It’s Not the Heat, It’s the Humidity

by Barry Baddock

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

I always had to smile when I heard the old lie. 

Two-lane blacktops could be melting, cattle wilting in 95 degrees and humans seeking refuge in air-conditioned basements. But still, diehard Kansans would churn out their mantra. 

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

And yet …

By the end of my time in Lawrence, Kansas, I do believe I’d come to believe the old myth.

 

I remember setting foot in Lawrence for the first time. An Englishman armed with a 2-year student visa, I stepped off a Greyhound in the town’s tiny bus station on an August afternoon in 1970. Overhead and all around was a wavering alien scream which I couldn’t identify. It was my first contact with the shrilling of a thousand cicadas. They were the first of many surprises awaiting me in my Lawrence sojourn.

Another was that humidity. I’d heard the word, of course -- even thought I understood its meaning. But only after arriving in Lawrence did I learn the truth of humidity. 

I was fit back then: a dedicated jogger. But on my first attempt to run in Lawrence, I was wiped out after three minutes. “What’s happening?! What’s happening?!” my brain screamed. I got used to it, of course. But I’ll never lose the memory of my first battle with that exhausting high-vapour air. 

Mount Oread …

The spacious variety of KU’s campus was different from university towns I’d known in England. Fraser Hall, Watson Library, the Students Union. The dorms, facing west on Iowa, like high sentinels. The broad open bowl of the football stadium.

I remember KU’s first touchdown of the season: the dizzying kaleidoscope of howling siren, swirling pom-pom girls, cartwheeling cheerleaders, gyrating Jayhawk mascot, the blast of an iron cannon, and an eruption of drums and bugles from the KU marching band.

I once chanced upon that band on a dusky evening as I was returning from a run. They were in a field, practising their manoeuvres and music while the shadows and cicadas gathered about them. I rested on the grass listening, and watched the slow-sinking sun. 

When their practice was done, seven or eight of the band came to join me. Nodding greetings, they laid their drums and cornets aide. And together, side by side, speaking no words, we watched the last of the sun leave the crimson Kansas sky. 

I knew six brothers in Lawrence. At all times, any one of them was free to bring his wife and children to visit the oldest of the brothers. They would gather on the porch, snap open cans of beer, shoot the breeze and josh one another while the kids splashed around in the pool. Gradually, inevitably, eyes would turn to the far end of the property. Then:

“Wanna see the tomatoes?” the host would ask.

And, as one, they would climb to their feet and amble to the garden. 

And that’s when the talk would change.

It would slow to somnambulant pace while tomatoes, beans, okra and yams were studied in the warmth of the sun. Words gave way to nodding and to slow, light murmur. In telepathic code, notions would be mulled, opinions exchanged and mysteries shared.

In my years in Lawrence, I was often welcomed to such circles. But my genes and English instincts stood in the way. I never quite attuned to this tacit Kansas mode of communion. I was always graciously accepted, though. For I was a guest in a kindly land, privileged and lucky with friends. 

To this day, I have in my mind a Kansas “type.” He – she --- is at home in a rural place, not far from Lawrence. Placid of manner, and friendly, to be sure, he – she -- is reticent, pensive: a person who thinks before speaking, then utters slow-spaced sentences. Often, a smile is preferred where words can be avoided without discourtesy. The smile -- shy, apologetic – can say “be my guest” or “maybe so” or “yup” or “you reckon?” or “glad you came.”

I found nirvana 50 years ago: summer nights on a Lawrence ​patio, the bonhomie of friends, Coors on ice. And cicadas. There had to be cicadas. 

They say it’s the heat that brings out their high shrilling song. But let me tell you: it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.