Summer, songs, and saunas ~ January 22, 1987

David Heiller

Let the December winds bellow and blow,

I’m as warm as a July tomato,

There’s peaches on the shelf, potatoes in the bin,

Supper’s ready, everybody come on in

And taste a little of the summer,

My grandma put it all in a jar.

Processing summer to put in jars.

I thought of that song by Greg Brown as I carried four jars of tomatoes in from the freezer. Cindy had promised a spaghetti supper if I would get the tomatoes from the garage. I carried the four cold jars through the January wind in my bare hands, and summer seemed very far away.

The smell of tomato sauce filled the house as Cindy added her spices. Along with the basil and oregano, she added a sprinkle of sunshine, the buzz of a bee and shadow of a barn swallow. After a plate of homemade spaghetti, summer doesn’t seem so distant.

After dinner, I lit the wood stove in the sauna for our weekly bath. By 5:30, the temperature had reached 110 degrees. That’s a good temperature for people who don’t live within 10 miles of Finlayson, where they have an ordinance that all saunas must be at least 200 degrees.

Mollie, our 19-month-old daughter, held on tight as Ι wrapped a bath towel around her and jogged the 20 yards to the sauna.

“Gumpya bumpa allushnee yα-goya,” she chattered in the January wind. Translated: “What the heck are you doing, Dad, trying to freeze my you-know-what?”

Once inside the sauna, she loosened her grip and slid to the floor, squealing in naked delight. She climbed into her bathtub on the low bench, knee high off the floor.

Noah and Momma followed us, in a cloud of steam as I swung open the door for him. Noah made his complaints clearer than his sister. “Oh, Daddy, that was so cold, Ι don’t like that so cold, because it blows my hair and it’s cold.”

“But it’s warm in here, right?” Cindy asked, taking off his robe.

Saunas on cold cold days were always more fun for the 
kids when they had a friend along.

“Yes, but I don’t like that cold and wind,” he repeated, as he climbed to the high bench and into his bathtub. Noah is three and a half years old, and he likes to preface hid statements with “Yes—but,” especially when we try to change the subject.

Cindy and I discussed sauna strategy. “Should we wash Mollie’s hair now?” she asked as I washed the kids with a soapy washcloth. “We can wash it now, before she gets too hot and crabby and we have to take her in.”

“Yes, but if we wash it now, she’ll be crabby and want to go in right away,” I said. I’m a pretty good “yes—but” man myself.

So we let the kids splash a little longer. Noah, on the top bench, found α delightful game, pouring water from his bathtub down onto Mollie’s head.

Mollie hates to get her hair washed by Mom and Dad, much less the older brother. She started yelling. Cindy saw a perfect transition.

“Would you like your hair washed?” she asked. Mollie had already started crawling up into Momma’s lap, but that question stopped her in mid-crawl

“Now,” she answered. I repeated the question, hoping that we had misheard her answer.

Hair washing got easier of
 course, as she got a little older.

“Now.” That was “no.”

By this time, Cindy had tightened her grip on the kid, holding her face up on her lap. Ι grabbed the cup from Noah and poured water on Malika’s head. “Ah done,” Mollie said. “Ah done.”

I scrubbed away, while Mollie repeated her wishful I “Ah done” in between cries and yells. “OK, all done,” I said when we finished.

“Ah done,” Mollie got in the last word.

Noah grabbed the cup back from me, and began pouring water on Malika again. Cindy took the cup from him and poured water on his head. Noah yelled, much louder than Mollie. He can’t stand hair washing, either, much less a cup of plain water for no good reason.

“Well, now you know why Malika doesn’t like it,” Cindy said.

“Yes, but I was just pouring it in her tub,” he said. “Boloney,” Cindy answered. Mollie stood up from her tub. “Ah done,” she announced.

“You want to go in the house?”

“Nah,” she answered.

“Are you sure?”

“Nah,” she repeated. That was yes.

I dried her off, then slipped on my robe, and pulled the towel around her. We plunged through the steam into cold wind. Now the temperature seemed like Miami. Malika didn’t complain.

I fell down on the living room carpet. Sunday night exhaustion, after a sauna, on a cold January night on warm living room floor. There’s nothing quite like it, especially when your daughter curls up on your chest.

Ι reached over and turned the radio on. Greg Brown was singing a song that made the night complete.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nb-0ZCqga48

Let the December winds bellow and blow

I’m as warm as a July tomato,

There’s peaches on the shelf, potatoes in the bin

Supper’s ready, everybody come on in

Ί And taste a little of the summer,

My Grandma put it all in jars.