On the eve of the 40-degree heatwave now scorching Australia's south-east, my little wall unit started exclusively blowing hot air.

With only one half-hearted fan standing between myself and the Dark Ages, I turned to the archives of The Canberra Times for some insight into the world before electric cooling.

The capital's hottest day on record still stands at 42.2 on February 1, 1968 but perhaps its most hellish heatwave was felt by locals in January 1939.

The timing couldn't have been worse then either - more than a thousand dignitaries had descended on the city for an international science conference. There were barely enough beds to go around (and there was certainly no Lake Burley Griffin to dip a curious toe in) as temperatures hovered above 37 degrees for well over a week. At least three people died and scores more were hospitalised with heatstroke.

An "eerie yellow light" hung over the city; smoke breaking through the clouds as fires raged nearby. Hundreds of ornamental trees withered, bike tyres began to melt, deliveries of ice ground to a halt. In exhaustion, many locals stretched out on the grass along Commonwealth Avenue, The Canberra Times reported at the time.

While Canberrans did take comfort in the fact that Melbourne and Sydney were still hotter (convincing "many visitors that Canberra was not such a bad place after all"), the conditions did nothing to impress the 800-odd scientists who "felt they had set down in something closely approaching an inferno" as they discussed receding glaciers a world away.

Among them was science fiction author and "No. 1 personality at the congress" H.G Wells. He even joined the scientists who lent a hand that weekend when the fires bore down along the Murrumbidgee.

While some rather thoughtfully bought cigarettes for firefighters, other scientists were reported to abandon their talks completely to fight "side by side with Canberra citizens".

Wells, who was in his 70s at the time, "spent many hours in a car dashing from point to point where the fires were fiercest", speaking "encouragingly to hundreds of firefighters".

Before long the scientists were out mingling with the locals in shorts and sandals ("The heatwave has answered the conundrum of when is a scientist not a scientist," the paper declared) and life continued in the capital.

Guests even made a "gallant effort" to take an interest in a garden party on the lawns of Parliament House (but perhaps breathed a secret sigh of relief when a brief but boisterous storm sent attendees "scurrying for cover" and uprooted one of the marquees).

Then there was the record-breaking February 1968 heatwave. Back then, the public service association of the day was seeking a ruling on whether staff could walk off the job (as one unfortunate Department of Defence office reportedly reached 44 degrees inside).

In schools, Canberra teachers reported students were remarkably well behaved - seeing as they "lacked the energy to misbehave" - except for one brave group that insisted on playing cricket on the oval at lunchtime.

By 1988's big heatwave, "tempers were flaring" in department stores as Canberra faced a "critical shortage of airconditioning units ... and fans".

This week, airconditioners were also "walking out the door". I've even started hunting for a cheap little portable I can learn to trust again.

But I grew up without airconditioning. Much of my childhood was staged in a sweltering Melbourne summer, flaked on the floor with the tennis on, wearing T-shirts I’d soaked in the sink or making icy poles out of cordial, burning my feet on the sand.

In the past few days, purely out of necessity, I've turned to some of those weird family remedies again. I’ve spritzed myself with water, shivered stubbornly in an ice cold bath, I’ve even contemplated freezing the sheets, (though I haven't quite given up on the grass of Commonwealth Avenue yet).

Our summer rituals might not have always brought a lot of relief but they did make those long days baking in our little house a lot of fun.

We’d put bowls of ice cubes in front of the fan and have wild water fights in the backyard. And then finally, when the heat of the day had driven us all a little mad, we'd race outside as the storm broke overhead, Dad, my sister, even Mum, running around in the rain and freaking out the cat.

I hadn’t expected to feel so close to them again

We’re all apart now, my Mum at home, my sister living perpetually in another country, my dad’s ashes scattered in Tasmania, and I’m here in Canberra with my fan.

Science shows us those summers are nastier now, as global warming inches out of data sets and into reality.

Perhaps one day, when our airconditioning crashes in some apocalyptic disaster, another reporter will find me in our archives.

Tell my story, Canberra.

What memories do you have of scorching Australian summers? Let us know in the comments below.