My poor fried brains.

The thermometer on my window unit reads 82.

It lies. Here, on the opposite side of the room, the snake thermometer I borrowed reads 90.
If I want to cool off, I need to go to bed. Right next to the window unit.

Unfortunately, there is work to be done.

There's a damp towel wrapped around my neck, a pink one, one brought from my grandmother's house that still smells like her, or the environment she created. I pulled out an old dishtowel from a plastic bag. Now that it's wet, I feel like I'm in her house. It smells so much like her.

And I feel better.

In almost every respect, I'm like my other grandmother, the maternal one. That bombastic woman's daintiness stopped at her height, right under 5'. She used what was in the cupboard that life gave her and made the best of it. You know, if you beat anything long enough, you can get something tender in the end. I, however, came tender. She loved me lots.

I, however, received my love of air conditioning from my dad's mother. If it's hot, I don't function, and neither did she. Hot days meant piddling around the house or making a mad dash into the Caddy for a ride in a comfort-controlled environment for short shopping trips. In other words, one load only needed carried in from the trunk. Smelling this towel on me makes it all come full circle. She's here with me, hating being hot.

From her birth in 1916, she waited a long time for her air conditioner, but once she got one, she wouldn't let it go. My mom, like her mom could, can manage in any weather, hot or cold, and Mom always gives me funny looks at my temperature intolerance. In her eyes, I am her mother reinvented, with this interesting, ladylike exception.

I guess I'll take that bag of rags and hide it so, when I really need her, my grandmother will be there. We didn't have too much in common, so it's amazing to realize that I'm so comforted by her now. That's not to say that I didn't love her; I loved her deeply. I gave her her first great-grandchild, so there was a bond there that nobody else shared. She celebrated those milestones, and she was the first one out of my immediate family to "see" my pregnancy, the perceptive woman that she was. I made it two months along before she figured it out.

"Is there something you might want to tell me?" she asked, her voice soft as always.

I grinned, she grinned, and then beamed.

"Are you trying to make me feel older?" she asked, then laughed.

By the time that visit ended, my grandfather decided it was a great-grand-boy. He strutted around the house, ready to have a new boxing partner. When Junior came, my grandmother said he danced in the house and wiggled all the way to the hospital.

As I grew larger and we hit the malls for maternity wear, she shopped hard and wore me out. I told her she made me feel old, and I hoped to have her stamina when I got to be her age. She dressed me in beautiful stuff, citing that her maternity clothes made her look like a beached whale. Back then, they hid pregnancy. She liked that we celebrated with nifty clothes, now.

I gave her the first three great-grandchildren, the only ones she knew. There is a total of seven now. All mine have a memory of her. My dad only knew three of his grandchildren, my three. I started adult life early, disappointing so many, but my siblings did the right thing, and their children will be so much better off for it, but I know they're troubled at the chances I had that they don't. It doesn't make me feel superior, either. It just makes me sad to see all these beautiful children with no grandfather or great-grandmother to spoil them.

I just made a tight seal around the rest of the dishrags and dishtowels and put them away. I love plastic. Plastic and air conditioning, two great inventions.