The most suprising thing about re-reading all my childhood journals and diaries today was learning how tortured I felt by the heat and humidity when I was younger. I just found the following unfinished short story that I started writing in 7th grade (on a yellow legal pad):
One foot after another dragged down the hot, tar-smelling street by Alison Briggs. The end of the school day was, to most kids, nice, but to Alison, something almost as bad lay ahead. She had to walk home. About a mile walk, through suburban streets with amazingly green lawns considering that when you spat on the street, it evaporated before it got to the ground. The school claimed to have air conditioning, but somehow the school was always hotter than it was outside. People actually raced to get outdoors into the hot sticky air after school. But then most people just got onto a bus and cruised home. But no, not Alison. For some reason, unknown to this poor, suffering child, no bus came anywhere near where she lived. The middle school must have had about 15 buses, but not one of them cared enough to go just a little bit out of its way and pick up Alison.
It was thoughts like this that gave Alison reason to whine and complain.
Can you believe that I…um, I mean, “Alison” had to walk A MILE home from middle school EVERY DAY? And in such an extreme climate!
No wonder I moved to the Bay Area, bought myself a car, and never looked back.
