Life and death at 92°

"More murders are committed at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. Over one hundred, it's too hot to move. Under ninety, cool enough to survive. But right at ninety-two degrees lies the apex of irritability, everything is itches and hair and sweat and cooked pork. The brain becomes a rat rushing around a red-hot maze. The least thing, a word, a look, a sound, the drop of a hair and -- irritable murder."
- Ray Bradbury, The October Country, Touched with Fire

At 11:07 today it was 92° in our town, at the weather station about 3 blocks from our little house. I, however, was immune to the irritability factor thanks to the modern wonder of central air conditioning. In fact, today, like most days, I plunged gratefully out into the blistering heat in an effort to thaw my toes. The vent in my office is directly under my desk, so what cool air misses me straight out of the vent tends to glance off the glass desktop and flow right back on to my legs. By the time I stepped outside at about 4:00 pm to check for the mail that didn't come today, the local temperature display on my Google homepage read 103°.

It's very hot here. There's no doubt about that. But somehow the heat itself doesn't bother me... probably because I know I can duck back into the comparatively frigid house on a whim, and it won't be long before even the oppressive heat of a car left to bake in the sun is beaten back. I can't say that the humidity bothers me that much either. Perhaps that is because I remember drinking the thick Dominican summer air with my lungs, and nothing here comes close by comparison.

If my Dominican summers taught me anything, it was to revel in the rainfall that stripped the air of its moisture for a few blessed moments, and left in its wake a cool, calm breath of fresh air that provided some relief from the viscous heat. I remember days spent outdoors in 100° temperatures, building a cinder block house, erecting a wooden fence and walking through haphazardly-constructed neighborhoods of recycled plywood houses. Part of the day would have been spent playing with tiny dark children with bulging tummies and bumpy skin who ran their narrow fingers through my straight hair and tried to touch the blue of my eyes to verify that they were real.

On those days, nothing was more welcome than a sudden cloudburst ... except perhaps some ice cold water, a small bowl of fresh coconut ice cream or the rare treat that was an air-conditioned building, provided the cold wasn't so jarring that it gave me an instant headache. Tired, no, exhausted, we'd stand under the eaves of the sonorous tin roof and let rivulets of water shower us with laughter and strength to do whatever remained to be done before we'd crawl onto the fetid mattresses and swat at the flying roaches that threatened our already scant sleep.

Rain was so essential. Its rhythmic pounding on the rooftops and roads formed part of the rhythm of life. Plants and people grew when the heavens poured. Crops that sustained life, however meagerly, drank thirstily, providing sustenance for the people who labored in the fields, not to mention those half a world away who would buy the distillates of the land in pristine boxes and stir them into their morning coffee.

That's what's missing here this summer. Rain.

We were told it had already been a dry one when we arrived several weeks ago. Watering of lawns must be done on a schedule of alternating days, and, as if by biblical decree, nobody may water on Sundays. Having lived in Southern California, we're no strangers to drought conditions and water restrictions. I'm not sure I remember the last time there was any hint that water was plentiful enough to use it liberally. The brown hills of South County fresh in our minds, we laughed a little at the local definition of "dry" -- especially since the air around us seemed pregnant with moisture and the trees created a skyline of vibrant green. I've since come to realize that there's something about feeling a bit more connected to the land that makes the lack of precipitation somehow more poignant.

When we arrived, the stream in the back of our house teemed with life, and murky, lively water stretched in both directions as far as one could see. Rains caused its borders to creep upwards and outwards and knocked down the long grasses on the banks, and the small wooden bridge served a very real purpose. Today, that same creek has been reduced to a series of algae-green puddles separated by long expanses of dry cracking soil, with occasional outcroppings of moist brown earth where puddles had been yesterday. In fact, I can't see anything now that would pass for a stream in either direction of the largest puddle, sheltered and protected from total extinction by a lone tree whose branches are now bursting with seeds. Instead, we look out on a crack worn into the earth by now-invisible water.

As I have watched the water recede--now to the middle of that forked tree root, now to the bottom, now inches beneath--I can't help but wonder what happened to the turtle we saw crane his neck out of the aqueous green ribbon a few weeks ago. He's not been around. We don't see many tadpoles, either. Then again, we aren't hearing more frogs. We are seeing more snakes and four-legged creatures at the edge of the modest waters. Deer of all ages come around during the the heat of the day, whereas they dropped by only in the morning when we were new to this patch of earth.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that most mornings I save about a gallon or two of water, perhaps the run-off from rinsing pieces of fruit and vegetables, or the inch or two of water that remains in yesterday's drinking glasses, and I creep down to my favorite spot on the banks of the great puddle. I watch quietly for signs of life, and then I crouch down and pour the water out onto the ground where it runs off into the shallow pool. Then, still leaning close to the earth, watching for air to bubble up that indicates that some living thing is there under the surface, I pray fervently for rain that will cause the pool to deepen and the water to run again as a living thing.

I want so much to see the life that is there thrive. I want the tadpoles to grow into frogs that will feed on the insects that swarm around the porch light and run their small bodies into my window during the long, hot summer night. I want the deer to find the refreshment of cool water on their parched tongues. I want to know that the skies are giving back what they have taken from the earth. In short, I don't want to see nature exact her own irritable murder of 92°, 100° or 103°.

Sometimes I feel so helpless, restless, here in my air-conditioned room, gazing out on a small corner of the natural world that has existed for millennia without my interference. Still, I feel compelled to do something to halt or slow the inevitable. Ultimately, that life isn't in my hands, but I can't wash my hands of the thought that somehow it is. So, I pray, and I watch the skies, and I look for signs that life goes on.