Yesterday, Sunday, was hot. The thermometer read ninety-five point six just about one in the afternoon. I snapped a picture, to send back ‘home’ to show them I wasn’t making idle chatter. I sent it. They were not appropriately impressed. For that, I lost interest in what the thermometer did the rest of the afternoon. I do know it stayed hot. I have no idea if it made one-hundred degrees.
“Back home” was suffering eighty-five degrees, but they informed me they had intolerable humidity. To return the favor, I didn’t let that impress me. I am nothing, if not fair.
Sitting on the deck with the Boss Sunday afternoon, we knew it was hot and were plenty happy to have the umbrella opened offering shade from the sun. At one point, recklessly, I mentioned something to the effect that we were only marginally intelligent, seeing as how we could have adjourned to inside the house, where we knew it was comfortably seventy-eight degrees. And inside, there was little need for an umbrella, as the sun was only allowed inside through the windows. It was not allowed to beat mercilessly straight down on hapless, stupid, humans.
The Boss has this thing about fresh air and sunshine. She understands heat and humidity (that for the benefit of folks ‘back home’) being from even farther south than Tennessee originally. Therefore, we were out enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. Fortunately, at present, that’s not taxable. There was an occasional breeze, but given the heat, and that it’s Tennessee, the breeze was dry and sucked sweat off so fast, you really didn’t have a chance to enjoy it.
Nice thing about the heat and dry was it kept the mosquitoes away. Not generally a problem here, but I’m looking for (no punish-ness intended) a little sunshine in all this. On reflection, it would take one hungry mosquito to risk flying in hot, dry, and thin air. Hot as it was, the sun likely would have fried their little wings off, and they’d have to walk from mammal to mammal. Little boogers have tiny legs, that’d slap wear them out.
Today, at ten AM, that same thermometer suggested it was ninety-seven degrees. At ten AM in the morning. We do not live in the Sahara, Death Valley, or any other place on earth where people legitimately could call me a sissy, complaining about a paltry not-yet one-hundred-degree temperature.
There are places where folks looking in on my ramble live, that would allow people there to tell me a thing or two about real summer heat. While I don’t have a huge following, I do know folks from Australia and India have peeked in. Those are places, though I don’t know exactly where in India and Australia these folks are, they understand heat. Or should.
This morning, I got busy with “chores.” One thing or another, I went outside and discovered the plants in the Boss’s hanging baskets on the deck were in serious wilt. Heat, and the good old sun shining down. This was about eleven. After Sunday, I didn’t bother to read the thermometer. And after the ten AM check, I knew it was hot. I’m no dummy. Knowing how much the Boss cares for her plants, I did unroll the hose, turn on the water, and give the plants a careful drink. They were most appreciative.
I came inside to tend some inside chores and poke at email. About one PM, I don’t remember why, I went outside again. As hot as Sunday was, when the heat smacked me in the chest, I was duly impressed. Completing whatever it was, emptying compost, I guess, and back inside, I took a gander at the thermometer.
One-hundred point six degrees. That’s Fahrenheit. Thirty-seven, almost thirty-eight Celsius, for my Australian and Indian Continent visitors. Please forgive us here in the US of A for our Feet-and-Fahrenheit behind-ed-ness. While it’d be slick to join most of the rest of the civilized world, all the same to you, I hope the US (of A) doesn’t convert until my ticket is punched. I’ve made a lot of progress over the years, but I don’t believe I have the energy left to handle the metric system.
Several years back, visiting post-Lira Italy, the Boss and I did a day trip to Switzerland. Now, Euros, and Dollars, and Francs all jumbled into one sandwich or souvenir purchase put me at my computational limit. I offer that as evidence I likely would be paralyzed by a conversion to the metric system at this point.
Well, it is July. This is Tennessee. As long as I can remember, we’ve had serious heat in the summer. We even managed some rather uncomplimentary names to describe it. Truth of it, July might not be the worst of it. August can be pretty dreadful. Not for sure if that’s because by August we’re looking for a break temperature-wise, or if it’s genuinely one of the hotter months. I recall more than one September where the sun would singe the hair on your head if you were dumb enough to go outside without a hat. Or if you were simply dumb enough to go outside.
I don’t mind the heat. (Stupidly, I suppose) some of my fondest memories are working summers on the farm baling hay. Hot, heavy, sweaty, thirsty work. It’s not bad here right now either. Not really. Just don’t go out in the heat and try something stupid. Like maybe baling hay. Or pouring concrete. Or if you’re a mosquito, flying from your home pond to the nearest blood-sucking station.
Or, ladies and gentlemen, mowing the lawn. Which, incidentally, is the next item up on my to-do list for the day. Not to worry. A quick look at the thermometer, now a little after four PM, the temperature has dropped to ninety-eight point eight. That’s Fahrenheit.
Piece of cake.