The summer heat wave, all solar blaze and dragon’s breath, sizzles on without a whisper that it will break soon. It was 95 degrees at noon today, and still I braved a quick walk that was as pleasant as licking dynamite. I was sopped afterwards, but AC and a brawny desk fan evaporated the wet in 45 minutes or so. Summer. Yum!
The whole time walking all I could think was: August 1st — yes. Summer’s last lap. Though September is unduly warm, it rarely hits the 90s and I get giddy waiting for it. In fall, the air smells different, earthy. Breezes are brisk, just like the cliché. The sun softens, goes fuzzy like a peach. I get to wear jeans. I take a trip (Berlin in October). Of course, there’s Halloween. So great for kids, so embarrassing for participating grown-ups. Everyone’s infantilized. And there’s Thanksgiving … yeah, well.
When I walk, it’s an obstacle course of flora. I duck below the low-hanging branches of curbside trees and hopscotch around front yards flush with foliage curling over the sidewalk. It’s all so lush, the greenery, that I hate to say I can’t wait for it to shrivel and die in the cold. It is pretty and life-affirming, but sporting a jacket beats it anytime. The heat is my kryptonite; the chill my vitalizing spinach. (Mixed metaphors — Superman and Popeye. Apologies.)
Ironically, workers are installing a fancy heater in the dining room today, which, if it wasn’t such a happy prelude to the cold, would be insanely counterintuitive.
I wonder when the heater will be needed? When will we drop to 50, 40 degrees? When will we stop sweating? When will it be dark by 6 p.m.? When will all those plants die?
Tomorrow, please.
GNASHING. 