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Oh, the humidity!


One of my favorite lines from Brigadoon happens when Gene Kelly and Van Johnson meet in a crowded bar. Kelly says, “It’s hot in here,” and Johnson replies, “It’s not the heat. It’s the humanity.”

In times of covid and hyper politics, humanity is definitely the bane, but here in the Panhandle, it truly is the humidity that makes life nearly unbearable, at least for me.

Starting in May or so, as the temperature rises, so does the level of humidity in the air. It doesn’t hit you when you first step out of the house, but it’s just enough to remind you of what’s coming in a month or so and for several months following. As summer begins to sizzle and then out-right boil, the humidity cranks up as well, so that your glasses steam the second they hit fresh air, everything outside is always wet, time seems to slow down so that even walking to the mailbox takes longer than it should, the dog hides under the chaise lounge, the snakes look for refuge in the pool, and the soul is sucked right out of you.

And this goes on into September.

I see people outside like everything is just fine, going for a jog or a bike ride, or carrying a load of chairs and toys to the beach, and I want to knock them on their heads. What is wrong with you? Go inside! Stay there! Wait for the all-clear sometime in October, for crying out loud! Those people would probably wonder why I am here in Florida in the first place, if I can’t stand the humidity. Get out of the kitchen, and all that, while I’m sitting here being Van Johnson, slumped over my third beverage at an overly crowded bar and reminiscing about the cool breezes of a magical land.

Well, now here we are near the end of September—I am sitting on my screened-in porch on a chilly morning and actually wearing a sweater. I won’t be wearing it later today when the sun rises above the tree line, but for now, all is well.

Tip for moving to the Panhandle, or anywhere else in the South East—be prepared for summer’s humidity. It can unplug you, drain you of fuel, leave you exhausted and without hope, unless you’re the type to just load up and march to the beach.

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