Sticky Hot

It’s been so hot here in the Bay Area it reminds me of the other coast in the middle of summer.

Who shoved the fog away?

Usually you can depend on the cool breezes coming off the bay in the evenings and lowering the temperatures, but not these days.

Even the birds aren’t chirping.

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I wonder if the airport has delayed its flights and is bringing them in when it’s cooler. The image that comes to mind is of tires melting on the tarmac while planes wait for take-off. Or the other way around, planes leaving rubber smudges as they land and roll to the gate.

I’m amazed at my garden, or what’s left of it since the drought. The succulents are thriving as are the juniper bushes. I could pour sand on them and they’d still grow. What’s shot is my grass. The azaleas, rhododendrons and roses look so pitiful it hurts. I was complaining to Alf about all the upkeep not long ago when we still had water. Maybe this is the solution, to let everything die a slow death. Do I have the courage for it or will I feel too guilty and push my water limit in saving them?

I know the decision my neighbor took – everything is green, healthy and happy. His plants wave to me and I hear them cheering in the evenings around his gurgling fountain. They’re having a cocktail party while we’re preparing for a funeral.

My neighbor across the street, on the other hand, has pulled out his grass and I’m hoping he’s not planting artificial turf. That horrible green is downright ugly. Next thing I’d expect to see would be pink flamingos lining his entry. And then I’ll know I’m on the other coast, in Florida.

Calvin says, “Okay so it’s hot. Live with it. Take a nap on the dining room table like me.”  beagle

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