Sunday, June 11, 2000
AC turned us all into wimps
I grew up just outside Washington, D.C., in a house with no air conditioning. Summer in D.C. is a lot like summer here, only worse.
The capital was built on a swamp. Between June and October, we lived on a bayou without Cajuns or crawfish.
In summer, we'd devise scientific strategies to keep the house cool: Throw open windows at night, aim the fans in; lower windows in the morning, aim the fans out. Draw the blinds, so the house would resemble a mortuary.
If we left the front door open to run in for a second to stick our heads in the freezer, my mother would yell, “Close the door! We're not cooling the county!”
Yeah, spare the county the rush of 80-degree air emanating from our AC-less castle.
The heat is on
But in the spirit of not missing what you didn't have, I never missed air conditioning. Now, I almost wish I didn't have it to miss.
There are two types of people: Those who like air conditioning. And those who don't. The former are slothful, retiring, jaded and resigned. The latter are industrious, frugal, God-fearing and wise.
I am the latter. Naturally.
My family is not. I open windows. They close them. I dial up the thermostat. They dial it down.
This dance of wills will go on for the next four months. I sit on the deck. They sit in the family room. I sweat to the sounds of cicadas, and Marty and Joe. I pass a can of beer across my forehead.
I accept summer. I think I'm morally superior. They think I'm ridiculous.
For AC-less kids in hot, sweaty D.C., summer was a time for renovating parts of the brain that for the previous nine months had been given to memorizing useless information. Nobody remembers or cares that the hypotenuse of a triangle is the side opposite the right angle. But the proper way to thread a nightcrawler onto a hook, well, that was something you'd take to the grave.
Boredom as an art
We did nothing. We did it all the time. We raised nothingness to high art. We didn't complain of boredom, lest our mothers find us something to do.
But we were bored. Being bored was part of summer, no different from sweating or swatting mosquitoes. Being bored forced you to devise ways to stop being bored.
We tossed ourselves into the day — and it was all because we didn't have air conditioning.
There was no point in staying inside, unless you planned on sticking your head in front of the window fan all day. The alternative was to meet the day head on, in all its hot, clammy thickness. It wasn't so bad.
My kids express amazement at such things: No Nintendo? No AC? My god, Dad, how did you live?
Along about ninth grade, my dad caved in and bought a window unit. He stuck it in my parents' bedroom. My mother hung a sheet across the top of the stairs, to keep the almighty cool from escaping to the first floor. I started spending more time in my room.
We moved the next year, to a house with central air. I forgot about bike rides, uncharted creeks and Wiffleball. I stayed inside. I watched TV. It was cool.
Part of summer's wonder leaked out of me then. But I was 16 or so. I had experienced summer. I didn't forget.
Soon, maybe tonight, I'll be on the deck. It'll be about 85 at 10 o'clock, humidity hefty enough to slice. I'll have the radio on. I'll swipe the beer can across my forehead while cursing the closed windows of my house.
So much lost for the sake of being cool.
Paul Daugherty, an Enquirer sports columnist, writes a lifestyle column on Sunday. He welcomes your comments at 768-8454.
