Climate Control

On Wednesday, we’d slathered the children in sunscreen and they swam all afternoon and evening, even though the water had registered at 78 or 80 degrees—FAR too cold for me.  

On Thursday, we woke up to a 39-degree morning. “If something fell from the sky right now,” I told the kids as we buried yesterday’s tan-lines and mosquito bites beneath layers of clothing, “it would be snow.”

For once, no one complained as I selected the second-to-heaviest of coats from the six-options-per-kid collection in the front closet, although I’m pretty sure I saw skepticism cross their pink sunburned cheeks—at this point, the only visible proof we had of the glorious day before.

The calendar says May, and the view of the yard confirms it—it’s one of the few times of the year when the grass is independently green. The temperature says January, though, and the wind--February’s signature trait—is whipping through the streets of our neighborhood and making me worry that we may have celebrated the giant heavy-limbed pear tree’s survival prematurely this year.

What is going on here?

I wondered, not for the first time, about all the things our kids won’t ever know because they were raised in Texas.  

They’ll never experience the semi-sacred seasonal ritual of storing away clothes that will be too warm or too cool for upcoming months. Nor will they recognize the smell of moth balls or experience the mistake of playing hide-and-seek in grandmother’s cedar closet. Here, you must have everything at the ready, although you are much more likely to need a tank top on New Year’s Day than a parka on Cinco de Mayo.

You’ll always need jeans in July in Texas, and sweatshirt access, too—throughout the hottest month, we move from one air-conditioned location to the next, house-to-car-to-store. You’re liable to shiver to death in the freezer section if you don’t remember to bundle up.

My children have never worn bibbed-snowpants and mittens linked by a string, one little paw dangling from each coat sleeve. They’ve never worn hand-knit mittens like the ones we used to—the ones lovingly made by Gramma Shaw or those sweet nuns at the convent next to Uncle Kevin’s house, so they don’t understand my frustration toward commercial winterwear. Hand-knit mittens were more versatile. Any mitten could be a lefty or a righty—whatever you happened to need it to be, while you waited for the previous pair to finish drying on the radiator.

There are no hand-knit mittens here, and I can’t begin to trace how long that folkart has been absent from this culture. The concept is useless, almost comical. Knit mittens here? Does Mrs. Claus crochet bikinis in the North Pole?

Children here have been known to wear oven mitts to play in the snow. In the rare event of more than a dusting, they dress stunted and scrawny little snowmen in bikinis because it’s the only guaranteed clothing item to not be needed that day—or at least in that moment.

Galoshes are easier to find here than proper snow boots. A few years ago, I was thrilled to find top-quality Thinsulate snow boots at consignment. Three dollars, I think I paid, and they looked brand new. There hasn’t been a true occasion to use them, and I’m sure Mia will outgrow them by next year.

They’ll return to consignment, still unused.

From the window today, I thought about all these things, as I watched the frigid wind blowing the blooming roses right off the bush. The sight drives me crazy because I know someone’s bound to step on a thorn while they’re running around barefoot tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when it’s 90 degrees.

“You swim in the ocean when we go to visit Gramma and Opa in Maine, but you say this water is too cold?” the kids squawked. It was more accusation than question, as I remained at the steps of the pool on Wednesday, reluctantly dipping in my toes as they splashed and played.

 “It’s different from here,” I try to explain. But can I? Could I ever really get them to understand?