Published in edited form July 3, 2013 in Tulare County's Foothills Sun-Gazette
Complaints from neighbors come in many forms. Sometimes they start with a compliment or a joke, a way of prefacing the real subject of the conversation with an assurance that you, the neighboree, are in good standing despite what's about to come. It's how we live side-by-side in a small town and keep the peace, keep our feathers as unruffled as possible.
My neighbors have lots to complain about my blatantly deviant lifestyle, but for the most part they keep it to themselves. I have been accused of bringing property values down with my Okiesque approach to yard maintenance, but that transgression was finally forgiven as I tried to mend my neglectful ways. Recently, one neighbor joked that I am their prime source of entertainment, meaning to laugh at their own boring lives. For a few days I looked at myself more ludicrously than usual, but then I realized that monitoring the neighborhood is something I also do for entertainment as well as safety.
Last week, however, my receiver picked up a couple of transmissions about what I write for the paper creating a negative environment for people who once enjoyed reading my more lyrical pieces about life in this place. "I know you mean well," my neighbor Trish Gutierrez began, after joking about sweeping her grandchildren out of her kitchen and into the pool. "And I know somebody's got to keep an eye on this city, but.... I just miss reading about looking out your kitchen window and loving what's out there." Another long-time friend cornered me at church a few days later and said "If you just hadn't taken sides, you'd still be a resource for us. Now nobody's listening to you."
I confessed to each person that I miss the old days, too. I didn't tell them I've been suspecting that folks are getting tired of hearing about it ("it" meaning the City of Lindsay's transgressions against democracy, working people, the small town environment, the earth,) or that I get sick of writing about it. I didn't tell them that I'd stop if I knew what else to do, how else to work for my version of community betterment. I didn't tell them that sometimes, just when I think about giving up, writing the column saves me. Then, a few days before the Fourth, the temperature hit 110 degrees.
It's funny sometimes how bad weather saves us from our lives in overdrive. The gears grind as we shift down to a necessarily slower speed and tend to the essentials. As my own gears gnashed downward, I realized Trish was right. So I wrote "A Good Snowstorm" for both of us. Here it is.
A Good Snowstorm
-- for Trish
We finally know summer is here as we move toward a sweltering, if not sizzling, Fourth. At the market where I work, the heat is all we talk about as I scan the customers' ice cream and beer, quick-to-fix frozen foods, fruits and salad makings. Each one has a different story about how they're coping, and those stories add up to a community at work.
"I feel sorry for the people without AC," a customer said as I scanned her groceries. She mentioned some friends who'd invited family members to come stay with them because they only have swamp. We didn't have swamp in western Washington when I grew up and wouldn't have know what you were talking about, but I remember some old folks sitting uncomfortably under one in Ephrata while we children ran in and out of the house letting the screen door bang and squirting each other with hoses.
"I feel sorry for the people who work outside," said another woman. Those who do were buying Suero Oral and Gatorade on sale, preparing to start early and end earlier yet. "It's not too bad," one man said, dreading Monday. "We'll get through it."
"Get up to the river," another man said, "it's the only thing to do in this heat." I thought of poor Slick Rock, a spot on the Kaweah River above the reservoir that was drowned when they raised the dam. I thought of all the people who used to find relief and recreation there. Just the memory of people enjoying that place made me cooler. I put my feet in the river there one last time before they filled the lake to its new level. A friend told me later that because of this drought the lake is so low now that Slick Rock is exposed once again. A lifelong resident of this county, he said now's the time to get up there before the river goes dry.
I myself have been working with fans to distribute a small flow of cool air from an ancient wall unit I pray every day will not die. I turn it off around 5:30 a.m., fling open every window in the house. listening to the birds wake, and wait for that draft of cool mountain air sucked down as the sun hits the valley floor. It gives me and the cats a few hours of quiet before the roar of the fans becomes music to our ears once again.
"Come jump in our pool," a neighbor invited, which I will take her up on the instant my heat discomfort overrides my desire to not be seen in my swimsuit. I remember my mother desiring the same thing, feel continuity over the generations, and keep my ice cube trays filled.
As I listened to my customers, I realized that a good hot spell does for summer what a good snowstorm does for winter. It breaks our normal daily patterns and preoccupations, forcing us to pay attention to the most necessary parts of our lives: eating, sleeping, staying hydrated and as close to 98.6 as possible It provides opportunities for inventiveness and cooperation, giving importance to our social life we don't often see as we are reminded that the natural elements can overwhelm us. And somehow the heat triggers memories of other people and other times, keeping us tuned to the cycles of life. A good hot spell, like a good snowstorm, is a blessing in disguise.
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Trudy Wischemann is a writer who used to work outside but now hides out under the air conditioner. You can send her your ice cube tray stories % P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a comment below.
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