No retreat from the gulf coastal heat.

[Citrine by the Stones tasseled bead bracelet + Citrine by the Stones Rosary Tassel earrings, both courtesy CBTS + Vintage t-shirt, Wodehouse family heirloom + Free People shorts via shopbop + J.Crew ikat belt + Jessica Simpson Dany platforms + J.Crew Panama hat + YSL, Erin Wasson, etc. rings.]

I’ve given Northeast natives and their turf enough crud on this blog to know better than to carry on defending my own region in some querulous outcry against seasonal heat.

Except for one thing: we Southerners embrace air conditioning.

So while I give Vermont a little knowing wink at around 8PM when she decides to cool her jets, all day in a ski house without air conditioning in the blazing sunshine gets a little stifling. Today I was hammering away on my laptop with a sweat rag tied to my wrist when I looked over at Eli who was draped like a wet crepe over the back of an arm chair. “You could use an ocean breeze, Bobo,” I said. His ears swiveled like radar dishes to catch my voice; he twitched in response, spread the toes of his front feet, then his spine dissolved into the cushions.

Just today, I was sent some positively breathtaking pieces from my all-time favorite jewelry designers, Citrine by the Stones—based out of Miami, FL. I’ve been hoarding their pieces for years now, starting with their gorgeous Rain Earrings. And while my first instinct in showing these off is to play up the goddess-like appeal, I couldn’t shake the FL connection. My brain was firing off Coconut Grove—Key Largo—Marathon—bait shops—Porky’s Bayside BBQ—green turtle soup—that’s illegal now, I’m pretty sure—hot, hot heat—Hemingway—Ramrod Key—Little Torch Key—sweat.

This t-shirt is exactly what I called it: a family heirloom. If there’s one thing about my brother I’ve soaked up over time, it’s his love of a ratty ass t-shirt. And I think this might have been his. Fancy it fitting both a 4-year-old and a… hey, let’s not give me any adjectives.

Bimini and the Bahamas (and I don’t mean the Atlantis-y, shoppy, casino-y, busy ones; excuse my elitism here) have been a crucial part of my upbringing—always.

Behold:

We fished our way through the islands and hit up the most bummiest of bum bars—you may know the Key West airport, but I know every gas station, draw bridge, and shitty bait shop from The Last Chance Saloon before Card Sound Road on down. No restaurant was scummy enough for the Wodehouses. In fact, my mom told me a story of the waitress at Porky’s who brought a couple mugs of beer to the table one evening. In noticing that one mug had a hefty crack, she pounded it, set the decent glass down, then went back to fetch a replacement for the faulty glass. That’s a good woman, there.

So this t-shirt gets packed almost every time I go somewhere. To be honest, I rarely end up putting it on, but adding it to the mix and knowing I have it handy make the whole deal seam more manageable.

They still exist! We are always laughing at how we get more Google hits from these ridiculous shoes than anything else; figured I might as well give them some more air time:

It’s a little weird to be standing in your Keys’ finest in the mossy woods of Vermont, but like I said—the heat justified my geographical confusion. Afterall, this was not a gulf coast heat—and I was not standing on bare feet in the cool of the library on the corner of Government and Bay, reaching for Flaubert.

But that’s the gift of a Floridian heart: you can carry that ease of being with you no matter where you’re perspiring. Others may scoff at the heat; we just yearn harder for home.

-Carey