Hot Times by Nannette Croce

It’s 95 degrees here in southeastern Pennsylvania, but looking out from my air conditioned house it could be 85 or 75 or even 65. The rustling leaves could be from a chill breeze or a hot wind. I wear reasonably cool clothes for my trip to the mall in an air conditioned car, but nothing like the loose sleeveless tops I wore just a few years ago when we still lived in our “starter house” after eighteen years, unable to give up some of the last treed and secluded acreage in our once rural county.

Dinners were carefully planned back then for outdoor grilling or a cold platter, eaten on the patio under a tree. In bed I wore a scant nightie and slept on top of the covers, the white noise of a fan and deep heat lulling me to sleep. Heat waves in the high 90s and 100s, when the extra heat of a light bulb became unbearable, could be tough, but even then we soldiered through, slowing down, eating less, and drinking more, as folks had done for thousands of years before us.

My friends who kept the air on all season and sweated temps in the 80s couldn’t believe I found anything below mid-90s quite livable or that when we moved to our new home I hated waking chilly in the morning with all the windows closed tight, and avoided it as much as possible.

My current home doesn’t have the thick walls or high ceilings that used to keep homes cool. More asphalt and cars add to the heat. Computers break from high temperatures. Even we use our air conditioner more.

But I’m glad my daughter was raised in a home without it, because sometime soon we may all have to live that way.

Window to My Past by Nannette Croce

Last week we had one of those early warm days here in southeast Pennsylvania. The temperature reached 80 but without summer’s stifling humidity. So despite a prediction of rain, I kept my window cracked when I went to bed that night.

I woke in the night to a soft spring rain patting down on the leaves outside my window, interspersed with a rustling breeze that sent the blinds tapping against the sill. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I remembered the days before air conditioning was standard in most suburban homes. In the summer, windows remained open through all but the most fierce summer storms. Then we’d shut them tight, sitting in the hot oven of a house watching rain sheet down the glass until it left as quickly as it came and everything opened again feeling cooler and fresher.

On clear summer nights we played outside until we could make out nothing but shadows or our Moms called us in early for a bath to wash the scent of grass and dried earth from our knees and elbows. Even the adults sat out on porches and patios as long as possible to catch the breezes.

Generally, TV’s significance dwindled in the summer months, at least until after dark. TV was summer reruns except, for us kids, the shows we couldn’t stay up late enough to watch during the school year like The Untouchables or one of the “eight million stories in the Naked City” or maybe a summer replacement variety show. We all had to agree because there was just one TV and three channels to choose among.

I’m grateful for my air conditioner on those 100 plus days, but I’m also grateful for those open windows to my past.

The Gift of a Day by Nannette Croce

The forecast was three days of rain starting Friday. Unless you live in a severe drought area that forecast brings with it a gloomy outlook anytime, but for a weekend in March in my area of the country (southeastern Pennsylvania) it means lost opportunities. The limbs from a winter of unusually high winds litter the lawn waiting to snap the lawnmower blade first time out. Dead leaves hide the perennials attempting to peep through in our flower beds and herb garden. If the flowers and herbs are peeping through, the weeds can’t be far behind.

Each year this time becomes a race with nature. Cold chilly days bring more weeds and less time to prepare for summer planting. Warm sunny days always seem to come when I have other plans––an important meeting, a family birthday, bills to pay.

But this morning’s sunrise brought a glaring example of meteorological fallibility––literally. Sunshine brightened my greening lawn. Friday’s clouds drifted off into the distance. Only a slight breeze swayed the branches of the budding trees.

An unexpected sunny day. A day when I have nowhere else to be; nothing pressing to do.

What a true gift.