Springtime in the Desert

I have to fess up, yesterday (April 4, 2021) when the outside temperature soared to 96 degrees and the inside temperature was hovering around 82, I made an executive decision.   I flipped the thermostat from Heat to Cool; clicked the Auto button on the fan to the On position and uttered a sigh of relieve as cool air started to flow through the ducts. 

Before central air conditioning, spring meant time to go up on the roof and clean up the evaporative cooler.  If you’ve lived in Tucson in the early years, you know what a job that was to toss the old  pads off the roof, drain the water from the cooler,  scrape the rust, and coat the bottom of the pan, check out the pump and make a trip to the hardware store for new cooler pads.  

Every spring my dad hauled out the ladder and made the trip up to the roof to inspect the cooler. I didn’t get to go in the roof, I was the relay person in the yard.   While dad yelled instructions from the roof I waited in my designated spot for instructions.   When he’d shout, “Turn on the pump”, like an echo, I’d relay “Turn on the pump’” through the open window.   Mom waited patiently in the hall with her hand on the cooler switch.  She’d immediately hit the switch.  This sequence would be followed closely by dad shouting “No no turn it off, turn it off, damn it”.  About that time there would follow a string of cuss words, some of which I’d never heard.  Like the father in ‘A Christmas Story’ my dad could weave a tapestry of swear words.    I knew better than to relay that message to mom.    

When dad was  ready to give the cooler a second try, mom attempted to stand under the largest vent with a damp towel. With the first blast of air from the cooler dirt would fly all over the house. I never knew which of mom’s emotions was stronger,  happy at the prospect of cool air or exasperated about all the dirt. I continued to stand in the yard waiting for messages from above.  Trying to stay out of the way of frustrated parents.  

I don’t know when coolers went the way of the buggy whip and air conditioners became the norm.  Most houses built in the ’50’s, 60’s  had evaporative coolers.  The first air conditioned house we had was an absolute marvel, cool air all summer.  I remember the first summer we lived there I was appalled that our cooling cost about $30 a month.  That’s almost a dollar a day! I figured there was no way we could afford that outrageous expense.    

Evaporative coolers had their own peculiar odor and until the pads got really damp the house wasn’t very cool, just dusty smelly. The coolers worked pretty well when the humidity was low in the early summer.  But when late July and August rolled around and the humidity started rising it could get pretty brutal.   

I’m all in favor of walking over to the thermostat and with a flick of the wrist switch from heat to cool and like magic we have air conditioned bliss.  It would be nice to see an occasional $30 bill instead of the ones we see now.  

Another spring time activity was painting.  Every few years dad spent his vacation doing some painting around the house.  I remember dragging out all the old newspapers and covering the living room floor while dad used the stir stick in the new can of Dunn Edwards Apple Blossom. Mom never got involved with the painting process other than to decide on the color. She switched every few years from a very pale pink to light spring green. Dad didn’t let me paint,  but I helped him look for the ‘holidays’ when he was about through.  Did your dad call them holidays?  You know the missed spots that just didn’t get enough paint.  

I don’t think folks paint as often now as they did years ago, but mom and dad were smokers and it never occurred to them to go outside to smoke.    I guess they ignored the fact that if the walls needed repainting every couple years because of the smoke they might need to re-think what the smoke was doing to their bodies. As my sister, Marilyn, always says, “If they’d known better, they’d have done better.”  At the time smoking was fashionable and it seemed like everyone smoked. My brother and sister both smoked when they were in their teens and twenties.  Other than the one time I snuck a pack of Chesterfields out behind the back hedge with the neighbor kids, I never had any interest in smoking.    

After sprucing up the living room dad moved on to the metal chairs on the porch.  Mom had no choice here, they were always repainted fire engine red with white arms.  At the beginning of this lockdown I repainted a couple of sets of patio furniture.  It reminded me of those days long gone. Maybe because dad never let me paint as a kid, I’ve always enjoyed painting as a grownup.   

Dad could be found most summer evenings sitting in one of those freshly painted chairs on the front porch watering the yard.  I remember the cool breeze and the sweet smell when he’d spray the arborvitae bushes by the front door.  

We didn’t have TV until I was in high school so summer evenings were spent outdoors.  We had some grass in the front yard and if dad wasn’t watering, there was room to play Red Light/Green Light, Simon Says, and Red Rover, or just lay in the grass and look at the stars.  

Just last week, while reading the  obituaries, I stumbled across one of the  neighborhood boys that used to come over and play in the evenings.  It was surprising to see his picture, he grew up to be a handsome man with a large family of children and grandchildren. 

I love the nostalgia spring brings, but not so much the windy days and  sneezes the season brings.