“The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”
Mark Twain
There’s usually a smell in the late afternoon baked forest that I can only describe as sexual. It’s delicious to my nose. This summer, I’ve not smelled it once.
If any doubting Thomas (or Penelope) needed proof that the climate is not itself these days, just come to the Monterey Peninsula and take an afternoon walk with me. Or don’t come here. Try Chicago, New York City, Pakistan. This is not Mark Twain’s summer in San Francisco. This is a chill of another factor. The sky is the color of milk and as heavy. It weighs on my head almost all the time. This a dampness meant for rain forests. Or Siberia. By nature, I’ve got the sunniest of dispositions but some days, I dissolve into Ms. Gloom-and-Doom.
We’re used to summer fog in these parts. After more than thirty years on the central California coast, I've become accustomed to it. It’s so much better than mid day in Manhattan where even my sweat sweats. The pattern here is for the fog to clear bringing an unabashed sun out, turning the day into something to write home about—warm and beautiful—around 11:00 or a little after. Around 6:00 or a bit before the fog tiptoes back before we can bemoan the day’s heat. Its return makes us long for the next day’s afternoon. That’s a Monterey summer, a Santa Cruz or San Francisco summer. And, as I said, this is not that. That is tolerable. My tomatoes ripen absolutely deliciously in that. This is not that, as I believe, I’ve mentioned.
This is: Where the hell are my tomatoes? Peaches taste like yellow fleshed, sweetened cardboard. And must I wear a wool dress in August? This chill has spread to my bones. They are cold. My hair is cold. It is 2:00 in the afternoon and I have wool blended socks on. They’re a bright turquoise blue to remind me of the sea in the Mediterranean where, I hope, it’s warm, the sun tickling the water, the sunbathers turn over like so much meat on the grill. What’s worst though is this weather makes me fearful for the future. Not my future, but the future for the ones on their way up.
Here’s the few good things that I know of, resulting from winter in July and now August: the gardens are not demanding inordinate amounts of water; my cats aren’t burdened with fleas, making their hind legs work overtime; when walking up hill at Jacks Peak I’m not bathing in my own sweat.
My Monday afternoon writing students would like to contribute the following additions: Roberta says, “Taking a hot tub is more fun.” Laura reminds me, “The hills are not ablaze with fire as they were the two preceding years.” “For once, it’s 90 in Seattle,” says Margaret. Her son lives there and he’s enjoying the heat. Lorraine says, “It makes us travel elsewhere for warmth.” In mind anyway. Richard suggests visiting his home town of Syracuse—just kidding! And lastly, from Alisa, “More pleasure can be derived from cup after cup of hot tea!” Better not leave Persis out, the one comment I can wholeheartedly take comfort in. “It’s better weather for writing!”
And you, out there, what good foggy things have you come up with?
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I'm here, in Mammoth, about to start in on my morning tea, watching the orange-y, golden-y sun begin to hit the tops of the trees in my backyard. It's warm for this August morn, 55º, and I'm quite aware of taking advantage of keeping my feet bare and my front door open while I can. Fog? Not here. I do remember those Santa Cruz days when a drive up to the Summit was the only way to leave the feeling of gloom because, though one might be dodging speeding cars on Highway 17, at least there was the sun and blue sky. I remember the space I felt when I, finally, saw the sky. Whew. Here in the eastern Sierra, we talk about the weather or the current conditions pretty much everyday; make that, every chance we get. As in, "wow it's a beautiful summer day today, better enjoy it, I hear we are in for an early winter this year." Or, "ah, did you feel how warm it is? Finally! I hear we are in for even more snow than last year." Or, "feel the chill this morning? Shit, didn't we just have winter?" It's kind of summer by comparison, a little summer squeezed between a winter that lasted until mid-June (this year) and the next winter that will be, by all predictions, early, cold and likely great if you are into flying down steep hills on skies or boards. So, while you may not be wearing your tshirts, we are beginning to accumulate wood (I used 6 cords last winter-my only heat source); where you are dealing with that wet, bone chilling fog, we are soaking up the late August sun with the silly notion that we'll be able to use some of it when the first snow flies, likely in October. Perhaps I am not being a good listener, the kind who shows her empathy and understands, truly, what wool socks feel like when slaps used to be in order. I sympathize, really I do (though I did enjoy the dripping trees up at Pogonip on really foggy days), and hope that, as we get closer to fall, your skies open up, glorious and inspiring. I will wish that for you today and remember your fog when I'm buying dog kibble today and the owner of the shop brings up how close we are to winter....how betrayed we feel that our summer isn't nearly long enough, isn't what we need it to be. Damnit.
ReplyDeleteThe white box. Hurray.The sun has returned the last two days and warmed my spirits. Today is still an unknown but I am hopeful. Those green tomatoes in my front yard would like some heat.
ReplyDeleteWhen I moved to San Francisco, I knew my summers would be perfect: no worries about hot, muggy days wishing my body was encased in an air conditioned space suit with control buttons on the wrists ensuring my ability to moderate the suit's temperature as those on the outside of it rose and descended. Growing up in the San Joaquin Valley taught me to appreciate the subtle shifts from days on end of triple digit temperatures to inexplicable journeys into fog and frost and bone-chilling damp, but I never adapted to either extreme; I perfected the art of dealing with them. I welcomed being able to bundle up during the dog days of summer when the Valley was doing its job of growing fruits and vegetables in sweltering heat.
ReplyDeleteLiving in Seattle and San Diego provided opportunities to experience different weather, and I made my notes, always trying to figure in the positives: Seattle's rain wasn't really rain to me; it was heavy mist that kept my skin refreshed. San Diego's Point Loma rarely reached temperatures cold enough to make me feel the need for much layering. Regular visits to Toronto have taught me to leave that wonderful city by or before the end of the first week of December to avoid truly cold conditions. My trips to so-called temperate zones of the world have taught me that in spite of their rich cultural offerings, neither they nor likely the tropics are places I would ever consider living owing to their vast capabilities of making you sweat when all you're doing is blinking your eyes.
What I especially appreciate about summer on the California coast is how the fog makes me feel as though I'm an accomplice to secret rituals. I may dress in conventional t-shirts, jackets, or sweaters to stay warm, but in my mind's eye I am draped in soft woolen cloaks, hooded to disguise my identity as I move about, tending to the business of surprising someone with a bag of produce from the hot parts of the state, leaving it on their doorstep, and then drifting back into the fog before my visit can be discovered. When the wind blows into town from its offshore origins, its shriek reminds me that I am a child of the weather, and that I must act upon the necessities of being prepared for it so that I may continue doing the things that keep my life vital and meaningful. The odd heat wave serves as a reminder to me that I know how to deal with it, having lived where temperatures climb much higher and for longer periods of time. It will pass and I'll once again don the cape of secretive missions.