If you listen to the radio or watch TV, you can’t escape the reality that change is in the air…a big change. The cold, dark clouds have finally lifted, and the thaw has begun. We’ve finally made it through, and as bad as it was, it’s now over! Or is it?
If asked, I’d say that expectations need to be tamped down lest we forget our history. We’ve all been here before, and history has shown us that the big change coming will only be temporary. It’ll only last about a week. Confused? Keep reading Dear Reader, the fog is about to clear.
If you think this is a political story, then I guess I need to get to the point in a hurry. First, I never ever write about politics, and second, I never write about climate change. Then again, while growing up back on Flamingo Street, our dad said many times, “Never say never.”
After two snowstorms in less than eight days, this southerner is tired of all the cold, fluffy, white stuff and ready for the big warm-up that started this week. With the highs being in the mid- to upper sixties, the “what to wear to school” game is in full gear over at our house with our two granddaughters, Little One and Sweet Caroline.
“Why do I have to wear socks?”
“Can I wear shorts?”
“Do I have to wear a coat?”
My answers were the same as when I asked my parents similar question during the last week of January. “Because it’s really cold.” “No, you can’t.” “Yes, you do.” When asked why, I try to use logic, “It may end up in the sixties, but this morning it’s going to be in the thirties.” Then I use the same words my parents said to us kids, “And if we get into a car accident going to school, you don’t want to be standing on the side of the road sockless, wearing shorts, and no coat.”
If you were wondering, my explanation went over as well as it did with us kids back on Flamingo. “It’s called Indian summer, and it will only last a week. Happens every January.”
With the “what to wear so we don’t freeze in the wreck” issue finally settled, the Girly Girls and I loaded into the car and pulled out of the driveway. Thinking that was the end of our morning conversations, I cut on the radio to listen to the Beatles. Unfortunately, the Fab Four had to take a backseat to the questions…coming from the backseat.
“Why do you call it Indian summer?”
“Because that’s what you call it.”
“Why?”
“We’ve always called it that.”
“But why?”
For the first time since they were born, they had asked a question that I couldn’t answer. I really didn’t know why. Luckily for me, before they asked any more, we turned into school’s drop off area. I told them I’d do some research and have an answer for them at pick-up time.
After a morning of research, the origins of the term Indian summer is shrouded in mist…literally. The two theories I found (and there are many on this topic) asserted that Indian summer never occurred during the last of January or the first week of February, but rather in the fall. The first theory was that colonial settlers thought the early morning autumn haze to be coming from Native American campfires and coined the phrase “Indian summer.” This I didn’t know.
The second theory that I also didn’t know went something like this: During the change from summer to fall, the weather got cold for a few weeks but then warmed up again for a short period. Because the Native Americans understood the autumn weather pattern, they used the brief warming spell to gather additional food to help them make it through the winter.
When the Girly Girls climbed back into the car after school, they both asked me if I found the answer to the origin of Indian summer.
I started the conversation, “I did…kinda.” And ended my explanation by adding, “So, no. No one really knows where the term came from.”
“If it happens in the fall, then why are we calling it Indian summer in January?”
After the morning of research, I still didn’t have a clue. Finally at a loss for words, I thought back to what my dad said when he couldn’t answer something one of us kids had asked while he drove us to Florida for a vacation. Those words seem much wiser now than back then. “Enough questions. I want to listen to the radio.”
We all were still singing along with the Fab Four as we pulled into the driveway. And then one final question came floating up from the backseat – yet another I can’t answer.
“Papa, how did they get eight days a week?”