As an Adirondack kid of the 1950s and 1960s, I almost never saw hot weather. And even then, what we considered hot wouldn’t raise an eyebrow today. Average summer daytime temps hovered around 70 or so, and at night you needed a sweater to go out.

If we had a “hot spell,” it might’ve been in the low 80s, heat so extreme it seemed like an Old Testament plague. But since it never lasted more than a day or two, it never became a hassle. It also never taught me how to adapt to hot weather. That was something I had to learn hasto-pronto when I checked into Navy Class A School in Pensacola, Florida, in July 1969.

It was not only heat I’d never been in, but world-class humidity too. Both were in the mid-90s during the day, the temp dropping to a cool 85 or so at night, with the humidity staying the same. On top of that, the sun charbroiled my tender epidermis and drained the moisture out of every cell in my body at a breakneck pace.

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move, and since there was no AC in the barracks, I couldn’t sleep either.

After a few days in the fiery furnace I knew I had to figure out how to cope with the heat, since neither it nor I were going away soon. My solution was to run every day, which I did. My theory was if I could run in it, I could live it. And — as opposed to almost every other theory I ever had — it worked.

That was my first Great Lesson on how to cope with hot weather. My second was in India in the summer of 1990. It also was wickedly hot, with high humidity, and without AC, and I learned three vital coping skills. One was to drink water constantly. The second was to wear the lightest shirts and shorts possible, and a sun hat with a huge brim. The last was to take lots and lots of showers.

The water and clothing made sense, but the showers? It wasn’t an original idea — I learned it from the Indians. Whenever I went to someone’s place, they’d ask if I wanted to take a shower, which at first seemed odd. But then I found if I showered, even in warm water (which was the only water they had), it’d cool me off for a while. And so the more I showered, the longer I stayed cool. I can’t recall how many showers I took a day, but I’d bet 10 was about average.

My third Great Lesson took place here in My Home Town, when I realized if I wanted to sleep instead of sweat all night, I needed an air conditioner. I bought one about 20 years ago and have congratulated myself on my decision every since.

Love and hate relationships

As a result of learning how to deal with hot weather, I not only adjusted to it, but came to love it. Let the mercury soar, and my heart will as well — especially after an Adirondack winter. But I sure can’t speak for every townie — especially my old pal Long John Carhartt.

I hadn’t seen him in months and as irony would have it, I ran into him last week on what had to be the hottest, most humid day this summer. I greeted him with the standard cliche.

“So,” I said, “hot enough for you?”

“And then some,” he said, scowling.

“You don’t like hot weather?” I said.

“Only thing ‘like’ about it,” he said, his fingers making quotation marks, “is I’m like to die.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” I asked.

“As serious as an eviction notice,” he said. “Don’t tell me you actually like this?”

“Matter of fact,” I said, “I love hot weather.”

“Nothing personal,” he said, “but you need to get your thermostat examined.”

“Well, I’m getting an oil change at Evergreen next week,” I said, “so maybe they can check my cooling system while they’re at it.”

He smiled slightly, then shook his head.

“No lie,” he said, “I feel like I’m stuck in the middle of the Mo-Jayve desert.”

“At least there’s no humidity there,” I said.

“Yeah, lucky them,” he said.

He took out a bandana and wiped his face and neck.

“Long as I can remember, I’ve hated hot weather,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “When I first heard about hell, it was in Sunday school. Couldn’t have been more than six or seven. The teacher really got into it, telling us about the fiery furnaces, and how the punishment was eternal. Then, when he got done talking about Satan and the devils and horns and pitchforks and cloven hooves, I could see all the other kids were poop-sick scared. But not me.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. What bugged me wasn’t the devils,” he said. “It was the damned heat.”

“No pun intended,” I said.

Ignoring my perfectly-timed jue de mot, he went on.

“I tell ya, Moose, I’ve never been much for religion,” he said. “But if I knew being a believer got you into heaven, ya know what?

“No,” I said. “What?”

“I’d join the priesthood before sunset.”

“Yeah?” I said. “And how do you think your wife would take that?”

“You kiddin’ me?” he said. “After she packed me a lunch, she and her girlfriends would head over to P-2’s to celebrate.”

Knowing both him and his wife, I had no idea if he was kidding. So, ever the diplomat, I said nothing.

“Just can’t take the heat,” he said. “Can’t walk two steps without sweatin’ my parooski off, and as far as sleeping at night? It feels like I’m starring in Escape from Devil’s Island … except I can’t escape.”

Of course his problems dealing with hot weather might have something to do with his outfit. From bottom to top it was: Work boots jeans, work shirt with T-shirt under it and canvas vest over it, all topped off with a Stihl gimme cap. So in mid-summer he was tricked out in an outfit perfect for mid-fall.

Being the friend I am, did I then suggest he might want to wear clothes more appropriate to the weather? You know, like mine? And did I add that maybe he’d sleep in perfect comfort if he got an air conditioner?

Hell no.

Frankly, I’d rather drink a big frothy mug of warm spit before I’d try to change a hardcore native Saranac Laker’s mind about anything.

And before any members of the woke, politically correct posse leap on their soapbox and accuse me of bias, prejudice, stereotyping, and being a regionist of the worst kind, let me remind them of one thing: I’m a hardcore native Saranac Laker myself.