There will be heat
Monday’s column was about Arkansas’ fickle weather as of late. I had typed it as rain fell in a gentle shower, almost lulling me to sleep in my carport-apartment-writing-space. As I begin roughing out this column, the heat index in Little Rock is 109 degrees.
The swing from Colorado pleasant to Mojave hot is whiplash-inducing. Despite any respite we may get, if it’s summer in Arkansas, there will be heat, and lots of it.
My primary tack for dealing with hot weather is to just dive in, make the most of it. I give myself fully to sweating more and sleeping less, thanks to the former attic that is now our bedroom. I shower more frequently, eat cold dinners, and otherwise embrace summer in Little Rock.
I do this primarily because of one incident 25 years ago. My school, Catholic High, remained un-air-conditioned until a few years ago. That meant early dismissals on really hot days, test papers sticking to sweaty arms, and perspiration before nine in the morning. No big deal as a student. We’d complain about the hot classrooms then play basketball in the un-air-conditioned gym at lunch. Go figure.
Later, I flouted the heat as a teacher, wearing my tie as a badge of honor in the classroom sauna. The students would beg me not to use the overhead projector with its exhaust fan blowing in their faces, as if that one little bulb would be the tipping point. Again, there I was, showing my determination.
Then, one early September, I caught a stomach virus.
No big deal. Teachers early in their careers catch every bug their students carry. I stayed home a day or two and forced myself back to work, trying to take liquids though Father Tribou frowned on teachers drinking anything in class at the time.
The temperature skyrocketed after lunch. I felt woozy as I stood before the adolescents sitting in neat classroom rows. Every good teacher knows to never show weakness in front of teenagers, so I powered through. When I arrived home, I was in trouble.
My wife and I had a small home in Hillcrest with one window unit powering all the AC. The house was hot. To save money, we didn’t run the window unit while we were gone. I trudged in, turned on the air, and collapsed into a warm bed.
My wife was a speech pathologist in Lonoke at the time—and pregnant—and came home from work to find me sweating and broken out in welts. She started a cold bath and I weakly submerged myself.
No luck. I shook, turned pale, and she said, “I’m taking you to the ER.”
I mumbled, “Yes, I think I need to go.”
She said, “Okay, but I need to get a salad first. I feel morning sickness coming on.”
I lifted my head sideways. “You’re kidding. It’s not even morning.”
“No,” she answered, without explaining.
But I knew that once her morning sickness started, it was hell. On everyone. Morning, noon, night—it didn’t matter.
She drove me to the St. Vincent emergency room and dropped me at the door. I zombie-walked inside and the nurse took one look at me and shouted, “Get me a wheelchair. This man is about to collapse.”
She carted me to a room where I climbed into bed. She said, “I can’t believe you drove yourself.”
“I didn’t. My wife dropped me off so she could go get a salad.”
The nurse paused a beat. Hands on hips. “She comin’ here soon?”
I’m pretty sure she cracked her knuckles.
A half hour later, my wife arrived with a U.S. Pizza supreme salad in a Styrofoam box. The nurse shook her head. My wife shrugged, “I’m pregnant. And about to get morning sickness.”
The nurse’s demeanor changed immediately. “Sugar, you just climb into this bed and finish that salad.”
Suddenly, my wife had all the attention. I survived my heat stroke after hours of IV fluids. Father Tribou called to check on me—meaning, he asked what time I’d be back to work the next day. I arrived at 7:30.
My wife had her salad, avoiding disaster. I took out a loan to get central heat and air in the house. And I swore I’d better acclimate myself to the heat every year. Never again would I be the weak link.
I’m typing this now while watching those not-quite-invisible wavy lines arise from the sun-hot asphalt outside. I finished a morning run.
The kids are grown, Father Tribou has passed on, the school is now air-conditioned.
Arkansas’ heat remains, and I’m embracing it.