On microclimates and Sunday afternoons

San Francisco has nothing on us. Eccentric Californians brag of the Golden Gate City’s microclimates as if they were of their own doing. Stolid Kansans, on the other hand, are quietly satisfied with their widely spread, mostly predictable weather.

New England is more in the San Francisco camp, with sometimes wildly divergent conditions (Mount Washington; currently 36°F with fog at the time of this writing).

But we need not venture so far afield to establish New England’s street cred. Our local newspaper reports of “heat-related issues” at a nearby Wrentham, MA, graduation ceremony (“Hot times at area graduation"). Fourteen audience members were reported to require treatment for heat exhaustion at the outdoor ceremony on Sunday, June 5. Proximate cause: temperatures in the mid 80s with a hot, blazing sun.

At nearly the same exact time, 20 miles to the south as the crow flies, a sound sailing yacht departs her slip on the Providence River for an afternoon sail. Conditions are initially comfortable, with a high, hazy sun and moderate winds. Proceeding south into the upper reaches of Narragansett Bay, the breeze freshens, reporting 17 knots with gusts to 20 out of the south. Tacking down past Rocky Point, the wind strengthens further and the clouds thicken. As we clear the wind shadow of Patience Island, the full force of the wind, having a straight shot up the bay from the open ocean, brings us the chill of the Atlantic deeps. Reported conditions: cloudy, 62°F, and with gusts to 23 knots, the wind chill is in the low 50s. Time to don long sleeves, fleeces, and jackets.

Tacking into a strong breeze is always challenging. The boat’s forward velocity is additive to that of the wind, and with the wind chill and salt spray, it can be quite nippy. The boat heels dramatically as the bow plunges into the waves, lifting huge sheets of spray that are (mostly) deflected by the dodger. The wail of the wind in the rigging and the pounding of the hull can be near deafening. Having reached the limits of our comfort zone, we come about and head back north. Now, with a fine breeze at our back, the relative wind drops dramatically as the boat’s speed is subtractive. The vessel returns to an even keel and moves gently with the swells, noise abates, quiet and warmth return; it seems, as if by magic, a new day.

A few hours later, tied up in the quiet comfort of our slip, the crew relaxes. With a few rays of the setting sun peeking from beneath the clouds, we celebrate our warmth, unaware of the “heat-related issues” not so far to our north.

On being green

I guess we were green before our time.

Down on the farm, we recycled anything that might be useful. Clothing was handed down from eldest to youngest, knees and elbows patched and sewn with fresh buttons. Some of the other kids teased us at school, but we maintained our equanimity based on our innate sense of exceptional efficiency. Any surplus clothing or shoes was boxed and shipped, once or twice a year, to exotic, far-flung relatives in Sicily. I don’t know if they were teased or admired, but at least they had good American denim for school, patched as it may have been.

Vegetable peelings and table scraps (meat and fats excluded, but including eggshells), went into the compost heap. When properly tended, the compost literally combusted, but unhurriedly, and reduced its contents to a rich, black soil, populated by enormous quantities of ravenous red earthworms whose effluence enriched that soil. Any excess meats and fats, not suitable for compost, were supplemental delicacies for the farm dogs who were responsible for rodent control, protecting the chickens from varmints, and general security and hilarity.

When baking foods in the oven, any other item that might hitch a ride took advantage of the heat. For instance, a pot roast bakes for 3-4 hours, and several loaves of bread could share the last 30 minutes. A fabulous book expounding this principle is “How to Cook a Wolf”, by M.F.K. Fisher, a prolific food writer of the mid-twentieth century who offered instruction in efficiency and good cheer to a war-weary America.

Bottled soda pop was a luxury. Kool-Aid made from our own, delicious well water and the powdered mix was a favorite beverage. And Kool-Aid poured into ice cube trays with popsicle sticks inserted yielded tasty, cooling, frozen treats a few hours later. No air conditioning in summer, but broad porches welcomed picnic-style suppers in the waning heat of the day as the sun surrendered to the night, crickets serenading loudly, and heat lightening flickering on the distant horizon.

Lights were turned off when not needed. The upstairs rooms were not heated in winter, but thick layers of blankets provided more than adequate warmth. In summer, cooling was provided only by ventilation from the open, screened windows.

Finally, sternly instructed to sleep, at least one wayward child eagerly consumed the transportation and mystery of good books, under the blankets, burning up a flashlight’s D-cell batteries.

In spite of that, overall, we were deeply green. We just didn’t know it.