Dog Days of Summer

I have often wondered exactly what this expression meant, and from where it came. I did some reading this morning to try to pin it down, but to no avail. Apparently even such a tome as The Oxford Companion to the Year cannot definitively say what or when the Dog Days are. All it can say is that they are hot. Ah, well, I'm glad we cleared that up.

I guess then, we are in the Dog Days of summer. I always think of the Dog Days as late August into September, but most importantly, the hot humid days that just won’t go away. That’s what I mean by Dog Days—"Dogged Days." Like a terrier that just won’t let go of a toy, the atmosphere just won’t let go of the heat. Won’t give in to the cool crispness that it knows is coming, won’t give up the searing sun. The sun blazes stronger at this time, and in the direct sun summer still reigns supreme, but that’s the only place that summer is still winning—in the shade it’s getting cooler, at night it’s getting cooler. The sun fights back with a vengeance; it fights so hard because it knows it’s going to lose.

It will cool, the leaves will turn, the sky will open and it will rain, and the days of Old Sol in his/her glory will have to wait until next summer to come back full force.

My favorite thing about the Dog Days is, they can’t last forever.

It's 109 degrees. In the shade.

Tonight I lay in the hammock,
swaying in the cool breeze,
and watched bats catch mosquitoes
against the darkening dusk.

A Spittin’ Contest

Today in our new and improved world we have such things as seedless watermelons. Now, no one can argue that they aren’t easier to eat. But I would say that some of the fun has gone out of them. As an adult, I can appreciate the contrast shiny black seeds make to the red flesh and the green and white rind-- removing them definitely takes away from the aesthetic value of the watermelon.

But the real problem involves spitting. You just can’t spit the sad little seeds that are left, mere shadows of the great shiny black ones.

Old fashion watermelons, complete with seeds, takes me back to a long ago very hot Fourth of July evening. After the usual fireworks (sparklers, fountains and Whistling Petes) and ice cream, we got down to business and watermelons. We spit those little seeds as far as we could, my brother, my cousins and I. We got some pretty good distance too. Those were the days.

The next summer, my grandfather’s rose garden got a nice crop of watermelons.

It's too hot to blog.
It's too hot to breathe.
It's too hot to eat.
I had pie a la mode for dinner.
I allowed my child to eat pie a la mode for dinner.
I have a friend who plans on eating only popsicles for the rest of the summer.
It's hot.

Somebody’s Gonna Get Fired

It’s late June, the height of tourist season on the beach in California, prime tourist destination of the country and the world. The dollars are just pouring in. The hotels are full, and just try getting a place to park coastally in the entire state.

Imagine that you're in beautiful downtown La Jolla. People are strolling down the street, they're playing in the Cove, they’re sunning on the beach—or they would be, but it’s raining. Not just a few refreshing sprinkles mid afternoon when you need it anyway--it’s pouring. There’s thunder and lightening. In La Jolla.

Somebody’s gonna get fired.