I’m like a hunter of Peace, one who chases the elusive mayfly of love… or something like that. – Vash the Stampede, Trigun by Yasuhiro Nightow
I decided to go to the Homestead for a while, visiting the ancestors. Ha ha. It’s been fun to wake without an alarm and to devote entire hours – hours! – to reading. I consider it a wonderful setting for writer’s summer camp.
There’s the familiar sights and sounds of summer, whether taking walks down the dirt road or watching summer sports. It didn’t take more than a day before I felt an epic poem coming on, a la The Song of Hiawatha:
By the shores of Wiggins Lake,
in the big brown stuff’d recliner,
rested the warrior, The Old Man,
pointing with the TV clicker,
shouting at the TV, angry,
angry at the lousy Tigers.
Unfortunately, my father didn’t like the reference to “The Old Man” – a proud warrior’s title, I thought. I suppose the Detroit Tigers won’t like it, either. Everyone’s a critic.
When it rains – even with accompanying lightning – I’m very happy. It’s been so dry that I started carrying buckets of water to certain plants, such as the rhubarb and hydrangea.
On the other hand, the dryness made the heat bearable. Last week was in the mid-90s again, but it felt cooler than previous humid days. Plus the mosquito population died back.
I should mention I live in an extremely humid region, a marshland bordered by a river. I’m not native to The Swamp – as my colleagues call it affectionately – but I learned a few things quickly:
- Cardboard storage boxes are pointless. They absorb moisture whether they’re in the
attackattic or shed. Sometimes they fall apart in your hands even if they don’t look rotty. Sometimes they attract creatures that like humidity… yikes!
- Musty smells differ just like flower scents. I like loamy dirt and after-rain smells, but cool nights cause the warm swamp to “breathe” – blech!
- Perspiration doesn’t have a cooling effect because it doesn’t evaporate. It just rolls down your body, under your clothes. It’s like wearing a sauna but without the camaraderie.
- In the dry winter, the humidity is forgotten – until you take out the good stationery to write an old-fashioned holiday letter. Then you’ll discover that, sometime during the summer, the humidity glued the envelopes shut.