Summer in the Pacific Northwest takes its own sweet time arriving. Generally, we understand that after July 4th we can expect what the rest of the country calls summer weather. Temperatures reach in the high eighties, the sun shines all day (rather than a slow burn off of grey till noon or later), and we have consecutive days without rain. Disclaimer folks: I LOVE Seattle weather. After being raised in West Virginia and living there most of my life, I find cooler, less humid summers a relief, grey rainy days comforting and lovely, and winters without snow, a special gift! I miss thunderstorms, lightening and brilliant fall colors, but not the conditions necessary for nature to deliver them.
This summer surprised us a bit by coming three days earlier than usual. In this neck of the woods that means that everyone ran out and purchased every available fan they could find, and that by nightfall there were none left in any store. While this might be a slight stretch, it is closer to the truth. Because of our moderate temperatures, less than 10% of the homes in Seattle have air conditioning. Most people are so elated to see the sun that they don't know how to keep their houses cool. Dear ones, growing up in West Virginia, in a house built by your great-grandfather, without air conditioning, teaches you a few things about staying cool.
So it was that I found myself prepping our home early one July morning waiting for our trio of children to return home. On such a day, I find myself slipping into an archetyped, ritual behavior that brings me into sync with my grandmother, Frances. My grandmother raised me and I watched her daily routine closely like any daughter watches a mother. My own mother was so heavily medicated in those days that she would sleep very late, so it was my grandmother who made my breakfast and got my day going. You could set your watch by her morning schedule. I grew up with this informal education, my grandmother's customs inform my own domestic engineering today.
Frances would "close the house" around 10:00, pulling all the shades, closing all the doors and turning fans on every room to circulate the remaining cool air through the house. God help the child (me) who left the door open too long in either the summer or the winter. "Close the door you're letting the heat in!" or "Close the door, you're letting all the heat out!"
My great-grandfather, when he built our home, went out to the surrounding woods and brought back a variety of flowers and foliage to surround the house. It was grand in its day. By the time I was living there, his agricultural efforts had truly taken root. The yard was encircled by beautiful, old Maples, Black Walnut, and Elm trees. In the peak of the day, the front of the house was sheltered and shaded by these stately guardians, making the downstairs "front room" a place of respite on humid, unbearable afternoons. This room was literally an extra room, so cold in the winter that my frugal grandmother chose not to heat it. As a result, it became very well organized storage for all the things my grandmother could not part with but that were too threadbare to be in the rest of the house. A huge red chair that was unbearably scratchy, an old radio that I played with as a child and transplanted to Huntington when I left, and the old cookbooks belonging to both my grandmother and my great-grandmother. The same ones I poured over that eventually led me to this blog. (a food writer is born) This room in the summer, was a haven, a highly coveted spot. I'd often find my grandmother napping there and have to find other relief. I felt so successful when I commandeered it for myself!
My grandmother's quirks and routines so etched in memory, I often do things, wonder to Self "How did I know how to do that" and Self in her knowing replies, "That's how Gram did it".
That's how it went the day in Seattle when we were already approaching 70 degrees before ten-o'clock, a heat wave by our standards. Our heat peaks in late afternoon or early evening so most folks leave their houses open all day and then wonder why it's so hot. I felt absolutely in harmony with Frances as I shut windows, pulled down shades, drew the curtains...oh what a connection to her in those moments. The Farmer teased me later about the new window dressings (cardboard in windows with the most sun exposure, I AM my grandmother's other daughter). By the time the kiddos arrived, I was ready to say "Close the door, you're letting the heat in!"
And letting the aroma out....the aroma of the chicken I had roasted (I believe that's where we left off, a few bites back with Cara) Frances taught me well. Fix dinner early in the day and get that oven turned off before it gets too hot. Or have a dinner from the garden of fresh tomatoes, corn on the cob, and green beans. How good my grandmother was at never letting on that we had those dinners because we were frugal gourmets.
Summer brings me back into time and place with Frances and creates a wellspring of gratitude in me for the bounty of gifts she left at my disposal. As is always the case with mothers and ritual and memory,
more will be revealed...
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