I remember humidity. The delicious feel of it against my skin. Sitting on the front porch in hell-hot August at day’s end as fields became impressionist paintings. Green to gray to black.
And my parents talking softly about essential things. People long dead. Dreams. Their dreams. Other people’s dreams. My dreams before I even knew they were mine. Things wrong and things right.
And always the languid, fat air across my face growing cooler in the dying light. Making simple things seem gravely important. The Sherman’s oak tree massive, and dark, and misty at the foot of the drive. The Gate’s house becoming a shadow against a shadow with light pouring through kitchen curtains like life escaping.
Invariably air carried mood. In growing darkness sodden atmosphere remained like a life-form. Until finally even words couldn’t penetrate. So we sat silent in the blackness. Thinking. Remembering. Regretting.
Eventually thoughts expired as well. Leaving us with the air, and the night, and our hearts beating faintly till bedtime.
That is what I remember about humidity in the south in eastern Tennessee when I was a boy.