The soothing hum of a box fan cranked to full blast used to be my bedtime lullaby on summer nights just when the sun was setting, around 9 p.m. Though Syracuse, NY is always ranks in the top ten snowiest cities, the summers sweltered. A shady backyard, Kool-Aid, and the kiddie pool provided only temporary relief.
On what seemed as epic as crossing the Cumberland Gap, I stopped at the library to grab a book or Video King for a movie, on the bike ride to my grandparents’s house. I remember thinking it magical that I navigated the mile and a half or so, and arrived at the imposing house upon a hill via my own power, instead of Mom’s Subaru station wagon with the heavy, non-matching doors. Even if grandma and grandpa were napping, I could still sneak in; they never locked the front door, in fact, in the summer, it was usually open, to let the screen door do its duty. Whether anyone was awake or not, I’d politely beeline for the family room, where the miracle of modern technology ministered: a brown GE air conditioner. If a bike was magical, surely a cool air machine must be the messiah. My grandfather worked for GE until he had enough money to volunteer, travel, pursue photography, provide for him and my grandmother and spend time with us kids. Grandpa Morton must’ve had an air conditioner in his soul, because, in 16 years I only saw him lose his cool twice.
We had no air conditioning until I was about eight, when my parents sprung for a window unit. On really hot nights (the only times I ever remember having trouble falling asleep), my brother, Jeremy, and I cracked the creaking door to our folks’s room and savored the first icy blast, like the arctic rush a freezer produces when the vacuum seal is broken. Mom used to tell Jeremy and I that we’d put us all in the poor house if we kept opening the freezer door like that. Although we had to sleep on the floor, it beat boiling in bed, fighting over the fan’s angle, and casting covers to the floor in fits of hot rage. Plus we could look at the baby.
In Virginia ACs were standard issue, we even had central air in our second house. In fourth grade, when Dad told me “we’re moving” I thought my world was ending. I was eating an Empire State apple, and dropped it. I protested. No food, speaking only in grunts, arranging for friends’s families to adopt me, but I was whisked away on an airplane to see the place we were to call home. Plucked from school, for three days I might add, and bundled up, as was New York State protocol in February, found I could shed a few layers in Virginia Beach. Hmm. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Upon seeing the water and smelling the cool saltwater air I was sold. Well, it wasn’t that easy, but like switching from a bed in a cramped, stuffy bedchamber to the carpet in a refrigerated room, those perks sure helped.
Texas houses come with central air and sometimes swimming pools, the way a car these days is equipped with power windows and often sunroofs. Despite tonight’s humidity and the sticky sweat under even the lightest of clothing, I’m glad the AC didn’t kick in; it reminded me of humble beginnings. I only wish I had a box fan.
On what seemed as epic as crossing the Cumberland Gap, I stopped at the library to grab a book or Video King for a movie, on the bike ride to my grandparents’s house. I remember thinking it magical that I navigated the mile and a half or so, and arrived at the imposing house upon a hill via my own power, instead of Mom’s Subaru station wagon with the heavy, non-matching doors. Even if grandma and grandpa were napping, I could still sneak in; they never locked the front door, in fact, in the summer, it was usually open, to let the screen door do its duty. Whether anyone was awake or not, I’d politely beeline for the family room, where the miracle of modern technology ministered: a brown GE air conditioner. If a bike was magical, surely a cool air machine must be the messiah. My grandfather worked for GE until he had enough money to volunteer, travel, pursue photography, provide for him and my grandmother and spend time with us kids. Grandpa Morton must’ve had an air conditioner in his soul, because, in 16 years I only saw him lose his cool twice.
We had no air conditioning until I was about eight, when my parents sprung for a window unit. On really hot nights (the only times I ever remember having trouble falling asleep), my brother, Jeremy, and I cracked the creaking door to our folks’s room and savored the first icy blast, like the arctic rush a freezer produces when the vacuum seal is broken. Mom used to tell Jeremy and I that we’d put us all in the poor house if we kept opening the freezer door like that. Although we had to sleep on the floor, it beat boiling in bed, fighting over the fan’s angle, and casting covers to the floor in fits of hot rage. Plus we could look at the baby.
In Virginia ACs were standard issue, we even had central air in our second house. In fourth grade, when Dad told me “we’re moving” I thought my world was ending. I was eating an Empire State apple, and dropped it. I protested. No food, speaking only in grunts, arranging for friends’s families to adopt me, but I was whisked away on an airplane to see the place we were to call home. Plucked from school, for three days I might add, and bundled up, as was New York State protocol in February, found I could shed a few layers in Virginia Beach. Hmm. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Upon seeing the water and smelling the cool saltwater air I was sold. Well, it wasn’t that easy, but like switching from a bed in a cramped, stuffy bedchamber to the carpet in a refrigerated room, those perks sure helped.
Texas houses come with central air and sometimes swimming pools, the way a car these days is equipped with power windows and often sunroofs. Despite tonight’s humidity and the sticky sweat under even the lightest of clothing, I’m glad the AC didn’t kick in; it reminded me of humble beginnings. I only wish I had a box fan.
1 comment:
Thanks for writing this.
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