Cruel September

According to T. S. Eliot, "April is the cruellest month."

I think he was on drugs. I've spent several Aprils in Britain. It's not a bad month, not as good as May, admittedly; May is definitely the best month of the year to be anywhere in Britain, but still, in general, April is just fine.

As opposed to September in south Louisiana. A Deep South September is like the Abu Ghraib of the calendar. Total torture. Absolute horror. It's not like it's any hotter or more humid than July or August; it's just that it's friggin' September and that it's as hot and as humid as any day in July or any August evening. September. A month that's supposed to carry those hints of fall, those autumnal glimpses, the promise of cleansing cold. Wool sweaters, plaid skirts, thick tights, boots. Pumpkins and red leaves and the smell of wood smoke. Cinnamon-spiced apple bread and hot mugs of tea.

But when it's 98 degrees in the shade with 95% humidity, well, one sticks to iced tea, even if it is September.And one learns to toss all the L.L. Bean and Eddie Bauer catalogs straight into the recycling bin. Autumn porn, I call it. All those woolen-clad models. All those down jackets and tall leather boots.

I step outside and the humidity surrounds me, squeezes me, suffocates me. It's like a Dementor, sucking out all enjoyment and energy and life. Except of course J.K. Rowling's Dementors bring with them a freezing cold; they turn all that they touch to ice. Never mind that. These are Gulf Coast dementors, partial to seafood gumbo and fried alligator, wary of hurricanes, glistening with spilled oil.

Dementors everywhere and no patronus charm. September in south Louisiana. Voldemort wins.