After an unseasonably long winter followed by a cool summer, I’m beginning to wilt.
Bundled in a long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, and jeans, I went to the Indiana State Fair and saw this sad sight:
And I thought, that’s a little like me, right now.
Summers of Indiana Past, I remember you.
Hot, 95 degree days. Humidity so thick you can drink it. Feeling the heat burn through your shirt and lighting a fire on your skin. Reading a book in the full afternoon sun while sipping iced tea.
I don’t think I’ve ever complained about the heat. Even when our summer was so hot, our neighborhood pool felt like a hot tub, I didn’t complain. I love the heat.
And without it, I’m starting to wither a little bit inside.
Shallow? Maybe.
And yet there are people rejoicing. My husband says this is the best Indiana summer EVER.
I roll my eyes.
And contemplate moving even further south.
Or buying a heat lamp.
You get the idea.
There are plants that thrive in the coolness of the summer. But like tomatoes. And roses. And that poor sunflower. I miss the heat.
Here’s a haiku poem about it:
