Writing Down the Bones May 17 Topic: Hot

Hot. That's all I ever feel any more. I remember the first time I felt cold. Oh, Georgia, my sweet Georgia...almost 7 years old and my first snow. My mom, born and raised in the mid-west (Indiana and Illinois to be precise) went outside in her night gown...hands raised in the air as if in worship grabbing at snowflakes and trying to catch them in her mouth. I didn't understand. I thought she had come unhinged. There are pictures somewhere. Of that first snow. Mom behind the camera. My dad, my brother and I in second hand coats mismatched things, and our snow man with a trucker hat and a carrot nose. Two sticks for arms.

A few months later I'd be in Illinois, enduring hellacious summers and equally brutal winters. Snow so deep, and wet. Cold. Ungodly cold. But this is about heat. Hot, hot, heat...and I'll get there.

Years later I moved to Sweden...relentless winters. Not so much the cold and snow but the darkness that gets you. The svarmod, the doldrums tearing away at your mind.

Now I sit here in arrid America and wonder why I ever resented the darkness and the cold. I long for it even. For the cold, wet, dark winters to spare me the endless hot dryness. The even houred days. The heat is unrelenting. Sun setting and it's still 90F. Where is my release, my salvation from this heat? I can hardly sweat it's so dry. My god look at my skin!? Vanity is getting best of me. God forsaken land with little grass and few trees, and hardly any rain. Stout brown women walk around, umbrellas in hand. But for what? The sun. Ironic since the word for umbrella in Spanish "stops water" or "for water" or whatever. But there's never water. The tap water is hot without turning on the furnace... God save me from this inferno.

Then, the wind blows...that familiar scent...the rain falls, and a coolness comes.

I used to fantisize about hot weather. Now I'm just happy for some breeze, a sprinkle of rain, or some shade. The rainy season is here, and I couldn't be happier.

God forsaken land with little grass and few trees, and hardly any rain.

Mego - great description of being 'hot'. I also like the cold references you made before the heat got ya...

My eyes were swollen from all the crying I did last night. I slipped on my sunglasses and settled into the lounge chair, as if I needed to present myself as a target for the full sun overhead. Why they make lounge chairs out of shiny strips of plastic that stick to you, I'll never understand. I glanced over at his chair, which would remain empty for who knows how long.

We'd known this day was coming and it still is tearing me up.

I glanced around at the field of cacti. They are mocking me, these saguaro with their raised arms and occasional blooms. These plants that hold water inside, and here I am parched and brittle.

I heard him turn up the radio inside the trailer. His favorite Zeppelin song. Well, that's a nice send off. I'll never hear another Zeppelin song and not think of him.

Laying very still, I focused on the rays beaming down on me. If you really feel for the heat, you can sense that moment of slight shock where the rays burn your exposed parts ever so slightly....yes, there it was. 20 new freckles for my nose and knees.

I heard the door open and he came down the steps. He handed me an ice-cold Dr. Pepper. He leaned down and kissed me. I breathed him one last time.

"I'll write," I said. "I'll call," he said.

Then he turned and threw his bag over his shoulder and started the 3.7 mile walk to the bus stop. I watched him stride across the pavement. I knew he wouldn't look back at me. Zigzag waves of heat coming up from the asphalt finally enveloped him, and I couldn't make him out any more. My eyes filled again.

I looked at my Dr. Pepper. Drops of condensation formed rivulets that slipped down the bottle, then pooled with sweat on my hand. They mixed together, the sweat and the cold drops, then dropped to the ground.

Hot.

The bourbon is hot as a I pour it down my throat, but not hot enough to make me even slow down. I manage to be civilized enough to pour it over ice before chugging--no Southern Gal EVER chugged The Good Stuff straight out of the bottle after all, but if I did, just this once, I'm not sure that anyone would blame me after the day I had. I pause to look at the bottle and contemplate that very act when I am startled back into reality by my aunt's neighbor standing at the door. Like a fourteen year old caught with dad's stash, I hurry it into the pantry and make my introductions.

