Archives for posts with tag: diurnal range

It has finally gotten warm enough—reliably—to start hardening off the seedlings. I set them out on the back porch today for the first of what should be about three weeks’ worth of visits to the wild outdoors before permanently moving there.

They’ll start in the shade, exposed only to the soft breezes of spring and the open air, whose temperature fluctuates much more than the closed atmosphere inside the basement. Eventually, I’ll move them into the direct sunshine where they will grow accustomed to the intense light and energy of the sun.

Advertisements

Yesterday evening, we arrived in Hawaii for the start of a weeklong vacation.  I’m not expecting any sympathy but it’s a long trip, especially coming from the east coast.  The distance is almost as far as Australia is from the west coast and takes most of a day to cover.  We left our house a little after 4:00 am and, after changing planes twice (an unfortunate downside to flying from our nearest airport) and driving for an hour, arrived in Kapalua shortly after 6:00 pm (11:00 pm at home).

After briefly catching up with the friends we’re vacationing with (and who are generously sharing their timeshare), we went to bed around 8:00 pm.  Complete exhaustion has helped us adjust to local time (five hours earlier than at home) but the loss of a normal day is a surreal experience.

Still, I’m not complaining.  Hawaii is a beautiful place and the weather has always been nothing less than ideal in my experience.  It’s at about the same latitude as the Caribbean but it always seems balmier and, somehow, more welcoming.  Being out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean (as opposed to being nestled between North and South America as the Caribbean is) makes it perennially breezy and warm (and not oppressively hot and humid).  Of course, I’ve never been here in the summer.

In fact, I made my first trip to Hawaii in the winter of 1989 (Rachel spent the summer of 1983 in Lahaina but that’s her story to tell).  Rachel and I had survived our first year in Oberlin, Ohio and had treated ourselves to an island holiday (we were there for Christmas and New Year’s).  Ohio was in the middle of a cold snap and when we took off from Cleveland Hopkins airport, the frigid air was 14 degrees below zero.  When we arrived at the Kahului Airport in central Maui twelve hours later, the ambient temperature was a sultry 86 degrees.  A diurnal range, for us, of 100 degrees!

On the shuttle ride to our hotel (in Kaanapali to the northwest), the radio played, “Aloha Friday, no work till Monday”, which would have been a fitting welcome even if it had not been Friday (it was).

This afternoon, Rachel and I took a walk to the end of the road to collect the mail.  I make the short trip and back (about a quarter mile each way) most days and find it a good time to ponder and reflect if I am by myself.  When Rachel joins me, it is an equally fine opportunity for us to chat about matters both trivial and profound.  There is something about walking and talking that stimulates my thinking.

Late afternoon is almost always a relaxed time of the day.  In summer, I can feel the earth’s relief (and can almost hear a collective sigh) as the sun starts to set and the temperature cools.  The energy of the surrounding growth and of life being lived—exemplified by the constant thrum of the crickets and cicadas—is still palpable but the mood begins to change from the serious concentration of the workday to the celebratory levity of the night.  I leave the house having completed a hard day’s work and when I return, it is time for dinner.

At this time of year, the day-ending quiet starts much earlier.  I still feel the passage of the sun (and a much more pronounced drop in temperature) but with winter almost here, there is also the feeling of imminent bedtime, of the plants and wildlife settling in for sleep.  There are few natural sounds—wind through the now-bare trees; a brook burbling with ice-cold water—and that gives me a sense that the flow of energy is slowing.  It creates a state of restful equanimity that helps prepare me for the long winter ahead.