Hibernation

“Hibernation? You call this ‘hiberation’?”

My sister was visiting from the frozen north. She used the term as if it should be in all caps. Or maybe even a country of its own. She had come down here to central Texas for a bit of relief. Lucky for both of us that she didn’t come down last month. Her eye-rolling was about the limit of what I could deal with whenever the topic of Texas and cold came up.

“Well, maybe this is not hibernation weather like you’re used to having,” I said in rebuttal. “I remember it. Growing up with you during those winters. When we were little we didn’t know any better. But I know now.

“It’s like growing up never having seen an avocado, or tasted a freshly-picked grapefruit. As long as you’ve never tried it, you don’t miss anything,. But after that first taste … Well, you know what I’m talking about!”

We had just come from lunch where I ordered for both of us, choosing sandwiches which prominently featured things which I knew she could not get in Vermont. But I digress…

“We do have a hibernation season here,” I continued, trying valiantly to win the argument and defend my new home state. “In the summer, when it’s 110 degrees, no one comes out. Everyone stays in the air conditioning. And we get cabin fever, just like you do in March.”

“Ugh! Cabin fever! Don’t get me started,” she groaned.

I had succeeded in rerouting the conversation onto something other than who had the worst extremes of weather. I wanted to get us on the same side.

“What do you do to survive it? I mean, you have three little kids at home with you. How do you keep from going to the medicine cabinet to see if there’s anything there to help?”

“Oh, sis. We’ve tried everything. We bought board games and they got bored. We subscribed to science kits and they mixed things together that should never be mixed, never mind smeared. We bought sleds and skiis and skates, but no sooner do we get them into their snowsuits and they cry ‘I gotta go!’, and we have to peel it all off again. I am so tired.”

“Good thing you’ve got a husband around,” I offered.

“Husband? Well, sure. In the evenings. Before I’ve even had my coffee he’s out the door to the office. ‘Gotta warm up the car,’ he explains to me. I stare back in disbelief that he’d even leave the house.”

“So, what can we come up with? Maybe there’s something you can buy here, and take back with you on the plane to get through March and April and May.” (Spring doesn’t actually sink into the soil until Memorial Day in Vermont. We learned that the hard way.)

“Can we go out? I’m already sick of being inside, even though you’ve got a wonderful apartment.”

Some of the ice in her conversation style was melting.

“Sure, let’s get in the car and go shopping. I know of a great toy store.” And so we got ready, fixed our faces, checked in the mirror, and climbed into the air conditioned car. Yes, even in March the car needed some cooling off.

In an attempt to continue the newly-positive tone of our talk, I attempted to widen the topic.

“Why do you suppose people choose to live where the temperatures get so low?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they don’t know any better. Why do you suppose people choose to live where the temperatures get so high,” she replied, referring to my newfound home.

“Well, I’ll tell you my theory. I think no one wanted, actually wanted, to live here until the invention of air conditioning.”

“That’s a good theory. My theory is that long ago, someone chased people out of the nice, comfortable zones into the cold zones and didn’t let them move back. And ever since then, those cold people haven’t known any better. They brag about the ‘fall colors’ and the ‘four seasons’ and try to convince the people in the pleasant places to come to visit.”

“Yeah, and spend money.”

By this time we’d arrived at our small main street shopping district. I found a place to park, turned off the air conditioning, pulled down the sun shields to hold the reflective panel in place, then finally opened the door.

We walked down the block toward the toy store. Then I pulled up short and grabbed her arm.

“We’ve got to stop here first,” I said earnestly. No, it was not a coffee shop. We’d had ours already. No, it was not a donut shop. We’d vowed to lose weight together. “You’d look great in a new, spring dress!”

She resisted, but only until we got in through the front door. The fragrances of fresh fabric flowed over our faces. I almost stopped and waited in the doorway with my eyes closed. It had been awhile. Having a sister come to visit was a good excuse.

We went from rack to rack. She, being the more practical one, repeatedly responded, “Too expensive”, or “Too frivolous”. Of course the stores in Vermont were still showing off parkas and pajamas, as if anyone would spend a winter day wandering through anyway. Then we came to the floral spring frocks.

“I think this is a great color on you,” I said, pulling a dress off the rack and holding it up by its hanger against my sister’s nice figure. “I bet someone would take you out somewhere special in this.”

For a moment, the gears in her head were still frozen. Then her face started to glow. She put her hand up to hold the hanger herself and walked over to the full-length mirror. The smile spread.

“Do you think we can find shoes?”

“I think so. One nice thing is that that little dress will fit nicely into your suitcase, even after we finish shopping at the toy store and the hardware store.”

And so began our first day following the fog of fever. On the way back to my place, I didn’t even put down the sun visors or put on the air conditioner. We just soaked in the heat as if it would stay inside her all the way back on the plane.

I loved my sister.

But I said “No” to her invitation to visit her next February.