The Cold Basement of My Youth
The humidity in Phoenix hit 40% this week. And while that isn’t very high as percentages go, when the temperature hits 110, the air begins to feel like dishwater that has been wrung out of a washcloth. It’s a feeling that was very frequent in my childhood when summer covered our town with its sweaty palms leaving me with nothing to do but wander listlessly around my own house.
We didn’t have central air conditioning growing up, but I had an air conditioner in the wall above my bed. Some nights, father in all his benevolence would say to me: Turn your air conditioner and tell your sister she can sleep in your room tonight.
It was a feeling of sheer joy.
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