Yesterday I wrote something about the coldest cold I have ever experienced (which resulted in a broccoli ear). It was during a Chicago winter. A brutal Chicago winter. Much like the “brutal Afghan winter”, I suppose. The hottest weather I ever experienced was in Chicago, too –
and since the snow has now piled up outside my window (it’s beautiful) – I will write about those agonizingly hot summer days some years back.
In July of 1995 there was a heat wave in Chicago. Relatively famous because of the number of deaths that resulted. Not as much as what happened last summer in France, but it was HUGE. (more info here if you’re interested – I think a book was written about it too) I remember the air being filled with the sound of sirens during the days after the temperature dropped (to a balmy 101 degrees). 739 people died over a 5 day period. Jesus. It was terrible.
Anyway, I was there. Obviously I did not die, but I went through it. So here’s what happened. Again, there are many tangents, because that’s how my mind works, and because I like to write them.
The Hot Extreme
It was July of 1995. The beginning of July was relatively normal summer weather – 70s and 80s. I looked up the temperature chart of that month –
July 7 81
July 8 84
July 9 85
July 10 90
July 11 90
July 12 98
July 13 106
July 14 102
July 15 99
July 16 94
July 17 89
The temperature just kept going up and up and up.
A lot was going on for me during the summer of 1995. I was doing a production of James Agee’s A Death in the Family – an award-winning production. I was having a great time with it.
I also was preparing myself to leave Chicago at the end of August. I had gotten into graduate school in New York City and so – I was getting ready to say good-bye. I loved Chicago. I had a real life there. I had a ton of friends. A real community. I was leaving all of that, and I was dreading it. Even though going to grad school is a good thing, I knew that my life in NYC would not have the same feel as my life in Chicago. I was right.
So I was a bit of an emotional mess. Random crying as I looked at Lake Michigan, doing pilgrimages to all my favorite places, taking a ton of pictures …
It was a blessing to be doing such a GOOD solid show – I had performed in a lot of crap during my time in Chicago (some of those bombs are described here) – and while being in a bomb definitely has its comedic element and is enjoyable in a kind of masochistic way (especially if the rest of the cast knows it’s a bomb, too, and you can all make fun of it, collectively) – it can’t hold a candle to being in something that people love, that gets good reviews – We played to full houses every night.
I was living on Wayne Street, again with my friend Mitchell – and another guy, Ken. I loved that apartment. It was a couple blocks away from Wrigley Field, and right behind the Music Box theatre on Southport. Mitchell and I would go see midnight shows of Casablanca and stuff like that.
It was a great apartment – but it had no air conditioning.
I was also working – again as a temp – at this HUGE international company down in the Loop. The building was right on the Chicago river – across from the Opera House.
The heat started getting a bit out of control. Everyone started talking about it. The record-breaking heat also was accompanied by very high levels of humidity. So everything started becoming semi-unbearable. The theatre where I was working was, obviously, air-conditioned, as was my job, but at home we were screwed. I took cold baths and then sat directly in front of a fan in my room. Sometimes I would take 3 baths in one night.
On the couple of hottest days – things started raging out of control.
Rumors started flying – that a couple of guys on construction crews had died, because their bosses made them continue to work, outside.
I would emerge from my job – and the heat was not just a temperature-thing, it was as though it was a heavy hot blanket – draping over my limbs – my face – Immediatley, the second you stepped outside, it became hard to breathe. You had to concentrate on it. Okay … breathe in … take it slow …
I don’t know on which of the hottest days the entire city of Chicago lost power. Everyone obviously turned on their air-conditioning units at the same time, and the city was plunged into blackness.
I can’t remember where I was when the power went out – but I wasn’t home. Someone drove me home, through blackened streets – and it looked and felt like the apocalypse had arrived. The streets were packed with people, people trying to get a little relief, looking for that one breath of cool air. Ambulances were EVERYWHERE, their sirens lighting up the dark – but they had to drive extremely slowly and cautiously – no street lights – no stop lights – and so there became a backlog. Lines of stalled ambulances, sirens shrieking, lights flashing … but not going anywhere.
And people started dying. It was mostly poor people and elderly people who died.
Because of this heat wave in 1995, Chicago put into place a volunteer task force who, when it became very hot, would knock on people’s doors, explain the dangers of the heat to them, and take them to air-conditioned community centers.
Chicago became a mad-house. A morgue in motion. Refrigerated trucks, ambulances …
I would walk down to do my show. I felt as though I were swimming, as though the air had become tangible, fluid. The atmosphere pressed on the lungs.
