And just like that, my summer has (unofficially) arrived.
I say that not because of the marathon birthday celebration that lasted all last week featuring stellar meals at Dinamo, Lemaire and Metzger, although it was a fine excuse to debut some of my newest thrift store summer dresses and pack away the leggings until Halloween.
For that matter, surely I could be forgiven for designating this year's first visit to Quirk's rooftop - with posse in tow, several of whom had yet to experience the beauty of Jackson Ward laid out before them from on high - as the kickoff to the most wonderful time of the year, but it wasn't.
And I don't say that my favorite season is upon us because of spending a day last week on the Outer Banks, despite the pleasures of a crabcake sandwich lunch at Frog Island Seafood, a cookout in the backyard of a soundfront cottage and the distinct pleasure of a major first: riding bikes from sound to ocean.
Technically, I could even make a case for the commencement of summer as the first night that required not only open windows (they've been the norm since April) but the additional machinations of the ceiling fan, the table fan and the upright fan, all wafting moving air directly at my bed. But I won't do that.
Another worthy indicator might be the hissing of the sprinkler saturating the continuous waves of flowers - heirloom roses, Asian lilies, Gerbera daisies, dianthus, petunias, clematis, pincushion flowers - in my little front garden. It seems like every time I'm down there moving the sprinkler, a stranger walks by and smilingly tells me some version of, "I love looking at your flowers." A woman with a toddler in a stroller has walked by repeatedly, explaining that she made my block part of her route solely so they can enjoy my garden.
No question, I could say that attending my first Sundown at Scuffletown show earlier this week qualifies as some sort of musical announcement that summer is here. The dusky interludes are one those established things (this is, what, the sixth year now?) I continue to do that never get old because the best things never do. It doesn't hurt that I always run into familiar faces, either.
As new to me as my latest summer dresses, the Billy Bacci Band - keys, guitar, bass and drums - delivered a solid set of keyboard-based indie music as the sun set behind the trees. Even Billy seemed thrilled with the outdoor venue, noting, "This is the best gig ever because I live a block from here!" But is my first outdoor show this year worthy of being the harbinger of summer's arrival? I think not.
What did make it feel like summer without a doubt was - wait for it - Mac and I finally being able to walk the Pipeline.
That it occurred on my birthday only made it all the sweeter. Uncharacteristically, we hadn't been able to get on the pipeline since last October, despite regularly attempting to do so only to find it submerged. Thanks to a record-setting soggy 2018, the pipeline has been partially or mostly underwater for months, depriving Mac and I of our favorite daily walk.
All I know is that as of May 23, the pipeline was back and we could experience the particular pleasures, both sight and sound, of walking on water again. Which means as far as I'm concerned, my season is here.
Let the hot fun in the summertime begin.
Showing posts with label fans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fans. Show all posts
Friday, May 31, 2019
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Never Too Hot to Handle
Allow me to brag for a moment.
July 2016 was the hottest month on record according to NASA, weather.com and just about every other science nerd institution that pays people to monitor such things in hermetically sealed buildings across the country.
Certainly in Richmond it was a scorcher.
Yet, for the 24th year in a row, I eschewed air conditioning. It's not like I don't have central air retrofitted to my 1876 apartment, it's just that I've never turned it on in seven plus years of living here. For the other 17 years of living as Mother Nature intended during summer, I chose to live in un-air-conditioned residences.
My reasons are myriad, but let's start with how unnatural it is to be cool and comfortable in the south during the summer. You may be able to separate yourself from your body's natural responses, but I can't. I actually like that feeling of sweat working its way down my chest or back.
What air conditioning devotees (who, in a Venn diagram, overlap almost entirely with cell phone owners) refuse to acknowledge is that by being in climate-controlled spaces so much during the summer, your body's ability to deal with heat is severely compromised.
Even long-time friends who've accepted this eccentricity of mine aren't above looking at me with disdain, say on a patio or rooftop bar, and saying some version of, "You're not even sweating, are you?"
No, I'm not because my body is acclimated to dealing with heat, just as yours was at one time.
It's not like I don't sweat because I am slick with it after walking six miles every morning in this weather, but I also walk four miles an hour, so I'm not exactly lollygagging, either. But sitting outside, having a drink in 90 degree weather? That's hardly sweat-worthy once you're used to your apartment thermostat climbing to (occasionally above) 95.
Embracing summer would be reason enough for living outside societal norms, but the benefits pile on far beyond my preference for summers more reminiscent of those from my childhood.
My July electric bill was $38, how about yours? My carbon footprint is smaller than my actual footprint (although I don't exactly have petite feet) and I'm among the few who aren't contributing to global warming for the sake of sweater weather in July and August and, being an old hippie, that gives me a great deal of satisfaction.
But, honestly, I turned my back on A/C to enhance the quality of my life.
