Back when I was a boy, summers in the South were hot, sure—but they were respectable about it. The heat came on slow, like a gentleman tipping his hat, and gave you a chance to get your chores done before it got truly miserable. You’d break a sweat by noon, but nothing a tall glass of sweet tea and a spot of shade couldn’t handle.
Now? Now the heat don’t knock. It kicks the door in around 7:00 a.m., tracks mud across your linoleum, and sits on your chest like a Baptist grandmother during a scolding. I walked to the mailbox yesterday and had a religious experience. I repented of sins I hadn’t even committed yet.
Folks tell me this is all part of “climate change,” but I’m not so sure. It could be global warming, or it could be that I’m just getting old and can’t take it like I used to. When I was 18, I could haul hay all day, wipe my brow with a bandana, and still go dancing that night. Last week I stepped outside, sneezed twice, and had to lie down for an hour.
There’s a special kind of heat in the South. It’s not the dry, polite heat you find out West. No sir. Southern heat is moist. It’s personal. It climbs on you like an overly affectionate hound dog. You don’t just feel the heat—you wear it. You sweat in places you didn’t know had sweat glands. My kneecaps were sweating the other day. That ain’t right.
My cousin Earl, who’s made a lifelong habit of having more opinions than facts, says it’s because we paved everything. “Concrete and asphalt,” he says, “they hold the sun’s grudge.” I can’t argue with him, mostly because I don’t understand what he means, but it sounds about right.
Another theory: back in the day, we didn’t have air conditioning in every room, so maybe we just didn’t know how miserable we were. We spent most of our time outdoors, anyway—kids running through sprinklers, grandmas fanning themselves on the porch, and somebody always yelling “Shut that door! You’re lettin’ the cool out!” even if the house was 85 degrees.
Nowadays, I walk from the air-conditioned house to the air-conditioned truck, and I still manage to arrive at the Piggly Wiggly looking like I lost a wrestling match with a sauna. My shirt clings to me like a regret.
Still, there’s something honest about Southern heat. It reminds you you’re alive. It reminds you of porch swings and cicadas and the smell of fresh-cut grass. It’s part of our identity, like grits and gossip. We may complain about it, but heaven help the Yankee who dares say a word.
So whether it’s hotter now than it used to be, or whether I’m just turning into one of those old men who carries a handkerchief and sighs a lot—well, I reckon it doesn’t much matter. Summer in the South will always be the same: slow, sticky, and full of stories.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check the mail again. I’ve got a lawn chair and a garden hose waiting for me under the oak tree—and maybe, just maybe, the breeze’ll remember to show up this time.
The views expressed at AbbevilleInstitute.org are not necessarily the views of the Abbeville Institute.
“My cousin Earl, who’s made a lifelong habit of having more opinions than facts,”
I got a bunch of them. ‘Course, they got me.
It’s hotter than two rats in a wool sock…
Very nicely written, and very accurate. For my part, as someone who has always thrived in heat and humidity … I’ll chalk it up to age. 😉
Slightly offtopic: is the gentleman in the photo you, or someone you know? Reason I ask is that the whitish patches of skin on his upper chest look (to me, anyway; I am not a medical professional of any kind) like possibly the beginnings of skin cancer. Something all of us Southerners in particular need to be cautious about.
Nicely done, and very accurate, piece. Thank you!