Winter is Coming
It's been a mild summer in Georgia and I'm thankful for it.
The mercury has not topped one hundred degrees (38C). Normally, there's a fortnight in Georgia's high summer when the heat hits you like a blast as you exit buildings, like the whole world was made of the exhalations of diesel exhaust and the puffing from your dryer's rear vents. You sweat openly on the stroll from the door to the car. Streets are nearly deserted during the day's hottest hours.
Those who know no better will point out that most western cities, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Vegas, often top us by fifteen and twenty degrees on the hottest August days, but that old adage about wet and dry heat is not a lie (As I type this, the humidity is 91%, and it's not expected to rain today). For a third of the year, the southeast feels like a pile of wilted vegetables. From Louisiana to North Carolina, people stoop and slouch like fifty-six million deteriorating popsicles. It's hateful, oppressive.
It's nearly done, though. The forecast indicates that the temperature will begin to fall in the next week, signaling the end of summer weather. Like an aging pole vaulter, the midday high will cease to top itself, its best showing creeping lower and lower with each pass until, some for or five months hence, it bottoms out in the forties (4-5C). Overnight lows will be below freezing. I can't wait.
I grew up in England and in the upper midwest and, despite nearly a quarter century here, I have never gotten used to the slick, sweaty, subtropical heat of the American southeast. Snow is so much more appealing than kudzu.
I'm taking my heavy coat to the cleaners. I'm going to give my long sleeve shirts a good wash to exorcise six month's of closet whiff. I'm just itching for the leaves to drop. Winter can't get here fast enough.
It's been a much colder and wetter year that usual. Maybe it will snow.
I can hope.