Welcome to the inferno

I’ve been on the planet for a while. I can pretend I’m somewhat conscious about my use of resources, but the fact is I’m American and even my seemingly harmless activities use more energy and resources than this spinning orb can tolerate. “We” should really do something about global warming, but when it gets hotter than even drought-tolerant plants can tolerate, I get in my air conditioned car and drive to the river.

We work hard. When we get home, we want to relax in an air conditioned housing unit and pop a frozen pizza in the oven. When we fantasize about getting away from it all, there’s often an airplane trip in mind.

There’s a lot of news to absorb these days, and occasionally all of those scientists get together and remind us that another glacier has dropped into the ocean and we really should do something this time.

After a while your mind can acclimate to even the most dire of news.

Last week I was reminded about global warming because I was embarrassed that I should have known that nothing is predictable.

At that moment I was leading what I intended to be a cheerful and at least partially informative tour of Chico State. It was midday. My group of international educators suffered from jet lag. We had recently eaten, which adds to that lag. By the time we reached the monoliths near Ayres Hall, the educators were ready for some American-style air conditioning.

I can’t blame them. The grass was inviting and there was a big circle of shade under the tree near Laxson.

I felt sorry for their fatigue. I was mad at the weather. I should have known better.

Weeks earlier I blasted them with emails to build excitement for their visit. They could pack a sweater for the mornings and to expect most of the day with a cheery 24 Celcuis.

Easy for me to say. I’m a Chico person. If it’s hot I can shuffle across the parking lot in the midday sun.

Acclimation is an interesting thing. You never know exactly when you’ve made the adjustment. Yet, it’s certainly easy to detect when you have not — a tired grimace, an accidental groan and a walking pace that does not keep up easily with an overly-eager tour guide leader.

As my group withered that day, I flashed back to my own experience in Chico’s heat in my early 20s.

I grew up along the Carquinez Straights, where there’s always enough wind to cool your bones and often enough mist to ruin your hairstyle. When I fled Bay Area traffic I realized the summers in Chico could be bleak.

I lived in a little cottage where the heat sucked in through the cracks near the windows and the swamp cooler only provided relief if I stood directly in front of the airstream. In those days, I could only dream of the luxury of driving a car with working air conditioning. Often I would linger at work because it meant a few more hours in the comfort of my employer’s utility bill.