It's a dry heat

Four of the words I used to roll my eyes at: It’s a dry heat.

In my book, they were akin to “New and Improved,” three words which, when boldly printed across a familiar package, are an instant red flag. That product is hardly new, and most certainly not improved. In fact, it is likely to be inferior to and less effective, yet more expensive, than the old version.

“It’s a dry heat” holds out a promise similar to “new and improved.” Yes, it’s hot, the words imply, but you will not drown in your own sweat here, the way you might in Georgia, or Florida.

I don’t like sweating. I sweated my way through my childhood in Western New York, my young adulthood in Virginia and Maryland, and I sure as heck sweated plenty in the green corn-scented summer vapors of Central Nebraska, the first twelve years of my wedded bliss.

I know sweat.

I would exercise more if I didn’t sweat doing it. Warm water, squeezed out of my own pores, trickling down my temples, my back – ugh. I cannot comprehend the allure of saunas; I marvel at people who eagerly carry their own special sauna towels and slippers into the gym or the spa, or – egads! – who intentionally construct these cramped, hot sweatboxes in their homes. Volunteer sweating? Even worse, in a seated, relaxed position? Why?

To me, sweat and heat go together. I sweated plenty in those “Christmas Story” -style snowsuits when I was kid playing outside during the winter, but I didn’t know I was sweating until I got into the warm house. Sweat came automatically during the humid Western New York summers, no exertion required.

After my parents moved to California, my mother used to try to lure me out to the Central Valley, with those words. “It’s hot, but it’s a dry heat.”

Yeah, that’s what makes ovens so effective. “Dry heat” is still bloody hot.

I actually enjoy rain and wind and snow, most of which are negligible in or entirely absent from the Valley. Fortunately, so is high humidity. Back in Nebraska, you really become aware of humidity when it hits 65 percent and higher. Around here, people start complaining when – and if – it hits 45 percent. It just doesn’t happen very often; people are not accustomed to sweating with their heat.

And heat they have plenty of. Here in the Valley, heat warnings don’t go out until daytime temps routinely top 105, and nights don’t drop below seventy. Here, in summer, you’ll get hotter water out of your cold water tap than your hot water heater. Hummingbirds appreciate bubbling hot nectar as a refreshing, cool drink.

I recall one long, long drive with my grandmother in my brother’s car from the San Francisco Bay area to Mom’s house in Visalia. The catch? No air conditioning in the car. The temperate climes of the coast dropped farther and farther behind us while ahead of us the Central Valley landscape shimmered in waves of heat. Grandma withered into her seat as the temperature climbed into the mid-nineties, the high nineties, then topped out at 106. We stopped at a convenience store for drinks. Grandma insisted she was fine and didn’t want anything. I bought her a can of Orangina anyway. Grandma never drank it; she pressed the cold can to her forehead.

For years, then – decades, even – I gave every excuse I could think of for why I could not visit my parents and the rest of my family who had migrated to California. They all knew the real reason: it’s hot. Dry or not, it’s hot.

So it wasn’t the dry heat that finally lured me and Ron out here last year. It was family. But with a pool for backup to our air conditioning unit, I was chugging along just fine in this dry heat. Until recently when, in the middle of a genuine Valley heat wave, our 20-year-old air conditioner went kaput.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, before we topped out around 108 outside, I noticed that the air conditioner had yet failed to achieve our cooling temperature; it was about two degrees warmer inside than the thermostat was set for. By five p.m., it was five degrees warmer. We knew we had a problem.

Needless to say, summer is the busy season for air conditioning specialists, and we feared a long, hot delay in getting the AC fixed. We had the great good fortune, however, to get someone in almost immediately, and within two days, our old unit was out, a new one was installed, and we were cooling again. Hats off to Weathertech of Visalia for their speedy response, fine work and reasonable price. Thanks, Vincent and son!

In the meantime, much to my surprise . . . I discovered there’s something to those four words:

“It’s a dry heat.”

Had the air conditioner failed on the farm back in Nebraska in the middle of August, my eyeballs would be sweating as I looked at the thermostat. After 30 minutes, I would be complaining about how unbearably hot it was, how uncomfortable I was.

Here in the sweat-free, semi-desert of California’s Central Valley, I remained pretty comfortable for a day and a half. The house grew warmer and warmer, yes, but with no humidity to speak of, it barely registered on my sweat misery index. I checked the thermometer upstairs just to marvel at how little I cared about how hot it was getting. In fact, within a few minutes of paddling into the pool, I was shivering in its 86-degree ice bath.

Could I possibly have acclimated to this dry heat? This winter, as daytime high temperatures plummet to about sixty, will I be shivering and complaining about the cold? Will I actually feel forced to wear socks with my sandals?

Recently, Ron and I spoke with a former Valley resident who now lives in coastal Los Angeles. When he was invited to linger a few hours longer in the Valley for a nice visit, he quickly declined, citing his inability any longer to bear the oppressive heat.

Dude, get over it.

It’s a dry heat.