Wilt Thou?

Nearly every genuine Michigander I know, regardless of income or status, has a cabin on a lake somewhere Up North, where they spend many a summer weekend. Here’s why: at 10:30 this morning, my Radio Shack wireless thermo-hygrometer showed a temperature of 80° outside. The little face indicating comfort level was decidedly unhappy, its mouth a wavy line. Wet, it said. Humidity 71%. Since I’ve had my windows open for the last week, it’s the same inside my apartment.

Shoveling snow, crystalline early nights, and snuggly flannel sheets now seem like tall tales from a by-gone era. The pendulum has swung the other way. After a too-brief spring, summer is starting to broil me. It’s not even the solstice yet. Wait ‘til July - I’ll be as hot and crispy as a chicken at Chi-Bro Park.

Nevertheless, I sandaled up, downed a big glass of water and a Benadryl (defense against the cottonwoods), and headed out the door, determined to walk to the Chelsea Painters’ Fair. The annual fair is held on the campus of the Chelsea Community Hospital, and my little legs can get me there in about 15 minutes. The walk down wasn’t bad. The sun slanted across the trees and I stuck to the shady side of the street. After a look around the fair I headed for home.

By then it was after noon and practically tropical. My pace slowed, and it wasn’t just to look at my favorite tree in all of Chelsea (the grand copper beech on south Main Street). I thought of the lush, weird plants K. and I saw yesterday in the hothouse at the conservatory, with their waxy flowers and breathable leaves. I wished for their resiliency in steamy conditions as I dragged across the blistering black asphalt of the gas station. Little freshets of sweat welled up and trickled down my torso and the backs of my knees. “Strong enough for a man, made for a woman” wasn’t man enough and gave up.

Once I made it home I checked on the garden. The radishes have thus far refused to expand into red-and-white globes. The lettuce looked like it was practicing for its part in a wilted salad. The young cucumber vines drooped. “What’s with you?” I asked the cucumbers. “I thought you liked full sun.” “Waaa-trr,” the hunchbacked vines implored.

I plucked some mint for my own water, went inside, took off all my underwear, and noted that the thermometer had increased to 91°. The Weather Channel online says rain is coming, but I think they're teasing the cucumbers, and the 10-day forecast displays an unrelenting sameness. I closed my Web browser and promptly fell asleep, spread-eagled on the bed with the fan pointed directly at my right armpit.

Now that I’m lucid and cooled off with an Edy’s Whole Fruit popsicle, I am adding two things to my to-do list. 1: Get D. over here to put my Two-Ton Tony of an air-conditioner in my bedroom window, and 2: Get in the good graces of some of those Michiganders with cabins under the breezy pines of the northern forests. For this cool-weather, shade-tolerant plant, September and 65° can’t come soon enough.