One Year, Two Summers: Real Life in Southern California: Weather
In
the summer of 1970, Washington, D.C., turned ugly. Ugly not because
of the war in Vietnam,
or political scandal, or urban riots. Ugly because it was hot—101
degrees perspiration-gathering-on-the-tip-of-your-nose and in-the-small-of-your-back
hot. The heat wilted trees on Eye Street. Wiggling upward, it visually
bent the brownstones. It withered gardens. In cars on Connecticut
Avenue, sweat pooled on vinyl car seats as drivers expletive-deleted
third-degree burns delivered by heated steering wheels.
But
at the White House, the air conditioning was set at a cool 67
degrees,
and in the study, President Richard Nixon hunched over to
warm his hands above the toasty, glowing embers of the fireplace.
Outside, the heat waged a war of attrition against all forms of
plant life and the elderly, but for all the president knew, he
was in a
winter wonderland. The forces of nature were not only being ignored
but also defied.
Nixon — Orange
County's native son — was
chilly.
It
is surely a mixed blessing that I share a Tustin office with Dr.
Alan. He has the back office — no windows or doors — and
I have the front where I can open my door to the real world.
When the
weather is warm, Alan sets the inside temperature to 64 degrees.
When it is cool, he sets it to 78. Weather permitting, I open
my windows
and the outside world vents in. Here's the rub: We are connected
to the same thermostat. This means that on a warm summer day
when it's
breezy outside, I could share this climatic heaven. But I don't.
On these days, Alan's space heats up, the thermostat is triggered,
and
my office becomes a Dairy Queen walk-in freezer.
I
tried to deal directly with Alan by arranging a tempered settlement.
No luck.
Alan is an uncompromising butt. Next, I shut the louvers
on my vents, but the mechanism won't close completely, so
it produced a modulated whistling sound not unlike a Ural Mountain
blizzard.
Next, I tried blocking the vent, but the air pressure shifted
somehow and
sucked my well-intended piece of cardboard into the duct lines.
The ensuing racket caused office-wide panic and hysteria.
According
to
the landlord, there is only one alternative, an air-duct vasectomy.
But if my vents are permanently snipped, I won't have any
heat when it's cold outside.
Alan
lives in Mission Viejo. When it's raining, it is not unusual to
see his computer-activated
lawn sprinklers in overdrive.
When it's dry and 100 degrees, his back yard looks like
a Brazilian
rainforest. Alan's idea of seasonal change comes from New
England, where Alan
comes from himself. In the holiday season, he talks of painting
icicles
on the windows, buying a flocked Christmas tree and night-skiing
on artificial snow. Like I said, a butt.
Now
it's summer, and still — no matter how hard Alan struggles
against nature — spring, summer, fall and winter
will not adjust to his weather scenario.
The
truth is California has five subtle but distinct weather seasons.
I didn't
say four. However heretical this might
sound to calendar
traditionalists and Four Season Theory Advocates, we
have five seasons: two springs, two summers and a season of
rain. Start
and end where
you like, they are as follows:
False
Spring: late November through mid-January. Following the Indian
Summer light rains.
Can you remember a Rose
Parade that
didn't mock
Midwesteners?
Rainy
Season: mid-January through March. When our piers and beaches
are swallowed by the ocean.
Second
Spring: April through June. Late-night-and-early-morning-low-clouds,
followed by warm afternoons and evenings.
Summer:
June through August. Too hot to handle. Beach-Blanket Bingo Hellco-starring
Charles Manson
and the Night
Stalker. Lock and
load.
Indian
Summer: September and October. Blistering winds and cataclysmic
fires broken by lessening
heat and
season-ending light rains.
As
Alan decorates his home and office with the trappings of a four-season
calendar,
he
is oblivious
to what
exists outside.
Take a look, my
poor, dumb friend. Orange County is not
a tropical paradise or
a Cape Cod oceanfront or even a desert.
We live in a unique Mediterranean land sandwiched
between
mountains,
desert
and sea.
Late
last year, Alan took me out to dinner to thank me for minding
his house while
he and
the wife vacationed
in Singapore.
I never
mentioned to him that I disconnected the
computerized lawn sprinklers that week,
giving his rainforest some tough love.
If he had been informed of my garden therapy,Alan
wouldn't
have
been picking up
the tab at
Five Crowns in Corona del Mar that sultry
evening.
I drove
down PCH — 72
degrees — windows open (passing
a promenade of skateboarders, joggers
and
wealthy locals
in their swimsuits and shorts), parked
across the street and walked through
the Indian summer evening to my destination.
When I opened the door to the Five Crowns,
the air
conditioning hit me like an Arctic blast
across the province of Quebec. Inside,
waitresses were head-to-toe in layers
of Olde English
costume.
There was a Newport Center businessman
in a three-piece suit. An Ivana Trump
look-alike
in fur. A pair of rosy-cheeked children
in cardigan
sweaters. Near the bar was Alan. I took
a moment to observe my friend in his
native
habitat, sipping a drink, eyeing the
buxom waitresses
and playing with his cocktail napkin.
Adjusting his alma-mater tie, he turned
and walked
over to a roaring fireplace where he
stooped to warm his hands.
Could
it be that Alan, this restaurant crowd and
the man who brought us Watergate
are
kindred spirits?
This much
I know:
they need
to get in touch with our weather.
— Nathan Callahan,
June 8, 2000
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