The temperature of things to come

The other day I asked one of my students, “Does it always rain this much in Louisville?” He gave me the hairy eyeball and said, “How did you think it gets so green here?”

Hm. I guess I should have put two and two together. It just never occurred to me to make the connection.

The first time it rained after I moved, I remember feeling a sweeping wave of relief. For the first time in 10 months, I could watch a downpour and not think about cheesecloth levees and ancient creaky pumps. I didn’t feel compelled to hop online and check out local message boards to see if anyone was concerned with rising water. In fact, the rain was a good thing. We’d just planted a few things in the garden; the rain would help them take root.

But around a month after moving in, the rain became a headache again. One particularly bad storm opened up leaks in the kitchen and bathroom ceiling. And for the next month or so, every storm made them worse and I spent way too much time wrangling with home warranties and repairmen. Pots and bowls and towels and stress.

Two weeks ago, I finally hired a maintenance man from work to fix the roof to the tune of more than $1000. The next storm came—the one that made national news for killing 8 people in the state—and new leaks popped up. He came back this week and fixed it. And it’s rained at least four times since then, and the house has stayed dry.

Ah the joys of homeownership.

The rain itself doesn’t bother me much. Now that I feel fairly certain that my ceiling isn’t going to cave in, I can appreciate the fact that the rain is, indeed, what makes Kentucky so green.

[The only remaining rain-related headache is that, shortly after we moved in, our clothes dryer went on the fritz. I’m sure it could be repaired, but after it konked out, in a wave of both nostalgia and environmentalism, I went out and bought a old-fashioned umbrella clothesline. It’s actually kind of charming. There’s something very Zen about hanging out your clothes. No energy used. Clothes last longer. Some of the clothes dry with fewer wrinkles (and some dry with more). But now I have to watch the weather forecast to determine when I can do my laundry. And there have been whole weeks when I’ve had to get very creative with my wardrobe because I had no clean clothes.]

What stuns me, though, is the cold.

It’s still September for godsake! Lows in the low 40s? I can’t get behind that. (By the way, between the time that I started this blog entry to this moment, the blue sky with puffy white clouds has darkened and it’s started raining). I refuse to put on my heat, so last night I bundled myself on the couch in long underwear, a sweater, and another long sweater that used to be my “winter coat” in New Orleans. And a blanket. And when I went to bed I covered myself in a bedspread, a thick down comforter, and a blanket. And I wore long underwear to bed.

Some people love it when they can break out the sweaters and the turtlenecks. I’m not one of these people. I am a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl, which means, I’m happiest in t-shirt and jeans type of weather.

Many of my colleagues (mostly, the ones who were involved in my hiring) insist that the Louisvillian winters are not so bad. But those who don’t know me and don’t know my deep and passionate loathing for the cold tell tales of weeks without sun and damp bone-chilling cold.

If I wanted damp and bone-chilling cold, I would have moved to Maine or Vermont. I think I’d like Maine or Vermont a lot. The only thing that keeps me away is, you guessed it, the damp and bone-chilling cold.

This is going to be a challenge. I’m definitely going to need more long underwear. It is still, by god!, only September.