Last Saturday it was 107 degrees (F) outside. With the parched lawn more dust than grass, there really was no yard work - as there is essentially no yard. It is even too hot for fire ants this year, no sign that they have yet to burrowed up above ground and form even the smallest of mounds. The fire ants continue to stay deep underground where they enjoy the relatively cooler climes of hell, which is where they reside. Now in August the cicadas have wisely stopped making their distinctive high-pitched summer sounds, fearing that by rubbing their wings against their legs to make their mating calls, they will cause themselves to spontaneously ignite as if they were Indians starting a fire by rubbing two sticks together. Yes, it is even too hot for cicada sex, and you know these guys only have a few days to find a comely cicada chick and make babies, then give it a rest for 17 years before they do it again. Imagine, if it is too hot for fire ants and too hot for a cicada quickie, who am I to go against nature and get outside and do something.
Taking my cue from nature, I was staying cool, laying on the couch in my underwear last Saturday beneath the ceiling fan as it turned anti-clockwise like a tropical depression in response to the Coriolis effect. I lived vicariously through the TV, drowsily watching those bottom-rung field reporters on The Weather Channel who were assigned to get the elements of "good TV" by being in the elements, namely the elements of turbulent rain, wind and surf. I watched as North Carolina, then Virginia and then New England got pelted with rain. I sure would like to see rain. I wish some of the rain bands of Hurricane Irene would wrap out around my house. Under the constant heat and above the cracking, dessicated Texas ground, I imagined that what was on my screen was actually out my window. I was serene as I watched Irene.
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