When I looked at this apartment initially, every window was painted shut and I immediately told my landlord-to-be that I wouldn't take it unless every window opened easily and had screens. Already pegging me for a long-term rental gem, he accommodated. Two years ago, he had storm windows put in so my 19th century windows were a bit more air tight during polar vortexes.
Open windows are like porch sitting; they involved you in the goings-on of your neighborhood.
I hear people riding bikes a block before they pass my windows, their voices projecting ahead of their tires. Snippets of pedestrian conversation and car music drift up from the street (hearing Al Green blasting from an open car window has been known to cause spontaneous harmonizing ), along with the hum of cicadas at night and birds in the morning.
Granted, I also hear the trash truck on Wednesdays, the neighbor's hound alerting his parents to people in the alley and VCU's catastrophic siren, but, really, that's all just part and parcel of city life, like dings on your bumpers from daily parallel parking. If you want to feel isolated from the world (and maintain pristine bumpers), move to the suburbs or country.
And did I mention the perks of living without A/C beyond your physiology, the planet, your wallet and neighborliness?
When the mercury climbs precariously high in my apartment, I take that as summer giving me permission to wallow in it. That means cool showers, heat naps with three fans pointed directly at me, reading in my north-facing bedroom or on the shaded balcony and ice cream, lots of ice cream.
It means that there are times when I don't do anything at all because it's simply too hot. Summer was like that when I was a kid and it's still like that.
I ask you, what other season extends such glorious goof-off opportunities?
July 2016 was the hottest month on record according to NASA, weather.com and just about every other science nerd institution that pays people to monitor such things in hermetically sealed buildings across the country.
Certainly in Richmond it was a scorcher.
Yet, for the 24th year in a row, I eschewed air conditioning. It's not like I don't have central air retrofitted to my 1876 apartment, it's just that I've never turned it on in seven plus years of living here. For the other 17 years of living as Mother Nature intended during summer, I chose to live in un-air-conditioned residences.
My reasons are myriad, but let's start with how unnatural it is to be cool and comfortable in the south during the summer. You may be able to separate yourself from your body's natural responses, but I can't. I actually like that feeling of sweat working its way down my chest or back.
What air conditioning devotees (who, in a Venn diagram, overlap almost entirely with cell phone owners) refuse to acknowledge is that by being in climate-controlled spaces so much during the summer, your body's ability to deal with heat is severely compromised.
Even long-time friends who've accepted this eccentricity of mine aren't above looking at me with disdain, say on a patio or rooftop bar, and saying some version of, "You're not even sweating, are you?"
No, I'm not because my body is acclimated to dealing with heat, just as yours was at one time.
It's not like I don't sweat because I am slick with it after walking six miles every morning in this weather, but I also walk four miles an hour, so I'm not exactly lollygagging, either. But sitting outside, having a drink in 90 degree weather? That's hardly sweat-worthy once you're used to your apartment thermostat climbing to (occasionally above) 95.
Embracing summer would be reason enough for living outside societal norms, but the benefits pile on far beyond my preference for summers more reminiscent of those from my childhood.
My July electric bill was $38, how about yours? My carbon footprint is smaller than my actual footprint (although I don't exactly have petite feet) and I'm among the few who aren't contributing to global warming for the sake of sweater weather in July and August and, being an old hippie, that gives me a great deal of satisfaction.
But, honestly, I turned my back on A/C to enhance the quality of my life.
When I looked at this apartment initially, every window was painted shut and I immediately told my landlord-to-be that I wouldn't take it unless every window opened easily and had screens. Already pegging me for a long-term rental gem, he accommodated. Two years ago, he had storm windows put in so my 19th century windows were a bit more air tight during polar vortexes.
Open windows are like porch sitting; they involved you in the goings-on of your neighborhood.
I hear people riding bikes a block before they pass my windows, their voices projecting ahead of their tires. Snippets of pedestrian conversation and car music drift up from the street (hearing Al Green blasting from an open car window has been known to cause spontaneous harmonizing ), along with the hum of cicadas at night and birds in the morning.
Granted, I also hear the trash truck on Wednesdays, the neighbor's hound alerting his parents to people in the alley and VCU's catastrophic siren, but, really, that's all just part and parcel of city life, like dings on your bumpers from daily parallel parking. If you want to feel isolated from the world (and maintain pristine bumpers), move to the suburbs or country.
And did I mention the perks of living without A/C beyond your physiology, the planet, your wallet and neighborliness?
When the mercury climbs precariously high in my apartment, I take that as summer giving me permission to wallow in it. That means cool showers, heat naps with three fans pointed directly at me, reading in my north-facing bedroom or on the shaded balcony and ice cream, lots of ice cream.
It means that there are times when I don't do anything at all because it's simply too hot. Summer was like that when I was a kid and it's still like that.
I ask you, what other season extends such glorious goof-off opportunities?
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