I thought the dog days would hang around until Halloween at least. But here it is, half past Labor Day and seventy degrees. This city has seen droughts and floods, October ice storms and winters without snow, frosty Easters and Thanksgivings basted in sweat. We have more weather, per capita, than anywhere else on earth–a casserole of climates left over from places that can’t use all theirs.
Still, we’re poorer, meteorologically, than when I was young–when we weren’t wrapped in plastic, and office windows actually opened. We didn’t watch the weather, we lived in it. 103 degrees meant looking for a breeze, not turning a thermostat. People somewhere lived in air-conditioned homes, but no one we knew. My sister and I would walk half a mile to loiter in a nicely-chilled museum. We came to know every inch of every exhibit, and which corners never got swept.
What will future archaeologists think when they dig up our skyscrapers? That our civilization died for lack of air? That these great towers were crypts?
Come to think of it, we could be wrong about the Great Pyramids. They might have been the first cubicle farms.