I just got back from Pony Club camp in Tryon, N.C. It's the kind of camp where you don't drop off your kids and their ponies/horses and head off for some fun, and parents do the work. I'm a parent. This is bad news.
And if that isn't gruesome enough, it was so very, very hot. I found myself texting Paul, "I wanna come home." I felt like I was back at camp in sixth grade sending homesick letters to my mother.
We were there over 12 hours a day and it was brutally hot. I wondered how I could stand it. Then I would remember Philadelphia, and try not to complain. I would rather be hot than cold. That's one of the few things I am certain is true about me.
Beyond the heat, and the heat, and did I mention it was terribly hot? I'm also so very glad we went, because it was a great experience (almost) all the way around. Here's a great photo of one of the campers. Probably the best photo I've ever taken.
At least I wasn't cold, so I have no reason to complain or whine. My first job was in construction in Philadelphia. I got "put outside," kind of like the cat at night, on a high-rise project in Center City, in the middle of the winter. I stood on the frozen concrete floors, the building wide open to the wind. My job was to follow the plumber and be sure that he put insulation around the bathtub pipes. He was slippery, fast and knew how to dress for the weather. I was 23 or 24, from South Carolina, innocent and unsuspecting, and completely unable to dress for the weather. They were pouring the concrete floors above me, and they had the salamanders fired up to keep the floors warm (or at least not frozen) while the concrete set. Nothing else was warm. No, make that nothing else was thawed out. The winds and snow blew through the open building. The winds and snow seemed to aim for me.
I have never been so miserable, and that was a formative moment in my life.
Because no matter how hot and miserable I am here in S.C. or even in the Caribbean in July, I think back to sitting on the side of my bathtub in my Philadelphia apartment after a frozen, long day at work, holding my numb feet under the hot tap trying to get the feeling back. I almost cried when the alarm went off in the morning, not because of the job, but because no matter what I wore, I couldn't stay warm. I couldn't even get to be merely very cold. I was so cold I couldn't even think.
I can't stand to be cold. So that means that I will tolerate the heat though I will whine about the heat like my mother-in-law whines when we are five minutes late, yet I will remember: I would rather be hot than cold.
I wish other things were as easy to put in perspective. Or maybe I don't. That was a very painful lesson I learned and I'd rather be ignorant than suffer something like cold. Or worse things that life can throw at you.
If I could only be grateful for what I have. At least I wasn't cold. But I do believe there is a reason that hell is depicted as hot, not cold.
I didn't just say that.
Here's what I really meant to post about. If you're looking for some summer reading, here are a few books I've enjoyed over the last few months or maybe it was several years ago. Whatever. My brain doesn't work if it's too hot, either.
Right now I'm enjoying The Help. I loved The Story of Edgar Sawtelle and discovered it before Oprah. Nyah nyah nyah. And I tried my first Stephen King this past year and thought it was extraordinary -- Duma Key. That's all I can remember for now. In fact, that's more than I can remember about my own novel(s) right now, which I didn't even take with me to Pony Club camp because I knew I wouldn't be doing that kind of work -- and I was more right about that than I could ever imagine.
But at least I wasn't cold.
