditches. The world has changed, and so have I, perhaps more than the world. Now a pair of sturdy horses would not pull me out of home on a snow-laden day and I would rather look at snowflakes from a bedroom window than a car window. My affection for wintry days has gone south, my tolerance for frost and sleet has wilted, and I have learned to embrace summer like a long-lost lover.
Washington – which many early residents referred to as a “swamp” and Donald Trump seems to have revived the title – can be warm and humid. No doubt it is not the best place to be in July. I would rather be in Bogota, Bilbao or Brindisi, or the abundant beaches of Bimini. Yet, in a compromise with an imperfect world, I am quite content these days to pass my days in a warm and moist Washington.
The first thought that occurs to me is that I would rather have it than the rigors of winter. Maurice Chevalier said reportedly that old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative. In a similar spirit I contend, contentedly, with sweat rather than sweaters. I am happy to go around in tee shirts and shorts, and happier still to see women go around in distinctly less.
Washington – which many early residents referred to as a “swamp” and Donald Trump seems to have revived the title – can be warm and humid. No doubt it is not the best place to be in July. I would rather be in Bogota, Bilbao or Brindisi, or the abundant beaches of Bimini. Yet, in a compromise with an imperfect world, I am quite content these days to pass my days in a warm and moist Washington.
The first thought that occurs to me is that I would rather have it than the rigors of winter. Maurice Chevalier said reportedly that old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative. In a similar spirit I contend, contentedly, with sweat rather than sweaters. I am happy to go around in tee shirts and shorts, and happier still to see women go around in distinctly less.
Doctors are telling us more and more, though we are hearing it less and less, that it is no healthy living to spend all our time in confined spaces that are thermostatically heated and air-conditioned. We live away from sunlight and open spaces, and begin to lose alertness, damage our sleep cycle, lose bone density and get hypertension and mood disorders. We live like termites and our life becomes insect-like. The summer months offer a way out. To soak not just the sun, but life itself. To encounter other people who step out and to see a little of the world around us. To spread our invisible but real wings. 860
That is perhaps what the summer really means in this part of the world. A chance to venture out, explore what has remained unseen and unexplored, live in a different way than the way we have mostly lived, meet the people we haven’t met, the strangers who are our neighbors, and simply have a grand time.
So, as the pleasant autumn air brushes my face, I must take a minute and take note that summer is about to end. At least for this year.
That is perhaps what the summer really means in this part of the world. A chance to venture out, explore what has remained unseen and unexplored, live in a different way than the way we have mostly lived, meet the people we haven’t met, the strangers who are our neighbors, and simply have a grand time.
So, as the pleasant autumn air brushes my face, I must take a minute and take note that summer is about to end. At least for this year.
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