My Apology To Summer

For the past several years I have had nothing but hateful things to say about you, Summer. I called you the worst of the four seasons. I ranted about your droughts, and railed about your heat domes and your anti-cyclones. I did everything I could to avoid you, staying indoors in the air-conditioning to escape your triple digit misery.

But Summer, I have to say, this year you have redeemed yourself. Here we are on the 23nd day of July, in the middle of fly-over America, and you have yet to register 100 degrees. Thank you. You are helping me remember why you were once my favorite season. You remind me of evenings on my grandmother’s front porch, where we drank root beer floats under ceiling fans that spun the air into a pine-scented breeze.

Now, I am not unaware that there is, or recently was, a heat wave causing great suffering on the East Coast, but as Hunter Thompson was fond of saying, “Fuck those people.” Their plight is not my concern.

This year, Summer, you are a pleasure, with your moderate temperatures and your lower- than-usual humidity and your reasonably consistent rain showers. The buckling asphalt and water rationing of the recent past are but distant memories, like a bad dream.

So here’s to you Summer, and to the hope that August, usually the most terrible month of all, will likewise buck the trend. September is not that far off. I can already hear the marching band practicing over at the high school, and the long-range forecast is promising.


About Truman

Sixty-five. Bald. Fat. Grouchy. 'bout covers it.
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