Novelist ("The Pursuit of Love" and "Love in a Cold Climate") and biographer (Louis XIV, Madame Pompadour), the eldest daughter of 2nd Baron Redesdale and one of the famous Mitford Sisters, of whom only Deborah Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire, is still with us.

          Nancy in Venice.  One of my favorite English Lady Novelists.  Miserably unlucky in love, but her books never fail to make you laugh. 

Love in a Cold Climate is never easy.  I mean the act, not Nancy's tour de force novel of the same name.  I try to comfort myself by remembering the challenges of cold weather, in this sweltering heat wave we're having.  I enjoy a warm climate; I am not however one of those people who craves the oven blast of desert living.  To me, Palm Srpings is exactly like Hell: unspeakably hot and everyone you know is there.

 

What we're experiencing lately, though, and are unaccustomed to here in sunny California, is the Humidity, which among other unpleasant side effects brings out the odors and aromas the climate under normal circumstances keeps from your attention; as long as everything is bone dry, you don't notice that anything has a scent more than, say, that of dried fruit.  Add a little damp to the mix, however, and suddenly everywhere you go smells like Death just took a shit.  I'm serious.

 

Fortunately, the heat is supposed to break, for which those who run the power grid will surely breathe a collective sigh of relief.  I can't tell you how many people I know who aren't happy unless they can see their breath indoors.  Raw meat would not go bad, for instance, in the lobby of my building.  Meanwhile you could bake pottery in my apartment if I didn't draw the shades and turn on a fan.  I have central air, but I worry I'm hastening global warming by using it.  Mind you, the end of civilization as a result of global warming could not come soon enough for me (see my previous post about bringing on the End Times), but I don't want to be held responsible.  It is that wacky contradiction we Americans deal with.  Our carbon footprint makes Gulliver in Lilliput look as if he were simply big for his age, but we don't acutally want to do anything about it.  Confronted, we say it's not really our fault the rest of the world can't keep up with our consumption of natural resources.  We grimace and look glum and try and blame someone else for the mess, like the Chinese (there're so many of them!).  We decide not to go to McDonald's anymore, as a self-righteous demonstration of personal sacrifice.  We promise not to litter.  Then we ask defensively, "And what more do you want me to do about it?" 

The real problem, of course, lies in asking the wrong question.  At times like this I am reminded of Billy Swope, who was not only big for his age but enjoyed having my mother for his Fifth Grade teacher three or four times while we were passing through elementary school (I was on a slightly faster track).  When the Swope's doublewide was struck by arson and burned until there was nothing left but a blackened hull, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Billy had started the conflagration, and yet damned if he would admit to the deed.  Almost valiantly, like a Republican White House Aide, Billy swore up and down on the stack of Bibles they kept in the Principal's office for this sort of occasion that he didn't know what they were talking about, he hadn't done anything, they couldn't prove nothin'.  As they say, Denial ain't just a river in Egypt; it flowed in Billy's veins.

Finally they sent him back to my mother's classroom while they decided on the next phase of interrogation, in all likelihood water-boarding; after all, we lived in a remote community, the rest of the school had been dismissed at the end of the day, there'd be no witnesses.  In any event, they'd already tried corporal punishment, forgetting that Billy's dad beat all the kids senseless on a daily basis, so Billy was immune to belts, straps, switches and cattle prods; beating a confession out of the young man made abusing a dead horse seem like a smart business move.

Meanwhile Mom had Billy washing the blackboard to keep his mind off what was coming while she sat at her desk with a stack of National Geographic magazines, editing out the more offensive shots of naked Africans with a pair of pinking sheers.  They were, in other words, both occupied when she said in that soft contemplative voice she used when deeply absorbed in some task like flattening a mound of pie crust with a rolling pin or cutting off pendulous black penises and breasts.  "Billy?" she said quietly, not looking up as she snipped off an unnaturally big one.  "Where'd you get the matches?"

"My mom's purse," Billy replied without even thinking, all his concentration focused on watching how fast the sweep of the damp sponge evaporated into chalky ghost trails on the chalkboard.

So you see, it's all about asking the right question.  Ask not what you can do to stop global warming.  Ask what global warming can do to stop you. 

On the other hand, when John Donne starts talking about that bell ringing?  As they say in New York, "Don't ask."