On June 21 we turned on our air conditioner. Why do I tell you this? Because it’s important. Each year, it signals the end of something.
Each summer when the heat descends, my family relaxes into it. We push the windows wide open, pull off some clothes and turn on the box fans. We drink iced drinks and let the sweat trickle down. We shift into a lower gear.
On those summer nights, the outdoors is tantalizing. Two streets away, the night air is awash in gardenias. Their deep, clinging scent wafts up from the tiny front yards of my neighborhood.
In my own front yard, I catch a whiff of something lemony. The smell is mysterious at first, until I realize it’s from the magnolia, now a tall tree next to our chimney with blooms as high as 20 feet. Then there’s the light, sweet smell of lavender from the plant I just brushed past.
In the house at night, through the open windows, I hear a chorus of cicadas or crickets or frogs or something. I’ve never understood what makes this sound. In the middle of the night, I awake to see the tiny sparks of fireflies outside the window.
I remember coming out of a bar at 3 a.m. back in Tuscaloosa, walking down the dark streets, climbing a fence and sliding into the dim waters of an apartment swimming pool.
That stolen pleasure, hidden away in the night, comes back to me.
But like many pleasures, heat loses its allure after a while. It becomes merely hot and irritating. What I’m mostly smelling now is mildew.
Now, it’s time to savor the luxury of cool air pouring over cool sheets at bedtime, to anticipate the AC clicking on and its low growl lulling me to sleep.
Outside, the crepe myrtle are waving their hot pink fronds along DeKalb Avenue. The zucchini plants are going wild in the garden, indulging in some kind of manic reproduction. The ornamental tomato has a swelling green baby.
Early summer is over. Deep summer is here.
Next week – missives from the beach … maybe.
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