Hellllo my wilted greens! Is it hot enough for you? It is ALWAYS hot enough for me. Unlike many Canadians, I do not long for the summer swelter. 20 to 24 degrees Celsius is my wheelhouse. My sister Kathryn has a theory that we do best in the climate that approximates that of our ancestors. As such, being predominantly Irish, I look and feel better in the cool and the damp. If you are Mediterranean, or of Caribbean and other southern extractions, you probably thrive in hotter, more tropical climes, whereas I turn into a moist, panting red-faced blob. That doesn’t stop me from wishing I was there; it just make me a less attractive guest at the beach party.

 

Like many people of a certain vintage, I grew up without air conditioning. Summers in Montreal were, and still are, unbelievably humid. There was one house – and only one – with an in-ground pool in our neighbourhood, and I thought the people who lived there had to be insanely rich movie stars. But when I was about 9, my family installed a large steel above ground pool in our backyard, about 5 feet high. It had a heater and a filter and a ladder, and, for two short summers, I was popular. Still weird, aloof and bookish, but kids were willing to overlook that for an invitation to come swimming. We would spend entire days in the pool, shrieking and jumping off the ladder, floating around in inflated plastic animals, or churning the water into a whirlpool. As the eldest, I was in charge of my younger siblings. I don’t recall any adult supervision, but I don’t recall any drownings either. The seventies were a simpler time. It was, quite literally, sink or swim. We swam.

 

At night, in my room on the top floor of our split level, I would lie, gasping for breath in the unrelenting heat, until one night, I hit on the idea of sleeping in a bathing suit. A wet one. I surreptitiously soaked my one piece in cold water, shudderingly put it on, and crept back to bed. Bliss. I did this on and off throughout the summer, and I’m amazed no one noticed, and that I didn’t contract some hideous bacterial infection. Comedian Elvira Kurt does a great bit on kids’ fashion decisions, “Bathing Suit Pajamas and Crocheted Pantsuits”, which pretty much sums up my early look. So does this:

 

 

9 year old me just casually reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales, as one does

 

No crocheted pantsuit, just a brown tweed dress with lace sleeves and collar, like a menopausal librarian. I can still feel how scratchy it was. The short hair and white fishnets, however, were very on point. This photo was obviously taken in the fall or winter, and that was our dining room, where one day we installed … an air conditioner! I remember the day it happened. It was nothing short of miraculous. An air conditioner AND a swimming pool! Who’s a rich movie star now? I was, finally and literally, cool. It didn’t last long, but was fun while it did.

 

Stay cold, my darlings. Stone cold if you can.

 

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