The air itself burned.
One of those nights when we had no power – I turned onto my street to come home into my black hot apartment. The street was lined with cars and I noticed something odd: all the motors were running. It sounded like it was the parking lot after a wedding reception or something. As I walked to my door, I glanced in the cars – and they were all filled with people – just hanging out in their air-conditioned vehicles. I saw couples having picnics. I saw entire families sprawled out throughout their cars. People doing crosswords, I saw wine bottles, I heard faint music …
Can I tell you how much I wanted to knock on one of their car doors and say, “Got room for one more?”
No electricity, no air-conditioning, shrieking sirens filling through the air. All I could do was draw another freezing cold bath and sit in the tub sponging myself off.
Heat like that was another animal. Again, I’m from RI – so I know all about humidity and its evils. But humidity coupled with 106 degree weather is a torment. You cannot even THINK with conditions like that.
Finally – the temperature dipped down … and things became normal – but the city was traumatized. We could not believe how many people had died. It was incomprehensible. I heard the numbers and didn’t believe it. I also had kind of not taken it all that seriously – so I don’t have air-conditioning, so what? People in Africa don’t have air-conditioning! Why did so many people perish?
And promptly – after the thermometer dropped to a freezing 89 degrees – I got sicker than I have ever been in my life. It was a flu or something – it is still rather mysterious what it was what was wrong with me. I am convinced that some of it was psychosomatic – a reaction to the impending Good-byes. My doctor made a house call. I am still amazed by that fact.
My own internal temperature rose to 103 degrees, which … is hard to explain. It’s hard to explain what goes on when your fever gets that high. Everything ceased being real. There was no reality. I would lie on the couches in my living room, immovable, feeling like my body had dissolved – and I remember one frightening day when I started having fever-induced hallucinations about ice bergs. Huge blue ice bergs bearing down on me, over a dark cold sea.
I was in a panic about leaving Chicago. I called my boyfriend at the time – no other word for him, I guess – He and I were not going to continue on, once I left – it seemed better for both of us – but the good-byes were approaching for us as well, and I was panicked. In the middle of my sickest day, I called him up – FREAKED OUT – but in a very dulled and spacy way – When your temperature is 103, you can’t really articulate yourself in any normal way. Anyway, I called him and began expressing my utter panic that I would never ever get better, and the days were ticking by, and soon I was going to have to leave, and if I didn’t get better soon, he and I wouldn’t be able to have any time together before my departure. I kept saying, in my spacy panicked way, “I am going to be robbed of seeing you. I just know it. I am going to be ROBBED.” He knew that he was not dealing with a rational human being at that point. He was very calm, very detached. “We’ll see each other. You’ll feel better, and we’ll see each other.” I kept repeating like a lunatic, “No. No. I am going to be ROBBED of the chance to say Good-bye to you in a normal way.” Later, when I was normal again, we laughed about this, and he did an imitation of me during that phone call. Stating in this firm weepy voice, “I am going to be ROBBED.” No matter WHAT comforting thing he said, I ignored it, and continued to state, “I am going to be ROBBED.”
Anyway, he was right. I did feel better, eventually, and we did get to hang out a lot in the last month before I took off.
And a weird coda – during the week that I was sick, I decided, randomly, to get a tattoo. I had drawn a picture in my journal of a phoenix – it was all almost one line – because I felt like I was literally going to burn up into ashes. I only hoped that everything would regenerate. I was excited about starting a new life in New York – but I dreaded leaving. I hoped that there would be life after the fiery death. (What can I say. Having a 103 degree temperature is a bizarre experience). So – I made my way to Belmont Tattoo in the middle of the day. I still couldn’t really feel my body because I was so sick, and it was also about 90 degree weather. The place was empty and I showed the tattoo artist the drawing of the phoenix. “Could you put that on my shoulder, please?” He initially didn’t want to do it, because he, like my boyfriend, realized that he was not dealing with a fully rational being. I said, “No, no, I’m serious. I really want it. Will you do it?”
He did.
So I’ve got this little phoenix on my back, which … if I think about it … reminds me, ultimately, of that crazy summer of 1995, the summer of good-byes, the summer of endings and new beginnings. But to me – in my memory – that entire summer stays in my mind as one of heat – Heat out in the world, and heat in my own head. Transparent terrifying ice bergs, crowding up against my aching eyeballs, as I lay on my green velvet couch – Taking icy-cold baths, rubbing ice cubes over my limbs – The heat wave of July … the entire city dark and apocalyptic – with lines of ambulances – stuck in traffic – Heat like a heavy lead blanket laid over the world.
