Languid, enervated by heat and a comfortable sense of nothing to do. Cat thermometer says it's summer at last: the cats lie elongated on the floor, bellies exposed. I'm tanned and a little pink around the edges. It's time to get out the straw hat, time to put away the lightweight comforter and switch to one single blanket. The days are long and light and perfect for gardening; I repot and transplant every evening to make room for all the seedlings outgrowing their pots. The birds raid the backyard constantly for worms and insects to feed their ravening children. The tomato plant has five yellow flowers on it, making me long for the first tangy bite of warm, sun-ripened tomato. Not so long now, not so long.
For dinner last night I fried chicken and made potato salad from scratch as acknowledgement of the new season. John served up rootbeer floats while we waited for the house to cool down a bit. Tonight I sliced fat chunks of juicy watermelon to beat the heat, the dark green, pink and white colors as welcome as the cool crunch. We don't have air conditioning so we run an electric fan and leave the windows and doors open. That pesky spring wind? Gone. Now we have a month of heat and dry weather to look forward to. By June the fog will reappear and the sense of perfect summer will evaporate, replaced by the usual guessing game of sweaters or not. Until then, though, the sweet golden days are as alluring as a dream.
Memorial Day be damned. I'm wearing white shoes tomorrow.
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