Loving the Swamp

Anyone who has visited the Central Valley in the summer understands the heat. Intense and often in excess of 100 degrees, the daytime temps can manhandle you. Some may object, “But it’s a dry heat,” they argue. Sure, tell that to the squirrels who explode after ingesting super-heated acorns. Tell yourself that when you burn your hand on your steering wheel or when you’re gasping for breath on wobbly legs after walking a quarter mile. I’m no stranger to humidity and certainly no defender of it, but they’re two different forms of torture.

I endured 35 years of Chicago summers. Humidity can be thick, rendering shade irrelevant. When it’s really humid, you sweat wherever you are outside, unless you’re standing in a pool or Lake Michigan. As soon as you exit the water, you sweat. None of this, of course, excuses the “Dry heat” apologists.

I attended St. Anthony’s from first to eighth grade. Our uniform, a white button-down shirt and blue cords, was uncomfortable, but it never stopped us from playground games during recess. Kickball, football, British Bulldog, softball, soccer, four square, anything to release the pent-up energy from sitting for hours. Early fall or late spring, the temps ran high. After fifteen or thirty minutes of serious play in the heat, the sweat poured off our faces, soaked our clothing, and trickled down our backs. When the whistle blew, we trudged to stand in line and then shuffled to the classroom.

If we were lucky, there was a fan near the open window. I usually sat across the room, longing for the breeze, cooling which was more mirage than relief. The nun, let’s say Sister Elizabeth in fifth grade, would resume our education. “Pull out your spelling workbook and copy the words from the board.” (It occurs to me now that, though they didn’t run and play, the nuns had to swelter under those habits. And we must have been such a joy to teach–stinky, tired, and disinterested pre-teens.) I’d try to write the words, but my mind was consumed with thoughts of escaping the classroom oven.

From third grade on, I rode my bike to and from school. It was roughly a mile, but the strain of pedaling my stingray with the banana bike seat in the Central Valley heat left me moist and gamey by the time I reached home. But unlike the end of recess, I had a plan when I reached 1195 Spruce, a far superior alternative to the St. Anthony’s hotbox.

Typical of many houses then, we had no central air. We had a swamp cooler. I have no idea where that name comes from, but it offered some cooling if you knew where to sit. The single ceiling vent resided in the center of the hallway, the fins pointing in opposite directions. It offered two meager streams of cool air, which felt great as long as you were in the hallway. Living room, kitchen, bedrooms–you’re out of luck. The hallway was the place to be.

No thermostat necessary for the swamp cooler. You had two choices: off or on. Turning it on was as simple as flipping a switch (ours was in the bathroom). Don’t forget to turn the valve handle to add water to the cooler! The machine blew some version of cool air. And we were grateful.

I’d park my stingray, gallop into the house and peel off my St. Anthony’s uniform. No need to speak to anyone. Donning shorts and no shirt, still moist, I raced to kitchen. Under the sink, if I was lucky, there were warm Pepsi’s. Though I prefer Coke now, back then we heeded the wisdom of Mr. Belushi. No Coke, Pepsi.

You know how you look back and wonder why your parents did things a certain way? Here are two things I don’t understand. One, why were the drinks under the sink and not in the refrigerator? Second, why did we only have one six-pack of Pepsi per week? We had four kids living there at some points. Six cans just ain’t cutting it. But I digress.

I found that cup choice was key. We had plastic and glass containers on the lazy susan, but by far and away, the best cups were the short ones made of tin. Fill it with ice (assuming the ice trays had been replenished, no fancy fridge for us) and add the lukewarm Pepsi. It bubbled and fizzed, melting the ice during the pour. The cups, fewer than twelve ounces, allowed a partial refill later. So cold, so fast, I was convinced I could get frostbite.

I took my seat at the end of the hallway, bare back sticking to the closet door. The tin would sweat in my hand. Eyes closed, I’d take a generous sip and then wipe the frosty condensation against my forehead, all the while replaying the athletic highlights of the day. In twenty minutes or so, my body temp returned to normal, I’d take the final sup of Pepsi water. I did it. I survived another day of fifth grade.

And then? I’d grab a dry t-shirt and go outside and play with friends. Of course, we would. Later I could return to the comfort of the swamp cooler.