I’m sorry. It doesn’t get very hot here. Yes, you sweat, and yes, it’s less delightful than, say, October in these parts. But summer is mild warmth to me. It’s this way because I’m from Tennessee. Tennessee, right now, is hot. A couple of years ago I went home to visit in August, for whatever insane reason, and the heat hit me not when I walked out the airport door, but in the small gap of space between the airplane door and the temporary steps leading to the airport. Even in that little gap I was beginning to sweat.
But I also know that Memphis is by far not the most miserable. A few years ago my wife and I almost ran out of gas near Baton Rouge because neither one of us wanted to get out of the car to pump the gas, and most definitely didn’t want to turn off the air conditioner to open the door in the first place.
So when my neighbor walked out of his house the other day and shook his head at 6 in the morning, saying “It’s already a hot one,” I just smiled.
I told Carroll the other day that my best friend Rob was coming to bow hunt in September. “When it’s still hot?” he asked.
I checked the average weather, and at that time it’s usually in the mid 70’s with lows in the upper 40’s. Rob’s opening day of bow season has been more than 90 degrees multiple times. And the mosquitoes? Those are a different problem all onto themselves.
So sign me up for this Nebraska “heat” any day of the week, even on those rare high 90-degree days when I am faintly reminded of back home. Until a breeze hits my face, and someone tells me that it’s supposed to be back in the 80’s tomorrow, and I immediately forget about my temporary lapse of reality. So I go for a run, right about high noon, and the world stares at me like I have lost my mind.
Except those new Nebraskans, who at one time in their lives were known as Cajuns. They’re riding around with their windows rolled down.