a letter to humidity
I love you.
Yes humidity, I know this now. I have learned my lesson. I'm sorry about how I thought of you when I was away. I smugly thought you were awful. When I moved out to the Pacific Northwest, the lack of you made me feel like I won something. Like I had escaped your pit stains and soaked shirt backs. I had cheated my fate. I was an ass.
You know why? You know what no one told me? They didn’t tell me that a serious lack of humidity means a serious lack of moisture in general. That the nightly summer thunderstorms I’d known my whole life barely came around once or twice a month out there. And when they did come in Idaho, it wasn’t a gentle rolling rumble – it was downright terrifying. Those storms were dangerous. They had wicked winds, trees falling down and power flashing off. Pennsylvania felt like a rainforest in comparisons. And east Tennessee…. Paradise.
Remember the good times H? Remember Forth of July 2006 when you and Heather and I hiked those twelve godawful miles to Ramsey’s Cascades and you were so on it we drank 2 liters of water, each, one way? Or remember Danny Ord’s thirteenth birthday when we hiked up Glen Onoko Falls in Jim Thorpe and I was so embarrassed by the sweat I sat with my arms safely at my sides during the whole cake and soda bit back at his house? How about that night in college a bunch of us “broke into” Gettysburg and were asked to leave the Little Roundtop on the grounds it was "dark" (garbage logic, I say) that night was so muggy, but Devil’s Den was so busting with fireflies it was like a discothèque. I know. I have it on video.
You’re part of the Appalachians I’ve spent so much time in, from Confederate hollers to Yankee hollows. Hell, you put the smoke in Smoky. You’re what makes summer summer. You’re why I pray for fall. You make everything green and pretty. You’re a real Christmas angel. I am sorry I was such a bitch. Take me back.