It seems a bit like ancient history, doesn’t it? But when I was growing up and for quite a while afterwards, air conditioning was a rare luxury.
We didn’t have it in houses, except for the occasional bedroom. We certainly didn’t have it in cars. Not in schools, either. And subways? Fugetaboutit.
And in New York in the summer it can get awfully hot. Summer meant sweat. Summer meant seersucker suits for the men and light cotton or linen dresses for the women. When I was a toddler, we were fortunate enough to go for a month or so to a rented cabin at a lake, and my father commuted up there for the weekends.
My bedroom at home had very little ventilation. Even with the two tiny windows open it could be oppressive in there on a hot still night. There was a large fan that could be hauled in, but all it did was circulate the heavy air, and even as a kid it was hard to sleep. My parents finally got an air conditioner in their bedroom, and my brother and I would haul in cot mattresses to put on their bedroom floor on the worst nights.
In New York City, school lasted until June 30th and began again the day after Labor Day. Those last few weeks in June could be awfully hot, coupled with the lame-duck situation of not too much learning going on towards the end anyway. Boring, tedious, draining. Some summers after school was finally over I went to sleep-away camp, and although that was a solution to the heat, it was located in the mountains and often so bitterly cold there that I remember almost never having any desire to plunge into the ice-cold lake, although we were forced to do so every day.
In those days cars had little side vents that did almost nothing at all to circulate air, and if you wore shorts or a skirt you’d stick to the vinyl seats. My family once drove through the Mohave desert in the summer – ’nuff said.
There was one place that was reliably air-conditioned: movie theaters. It could be so cold inside them, though, that one had to remember to take a sweater or risk shivering through the entire film.
Even when I was a teenager and young adult, neither the New York subways nor the ballet classes I attended were ever air-conditioned. The sweaty bodies in close quarters exacerbated the heat, and the humidity in a dance class became formidable. Dancers’ hands would keep sliding off barres which had became slick with sweat, and sweat dripped onto the floor and pooled there. We could have used a few of those guys who appear during basketball games to towel the floor. Every dancer had a little towel draped over the barre with which to try to absorb some of the sweat that stung our eyes and made our leotards sopping wet.
And now I think it’s about time for this:
