Borders: Gotta get out of this heat

LONGVIEW-Texas — The dog days arrived early this summer. One hundred-degree afternoons in late July indicated the coming cool of autumn is but a mirage, a distant hope.

A haze enveloped the rolling hills while driving down a country road the other afternoon, so it felt as if one were peering through sunglasses lightly smeared with petroleum jelly. The Bahia grass along the highway shoulder threatened to erupt in flames any minute. The asphalt shimmered like a nightclub singer's sequined dress.

I despise summer. Sorry, but it's true. Despite 40 years of enduring Texas heat since moving here from New Hampshire, I've never adapted. I simply endure. Give me 40 degrees, a howling wind, sheets of rain, and contentment is mine. The weather of the United Kingdom best suits my temperament. Seattle is a close second.

But this is Texas, which is a fine place to hang your gimme cap except from early June through late September. Then, you better wear that cap or fry your brain. The bright side is that nearly eight months out of the year the weather is generally tolerable. The dark side is August. The cruelest month is not April, as T.S. Eliot wrote, not if you live in Texas. It's August.

My first summer here four decades ago was an eye-opener. My Keds sunk into the oil-topped streets and left footprints. Ice cream sandwiches melted faster than I could eat them, and I was pretty danged quick at that. Window-unit air conditioners were used sparingly back then and turned off at bedtime. Windows then were opened. The attic fan lumbered away, sucking in air that had cooled marginally since the sun set. I slept fitfully on top of the sheets, sweat pooling beneath me.

My brother Scott and I shared a room that had an outside door to the side porch. (Big mistake once I hit my wild-teen years. I sneaked out regularly to attempt to be up to no good. Usually, I failed.) The way our beds were positioned, my bed didn't get any air if the door was wide open. But if I closed the door nearly shut, a tropical breeze flowed over me while Scott was left breeze-bereft. I would wait until he fell asleep, of course. Being the oldest, I believed the privilege of capturing what little breeze prevailed qualified as my birthright. He would wake up and open the door. I would wake up and adjust it again. And on it went through the night.

Some of my friends' houses sported swamp coolers, which were filled with tepid water from a hose outside. Once filled, the cooler blew moist room-temperature air that was just a slight improvement over a regular fan. The air inside those houses felt like Houston humidity, as if something was just about to mildew.

Lord knows I've gotten too soft and spoiled to live that way now. If the AC goes out in my house during the dog days, I'm headed to La Quinta or the equivalent.

Summer in New Hampshire was idyllic but brief, a respite from a harsh six-month winter to which I never want to permanently return. Forty degrees is just fine by me; 10 below zero, or, for that matter, 10 above, is miserable. If I headed back north, I'd be writing pieces about how I despise those long winters. It's great to have the weather to talk about, isn't it?

One of my annual defenses against the dog days is to flee for northern climes. That is my intent again this year.

I still bear a grudge against New England. The week my brother and buddy Frank spent there last year was nearly as miserable, heat-wise, as if we had stayed in Texas. So I am looking about, checking out temperatures across the nation on weather.com and airline prices online as well.

Actually, for starters I think I'll just jump in the car, take a few vacation days, and head north. It might not be much cooler when I get to where I'm going, but even 10 degrees would be welcomed at this point.

We'll talk when I get back.

Gary Borders is publisher of the Longview News-Journal. His e-mail address is gborders AT coxlnj.com.