Our Texas pals are crying me a river, I know, but bear with me here: our house is so straight-up righteous that we don't have any air conditioning. It's so hard core that there aren't even any ceiling fans. I believe we are the only house on the street -- the block! -- with no air conditioner. Even the house next door, that has had only three owners in its 100 years, has air. They can all be that way. If people lived in this house for 120 years without air conditioning, we can tough it out too. There's no school like the old school, know what I'm sayin'?
None of yer new-fangled technology here, young man!
We can get some nice air flow going when there's air worth flowing, but today we opted to shut up everything to retain the nighttime coolness throughout the day. It worked, mostly: it never hit 90 in the house. The children didn't cry too much, perhaps because they sat in a daze, flushed and perspiring.
Now that it's 11 pm, it's cool enough to open the windows. Eleanor is sleeping on the floor with a fan pointed at her head. Julia is sprawled on her bed with a fan pointed at her head. Diana and Isabel are both in the crib, with a fan pointed at their feet, but it's hitting their heads too. Jack is on the couch, with a fan pointed at his head, talking up a storm to me at 11 pm because it's too hot to sleep. And I'm letting him, because it's too hot to touch him long enough to drag him upstairs.
Glancing back through the archives, I see we complained about the heat when we were in Texas as well -- understandable as our air conditioner broke down twice a year, May and August, regular. And now as then, I say: it's too darn hot.