Yes, my aunty was a special lady. No, I don't think there's anything I needed. Oh, wait, do you have any quarters? I'm standing in the middle of her muggy apartment that is full of the smell of death and can't seem to find any quarters to wash the stained linens and rugs.

Thank you, kind neighbor, for the roll of quarters and the hug. I'll be fine. Who wouldn't be? No, the coroner didn't clean up too well, but I'll be okay. I'll be fine. (But I do think I'll stop telling my husband to 'clean like it's a crime scene' when company is on the way.) Her brothers and sisters shouldn't have to find it this way.

I knew that dying people expelled fluids. I knew death smelled ugly. But I didn't expect to find that when I came into her empty Baton Rouge condo to tidy up a bit and fill it with groceries to prepare for the familial entourage due later in the day.

Thank you, kind neighbor. I'll make sure and let you know if anything else is wrong. Yes, I know where the laundromat is for the complex. Yes, I know where her detergent is.

I throw the rug away. I whisk away the laundry while my husband cleans up the parts I can't bring myself to go near. In that moment, I decide against the plan that had been hatching in my head, the plan to leave him and find a new life. If that isn't love, what is?

I clean up her kitchen. I find the glasses with her lipstick on them and wash away the last traces of her. I find the clumps of chemo-shed hair and the popped-off fake nails in the bathroom floor and scurry them away. I straighten her linens, put the rugs back and throw away all the bright blue latex gloves the EMTs left in their wake.

Another drink is in order. The heat in my throat matches the dizziness in my head from her sweltering Louisiana home. How is it only May?

I fill the fridge with groceries after empty out the take-out boxes and bowls of half-eaten soup. No sign should be left that an actual person was living (and dying) there because it is just too painful to see. I air it out and wait for the rest of the family to arrive so that they can bicker about diamonds and furniture and will revisions while I want to scream only WHY DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT HER? Why don't you remember your sister instead of worrying about how the commas should be in her death notice? Where were you when I cleaned up her sh!t?

Another drink. More hot. More buzz.

Another week. Another drink. They just keep coming. I can't get that smell out of my nose.

Like a fourteen year old caught with dad's stash, I hurry it into the pantry and make my introductions.

Its Gretchen - I thought your story was very well written. This phase rings true as far as feeling like a 14 year old. I always thought grownups felt, well, grown up! Until I was one myself -

Thanks for another great story.

It was opening night. The cast had work hard for the last 3 months to pull this musical together and tonight was the night to showcase our hard work.

We all arrive at the auditorium an hour early and meet backstage to get dressed and ready for curtain call. Everyone is nervous and you can see the excitement in the room as the cast warms up for the evening performance.

"Curtain call!" yelled the stage manager.

The cast hundled together for a prayer and our ritual song. "You are a promise. You are a possiblity. You are a promise. With a capital P. You are a great big bundle of potentiality. And you are trying to hear my voice. And you are learning to make the right choice. You're a promise to be, every thing I want you to be."

This time something different had changed. The stage manager came out from the stage and walked up to our huddle. Sweat was pouring from his head like he had just been in the sauna. The air was out in the auditorium and there wasn't anything to be done. The crew had set up small fans around backstage and out in the audience but it wasn't enough to cool the place with all the lights on.

With this horrible news, the cast huddled together one more time and went to get into places for curtain call. Walking out on stage was horrible. Our musical was the worst play we could have chosen for something like this to happen. Every memeber on the cast had at least 3 layers of clothing on, not to mention makeup and mics. Eventually buckets were placed backstage for people to puke their guts out after dance numbers. Myself included. Cast members were having heat flashes and some people had to be taken outside to catch their breath. The play was a disaster.

Finally, the scene played out and we all took turns making our bows. The entire cast looked around at each other amazed that we were able to pull something like this off without any air. There wasn't any amount of makeup left on anyone's faces and the costumes were soaking wet with sweat.

