Four Seasons, One Southern Afternoon

If you’ve ever lived in the Deep South, you learn two things early: never trust the weather forecast, and never put your winter clothes away.

In the Deep South we only have one constant we can truly count on: summer. More specifically, the dog days of summer—the kind where the air feels like hot soup and stepping outside is like walking straight into someone’s mouth.

And the mosquitoes, or muhskeetahs as we call them, might as well be the official state bird. Around here we just call them skeeters, and a skeeter down here can drain you faster than the electric company in August.

Because of this, during the other three seasons we must collectively keep our entire wardrobe ready at any given moment. Fall and spring in particular require a level of clothing preparedness normally reserved for natural disasters.

Take fall, for example. You may have picked out the perfect cozy Thanksgiving outfit for the family portrait—boots, flannel, scarves, the whole Pinterest situation—but chances are everybody will be sweating while Mama is fussing for everyone to smile. Meanwhile we’re all standing there feeling hotter than that turkey in the oven.

And if you grew up in the South, you know Mama had that outfit planned weeks in advance—and the weather showed up like it hadn’t been consulted.

Spring isn’t any easier. Mama spends precious time picking out just the right beautiful smocked sundress with matching shoes, ruffled socks, and a half-gallon-sized hair bow. The child looks like a pastel Easter egg with legs.

Then Easter Sunday rolls around and the weather decides to take a hard left into blizzard conditions. Suddenly a cardigan, a sweater, or even a down-filled puffer coat must be applied to the ensemble, completely crushing all of Mama’s Easter egg hunt photo dreams.

Just like 48 hours ago my family was out back swimming in the pool. Today I am freezing my lily-white buttocks off because it is currently 44 degrees outside.

Now don’t get your knickers in a twist over that reference—it’s just Whiskey Jane from one of my favorite scenes in Young Guns Part II.

As we say down here, it’s not the heat—it’s the humidity that gets you.

Cold weather?

You can kiss my grits.