This is my lakehouse post. Ryan's will be infinitely more interesting. Probably funnier too. (Update: Ok, this is turning out to be the Tree of Life of Charging Interests posts. Without dinosaurs. Can't say I didn't warn you.)
Damn, no pictures of me at the lakehouse in summer. Team Smith doesn't believe in cameras.
As I gazed up at the clouds sitting at the edge of the dock, I could only see one solitary cloud. To be honest, it didn't look like anything. I would love to say that the cloud looked like a duck or superman or even Abraham Lincoln, but it was none of those things. The cloud just sat suspended in the middle of the sapphire sky, a little white blemish on what otherwise was a perfect swath of blue heaven. It was of course white and fluffy, but it wasn't burdened with that one hope of 32 million Texans: Rain.
If you were there with me sitting on the dock, you would probably forgive me for thinking about the weather while I was in probably the happiest places on earth (Sorry, Disneyland). I'm not sure what there is about the lakehouse. The rolling hills? Beautiful. Weekends with my best friends? Awesome. The intoxicating effects of (copious amounts of) alcohol? Probably mostly responsible for most of my warm associations with the Hill Country. In short, if I tragically died in a freak accident involving me hitting my head on the world's worst rope swing, I'd be ok with that since it was at the lakehouse.
I shifted my vision from one great white object to another, the white band of Austin limestone that seemingly capped the shores of Lake Travis. It was pretty much impossible not to notice the 20 feet of water that was missing just like it is impossible not to notice the despair in the sunken eyes of a sick hospital patient. It was the constant reminder that this part of Texas was suffering through one of the hottest and driest summers on record. The water was simply gone, having either flown down the Colorado River or quite literally vanished into the thin air. However, I soon discovered that taking my eyes away from the white stripe was an exercise in futility. The whiteness of the rocks seemed to reflect even more light than what shined down on it. With brilliant white light coming off of the rocks and the broiling yellow light from the evening sun, the entire scene both was dazzling and depressing in the same glance.
I don't really know where I became so sensitive to the magnitudes of droughts. Maybe it came from growing up in the the hinterlands Cedar Park and Leander, where the waves of urban concrete only just began to lap up on the sea of cedar and oak trees. Even though my family had little to nothing to do with agriculture, we lived in an area that still had remnants of its rural past. Every so often, I'd hear a prayer from a rancher at church for more rain, "Because Lord knows we need it". Perhaps I got it when I would go to my grandparents ranch and feel the dry grass crack under my shoes and put my fingers in the dusty fissures in the earth where water used to puddle. Even then I could remember seeing that white ring of rock around the stock pond where my dad and I would fish. (My most memorable moment: I caught two perch on the same line once!)
We all decided to go back up to the house. Or rather, climb back up to the house. First, we had to traverse the aforementioned white limestone rocks, which killed your feet if you were short-sighted enough to go barefoot (Just ask Chi Chi). Then it was up the metal stairs to the landing. From the landing it was the concrete stairs to the backyard. From the backyard, it was still a sticker-filled 15 feet across the lawn to the back door. As I conquered onto the last step, my lungs were already gasping for air from what seemed to be an embarrassingly short climb up from the lake. However, the only thing I could force into my lungs was the achingly hot summer air. Not only was it hot, but it was also thick with humidity. Breath after breath seemed only to scream for what I already wanted: The cold mountain air of Colorado.
But that wasn't what was waiting for me at the top. Unfortunately, the central AC at the lakehouse had gone out, which only left a lone window unit to cool down the entire downstairs. I'm sure the little thing gave it's all, but it couldn't beat back the heat of the Texas summer. In fact, I'd be willing to give the AC a medal of honor for refrigeration if there were such a thing.
No, the air inside the house was barely better than the air outside. Having successfully climbed up from the lake, sweat was now seeping through my shirt.
Oh shit, what's that?
One hot, moist drop collected midway up my back.
Heavier.
Heavier.
Heavier.
There it goes, trickling down!
And that is pretty much the most disgusting feeling you can ever experience outside of a morgue.
Back in the middle of that concrete ocean near the Galleria, I'm all of this is leaving my German coworkers very confused. They post crazy shit like, "38 C? No rain? Pool!!!!" To them, Texas is just a bluer Gulf of Mexico and a Democratic governor away from paradise. (Ok, I have to admit both of those would be pretty awesome.) Sometimes, I'll tell them that my favorite weather is when it's 50 F with a light rain. You know, the perfect weather for watching a terrible movie from Netflix or catching up on a classic novel. They can only look back at me with the most incredulous stare that screams at me, "Are you out of your fucking mind?! How could you possibly want that?!" This conversation is most likely happening on an outdoor patio in a restaurant because, once again, I've lost the battle between sitting inside (in the glorious AC!) and sitting outside in the heat and sweat (see section above for my thoughts the entire meal). I can't tell you how many times I've suggested to sit outside only to be shot down.
To be honest, I don't know where they get this from. It might be the bitter German winters from their childhood. I don't know, maybe 6 months of no warmth would make me pine for the blistering Texas sun too. Maybe it's because they are tucked in the middle of Houston, far removed from the white stripes of dried rock on top of lakes and the crunch of dessicated grass. Perhaps it's because you've-never-dug-trenches-in-the-Austin-bedrock-or-the-clay-of-East-Texas. (Yes, I use that one a lot.) In the end, I suppose it's just a fundamental experience that they lack, just like I never experienced a country divided or a decent national soccer team. They'll never know what it's like to hear the weatherman forecast snow for the next day, only to wake up the next morning still seeing black asphalt and being absolutely gutted because of the disappointment. And they'll never get why I find the intense summer heat to be utterly depressing.
On the drive back home, we passed by lawn after lawn and field after field of brown, dead grass. In fact, it made little sense in calling them lawns any more since what we call "grass" was now replaced with tiny shreds of crinkled paper. I was afraid that if I looked at one single piece for too long, it would burst into flames. Of course that might have been exacerbated by the light the repressive sun high in the sky. It was really a sight to behold. I'm sure that the most talented artists couldn't have painted the picture I saw. Unnatural browns starkly contrasted with the green tufts of the cedar trees, while bits of blue pierced through the branches. All the while, the whole landscaped was bathed in the yellow sun. In fact that's all I can see right now as I look out the office window. Yellow. And heat. I know you can't "see" heat, but I swear that I could see it sucking the life out of the hills this weekend. (For the record, I think the Texas sun has a unique glow. It even shines through on film. If you took any movie filmed in Texas and showed me a scene without a discernible landmark but showed the sky, I could tell you that it was filmed in the Lone Star State.
Office Space? Austin.
Rushmore? Houston.
Spy Kids 3D? No, I won't go there.)
When it is so hot like it is now, people like to use lots of cooking metaphors.
Man, the sun is baking my car right now. It's as hot as a broiler out there. It's so hot, you could fry an egg on the concrete. However, I think these descriptions incorrectly put heat waves in a positive light. You see, to me, cooking implies that something delicious and wonderful is being made.
I've baked you a birthday cake! Broil the roast for 10 minutes. Mmmm, fried twinkies! A heat wave makes none of these things. Instead, I see God up in heaven with a giant magnifying glass, dancing a jig as he incinerates half of the state.
I know that I'm leaving out a lot of very positive things about summer. What would life be like without those couple of months that are set to the music of ice cream trucks in the haze of frozen margaritas? (Ok, I'm confusing two eras of my life.) I enjoy the summer with its bikinis and swim trunks as much as anyone else. Yet, as I drive home from the pool or lake all those thoughts and memories melt away, and are followed by low lakes and dead grass.
