It’s not exactly as bad as The Plague, but some would argue the point.
We’re talking summer in Nashville.
You know what it’s like. Along about July, the humidity will rise into the 80s, and the mercury will inch toward the century mark. You will hear a mosquito buzzing nearby, and you will swat at it.
Meanwhile, the skies will be slate gray, the color of gravy, even though the sun is shiningsort of. This will be the product of “thermal inversion,” the causes of whichpart geographic, climactic, meteorologicalyou do not fully understand. At this stage, you do not want to understand. All you want to do is curse out loud, and sit naked beneath the sprinkler.
A heat rash on the side of your stomach will begin to itch badly. The pollen will dance through the hot air, inflaming your nostrils. A junebug will decide to land in your cup of coffee, which is too hot to drink anyway.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is what we will face shortly. The onslaught, such as it will be, has not yet arrived. When it comes, you most certainly will know it. But for now, there’s still time.
There is time to acknowledge the hope of summer. It springs forth every year at this very time in the season. A time when summer is still to be praised. A time when summer in Nashville is not an ordeal but an ideal.
It is a time of freshly mowed softball fields, and grocery-store shelves piled high with plump red vine-ripened tomatoes, and cold beers nestled deep in an ice chest on a boat. It is a time of Vidalia onions in wooden crates, and kids selling lemonade on the street corner, and dogs jumping at frisbees in the park. Summers in Nashville are about going shirtless, building a rope swing, picking vegetables fresh from the backyard garden, and staying up late because the sun stays up late too.
Summer in Nashville is spread out before us. Sink your teeth into it now. Because soon enough, it will bite back.
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