You really are an extraordinary writer, Sheila. I spent half a summer in New Orleans and I remember heat like that–the kind that’s more than just heat, but a heavy, crushing, seemingly endless physical embrace. The city is below sea level, a perfect crescent-shaped bowl between the Mississippi and Lake Pontchatrain that couldn’t have been better designed to trap humidity and still the air. But the power never went out while I was there, thank God. I truly can’t imagine going through that without A/C.
Dave J –
Thanks for the compliment. It means a lot.
“It’s not the heat…It’s the HUMIDITY!”
Maybe that’s why people who live in desert areas aren’t as tormented, because there isn’t that humidity thing going on.
“Obviously I did not die…”
I’m glad you pointed that out. I was worried there for a minute.
Emily,
Thought I should clear up some of the confusion I sensed in some of my readers.
“What the hell is going on? Is she actually dead??”
..if she was dead she could have that whole -writing-from-the-afterworld thing going on, like Robert Ludlum or V.C. Andrews.
VC Andrews!!!
Oh my God.
I definitely have to write something about my experience in junior high, reading Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind – and all of those other SICK addictive books. They were like secret documents, being passed around the junior high classes.
Additionally – just received a beautiful email from someone who works in Algeria, where the temperature is, on occasion, 140 degrees Farenheit.
I actually read a few of the Flowers in the Attic books as a teenager. Total crap.
Oh, they were utter and absolute trash. Just TRASH.
That post being written before I read your comment, Sheila. They were sick, weren’t they? What’s up with a story about weird incest selling 10 squillion copies worldwide.
Did you ever see the movie? It was positively *painful*.
I’ve never read them; I’m just amazed by her ability to be dead and churn out sequel after to sequel to ‘Flowers..’
I watched the movie and thought, in a detached way, “How sad. These actors will never work again.”
The book tapped into the natural prurience of junior high schoolers. Or something. I do not KNOW. I just know that we all huddled over dog-eared copies in study hall.
So bizarre.
And each book has that creepoid peek-a-boo cover – with the picture of a malnourished big-eyed child – who apparently always has a spotlight shining on them from BENEATH – so that their eyes are deeply shadowed and haunted.
Freak.
Dan –
Apparently VC Andrews’ family are money-grubbing greedy bastards. The success of the 6 or 7 books she actually wrote was not enough for them. They wanted her to support them forever.
At least, so I’ve heard from the VC Andrews underground.
Yeah, those are some scary kids.
The appeal to young children must be the lure of the forbidden. I seem to recall girls secretively passing around Judy Blume books in middle school.
Which was kinda lost on me. I never progresse further in Ms. Blume’s ouevre than ‘Tale of a Fourth Grade Nothing.’
Dan –
It was Forever that made the rounds in 6th grade. That book tackled first-time teenage sex and was a hot and forbidden commodity amongst the 11 year olds in my class. Again – none of us had our own copies because we did not want to be seen buying it or taking it out of the library. So one brave girl bought it and it got passed around. With certain pages marked, so you only needed to read the dirty parts if that was what you desired.
I suppose this was the role DH Lawrence played in past generations.
I always had a soft spot for Judy Blume because one of her heroines was named Sheila. Sheila the Great.
And then of course there was the ULTIMATE classic: Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret.
Hugely formative book. I mean, yeah, we had health class in 4th grade where they told girls about their periods and stuff, but – to read an entire story about girls getting their first periods – from the girls point of view – and not just a medical ‘here’s what’s gonna happen’ point of view … It may sound trivial or stupid, but when the time came, I was prepared, physically and emotionally, because of that book.
I grew up in Singapore, 1 degree from the equator, where the temperature hovers around 95 degrees and the humidity 99%. Being outside in the heat was like walking through a swamp and after a few minutes, your clothes are drenched. There was no air conditioning at school and we would sit though class in heavy dark pinafores, skin glistening with moisture. I would take 3 showers a day.
When I moved to california, I remember walking out of the airport and feeling the cold crisp air and thinking that it just smelled so good. Light and perfumy, with hint of flowers. The contrast was just so great from the dank, damp smell of humid air, the smell of decaying leaves and hubris.
Melisa –
“decaying leaves and hubris”? Hubris? is that a flower or … an excess of pride??
99% humidity sounds like a nightmare on earth.
Wifey was pretty sinful, Dan. I remember having to keep that one a secret from the parents.
Never read Wifey. The cover frightened me.
Re: soft spots – I have similar one for Roald Dahl, for writing ‘Danny, Champion of the World.’