I was surprised at myself for lasting. I was the only one playing two roles in the play. I had a small principle role and I also played extras for the dancing numbers. I had on several more layers of clothing that the rest of the cast because I never had time to change between scenes. I would have to strip off clothing back stage.

We vowed never to do another show without air again.

The sun reflecting off the aluminum siding of the travel trailer was blinding. The heat of the July summer day was stifling. I made my way across the gravel driveway with the armload of folded t-shirts and underwear. My clothes clinging to me already even though I was only a few yards from our back door. It was so hot it felt like a crackling dry blanket had been thrown over my head. That wasnt' why I was sweating.

I knocked on the door of the trailer. He said, "Come in." I squeezed in the door, making myself as small as I could and reached in with the laundry to put in on the fold down table immediately inside the door. It was suffocating inside, there was a cold pit in my stomach. I started to back out of the door.

"You know where they go," He said. "would you put them away for me please?"

Sweat was trickling down my back, my forehead, everywhere it seemed. I picked up the pile of clothes and skirted around him to place them in the drawer. His artificial leg was in the corner opposite him. I imagined grabbing it and running with it as far and as fast as I could. Never stopping. But just for a moment. What would be the point?

I scooted back around him. He grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap. "Why so shy?" he said. Putting his arms around me.

Intriguing and disturbing. Great job of making the reader's mind wonder what's really happening here. Good job.

It was a hot August day. As I scuffed along the scorched dirt road, the sun – a menacing, white-hot orb -- baked the air until the landscape shimmered.

With each step, my shoes kicked up dust devils. There was no breeze, yet, like whirling dervish, they swirled and danced about. Funny …they didn’t settle back to the ground, but seemed to become part of the air ... like some ancient spirit.

In chorus, Cicadas sang, and the droning rise and fall of their symphony sounded like a far off engine of doubtful purpose. The landscape was otherwise deserted on this dog day.

Thirst had dragged me from cooler shadows and sent me on the short trek to Ellis Jenkins’ Store. Anticipation grew as it came into view, squatting on field-stone feet, its naked clapboards bleached and parched and twisted from years of weathering. I climbed the one step and walked across stoop boards that were split and broken and gapped like an old man’s teeth.

The screen door hailed my entry with the sounds of a cow bell, a long squeak, and then a bang. I nodded to Mr. Jenkins as I went straight for the old chest cooler … bright red with bold white lettering.

Magically, my nickel unlocked the lid, and I raised it just enough to get my hand and arm inside. I had to tip-toe in order to grasp one of the all too familiar bottles. Popping the cap off using the opener on the front of the cooler, I could almost taste the ice cold beverage even before I brought the glass bottle to my lips.

Bidding Mr. Jenkins good-day, I started toward home, sipping my treasure and noticing the heat much, much less.

Ok... have not done this in a while....

It was so damn hot, I lay on a couch that is satruratied with my sweat the fan swirling around the ceiling is not moving the air at all. This is supposed to be UPSTATE New York... not the damn tropics.

It is so damn hot the cat that must be 300 degrees decides to jump up on my chest that is aready heaving from the heat.. I push her off, nooooooo.. it is toooo hooott. Her fur is already sticking to my shirt shuved up under my boobies to keep them from sticking to my stumic.

She jumps back up licking my chin with her hot tounge..... noooooooo..... offfff.

I push her off and try to grab my glass of soda. The ice is melted and all the papers around it is wet.

It is so hot the glass wants to slide out of my hand and the cat won't leave me the hell alone.

It is so hot I lay back down on the couch amazed at how heavey the air becomes when it is so hot.

It is so hot I climb into the shower in the middle of the day and turn on the cold water with just a touch of hot.... Ahhhhhhhgggg. the shock of the water because my body is sssooooo hot that I can not take the cold water for a minute and then I am turning the hot water off completely as my body gets use to the cold.....

I get out of the shower and immediately start sweating because it is sooo hot the shower only was a tease to my system...

How about describing an object ... like a marble or a top hat ... anything, but describe not only the obvious, but include where it may have been, who wore it or played with it, etc.

oooh, i like itchy