Sadly there were no equivalent of the Blume books for young boys, so I was forced to learn about sex and sexuality the Irish-American way, namely from my peers and through trial and error.
Emily – I think I recall ‘Wifey’ being quite the scandal in 6th grade.
Dan:
So the 6th grade sex-hotline didn’t inform you of Judy Blume’s book for boys: Then Again, Maybe I Won’t covers boy territory (read: wet dreams)
Didn’t read that one. I was only interested in my own journey at 11 and could not have cared less what the boys around me were going thru.
That stance obviously changed.
Oh, and I LOVED Roald Dahl. My brother was totally into Danny – I’m not sure, but I think he has read it outloud to his son Cashel.
Give it a read, Sheila. It’s worth it.
I think I read Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing 50 times when I was a kid. Remember when Fudge ate Peter’s turtle?
Did anybody ever read Beverly Cleary’s stuff? I loved Ramona, and will confess that I recently re-read The Mouse and the Motorcycle.
Beverly Cleary’s books were a big favorite for my parents to read to me.
The descriptions of Chicago extremes were, if you’ll excuse the pun, “chilling”. Fantastic writing.
Sheila,
‘Danny’ is actually a rather subversive book – father and son bond by poaching together. Grand stuff – good on your brother for reading to Cashel.
Didn’t realize there was Blume for boys.
Emily,
I loved the ‘The Mouse and the Motorcycle’ – I read it multiple times (along with the sequel, the name of which escapes me.) ‘Harriet the Spy’ was another one that kept me riveted to the page as a child.
I too occasionally visit childhood favorites, which is why ‘Rikki Tikki Tavi’ and Jim Kjelgaard’s ‘Big Red’ have places of honor on my bookshelf.
Now that I think of it, favorite childhood reads wouldn’t be a bad post topic.
That would be a GREAT topic, Dan!
I read Are you there God I think in the 5th grade. I went to a very conservative Catholic school and the powers that be tried to prohibit us from reading it, which meant we really sought out that book. You’re absolutely right, Sheila, that book taught us more about periods than any health class ever could. Should I have a daughter someday, I will actually encourage her to read that book. I should read those old Judy Blume books again, I enjoyed them so much as a kid.
Ramona was a huge family favorite. And Beezus. Those books made me laugh out loud. Beverly Cleary is wonderful.
Harriet the Spy is one of my favorite fictional characters created ever.
Dan, Emily – let’s all do competing “childhood favorites” posts. Or – not competing. Just, our own choices.
Roald Dahl was a complete subversive. All of his books had this creepy kind of vibe. Like the awful Aunts in James and the Giant Peach. Those aunts weren’t mean in a “ooh, look at the meanie aunties” story-book way – They were truly abusive and terrible. Dickensian. So James’ escape had that much more magic and exhilaration.
good call Red,
there was a local plant my mom called “hubris”, not sure if this is the full official name. The flowers had a strong perfume, sickly sweet. I also thought it would be a clever little play on words, but I don’t know if it really worked…heh
Oh, it totally worked. I have never heard of “hubris” the plant. I wonder which word came first.
In my mind – I got this vision of the rotting scent of decaying leaves, and everyone in Singapore strutting around through the humidity with a sense of hubris, like: “This heat won’t beat us!!”
Ha!
Did you guys ever read Enid Blyton? Tales about the Faraway Tree were my absolute favorite. Fairies, goblins and golliwogs.
Enid Blyton!! Damn! I loved her “Adventure” series.
The Mountain of Adventure
The Valley of Adventure
The Seashore of Adventure
The Circus of Adventure
The Transsexual Nightclub of Adventure…
You get the picture. Her books were AWESOME. Thanks for the reminder … I wonder if they’re still in a box in my parents attic somewhere
Competing posts! Great idea. I’ll work on one tonight. What fun!
Oh, count me in.
I will work on mine tonight as well. I love it.
Hearing the names Ramona and Enid Blyton is like running into childhood friends.
My personal favorite, after Judy Blume was Lois Lowry. “A Summer To Die” was my favorite book from 6th grade on, and my sister Christy and I would read it EVERY summer, to see if it would still make us cry. I re-read it this summer, after my 6th grade daughter, Ceileidh, read it. And, yes, it still makes me cry. PS “Wifey” is a great trashy read. As is “Summer Sisters”. Eye candy.
Kiddie Corner
Yesterday, Sheila O’Malley wrote a great post about the 1995 Chicago heat wave, which, in a natural turn of subject in the comments, evolved into a discussion about children’s literature (you know, deadly heat waves and books for kids having…