Summer

Have I gotten so used to air conditioning that I have forgotten what it is like to swelter in the heat of summer?

For over a week, the temperatures have been just under 110 degrees, hot by any standards, and no, it's not a dry heat. It's humid and drippy. Excessive heat warnings have been posted for the area, most of the mid-west if truth be told. So even packing a bag and getting out of  town is not an option since everywhere within driving distance is under the weather channel's red warning map (not to mention what it would cost in gas to get away). And the cat no longer runs to escape outside when the back door is opened.

Growing up on the shores (inland a little) of Lake Erie the temperatures got to 90. The highest temperature before this summer was 104, recorded in 1988, but I was long gone by then. On the side of our house we had a mulberry tree whose branches made a graceful arch up from the trunk to sweep down to the ground creating a perfect hidden, cool respite from the weather. Well, truth again, it wasn't really perfect since the mulberries acted like Ritz dye when sat upon creating a challenge for who ever was on laundry duty that week. It was never me.

But back to the present. Walking to the mailbox or the newspaper box becomes a waiting game with my husband. Who wants the paper more, me or him? This is the only time I have regretted getting him an IPad for now he can find all the news he needs or wants without our daily morning paper. Truth again, the news in the paper, especially the global news, is old by two, sometimes three, days. A whole war could be started and won (or lost) in the time it takes the local press to get the news out. Celebrities marry, divorce, and remarry all in the time it takes me to find out they are an item. But I digress.

We are wusses.

And that's what I think about it.

Deceased I Wish I had Known

Today in the paper I happened to take some time reading the obituaries. Some might think this a macabre pastime and if I hadn't been looking for the name of a neighbor I would not have scanned this list of the recently deceased. However, little did I know of the entertainment value of the local obituaries. With names omitted, I submit these gems to you, my readers:

"(name) was a damn good lawyer. Just ask him. (Oops, too late.)...He survived (until now) liver cancer and transplant...He could nap on command...He was never far from a Vienna finger or an Oreo (or a moon pie)...Sticking around to pick up the crumbs are his daughter....and her husband (who he actually came to love)...Taking off before him, his wife of 46 years...."

"(name) grew up in a Democratic home and married a Republican..."

"(name) was religious about donating to charities especially in his community."

"(name) collected/loved stuff...had a green thumb....single-handedly kept Goop, Gorilla Glue, duct tape manuafacturers and the "fart card" division of the greeting card industry in business."

The local paper writes, "Paid obituaries are written and provided by the families and loved ones of the deceased and the content reflects the thoughts and values of the bereaved."

I find these more amusing than the comics and probably will become somewhat of a stalker of the dead.

And that's what I think about it. 

A Dad by any other Name

Tonight we celebrated Father's Day with the family. After dinner and gifts, my husband Jim rose to "tell a short story."

He related a time at Ohio State when his parents unexpectedly showed up on campus. In the evening of their visit the three of them, along with 200 others, attended an annual dinner for Baker Hall, the dorm where Jim lived. During the program two residents of the hall came up behind Jim and escorted him to the stage. Unbeknownst to him he was being inducted into the Baker Hall Honor Society and would now be known as Sir James Thomas. His parents had been alerted that this honor was to be bestowed and drove to campus for the ceremony.

A few years later, Jim was in the army. Receiving his third stripe he now had the new designation of Sergeant. Another title by which to be known.

A few years later, he was awarded the Juris Doctorate degree which came with the title Esquire.

Lots of titles; lots of awards.

But at dinner last night, Jim stood in front of the family to state that on April 7, 1972, he received the title that he most cherishes and is most proud of when two little girls after marrying their mother begin to call him Dad.

Nothing has been more fulfilling.

There wasn't a dry eye.

And that's what I think about it. 

Bunny Buffet

The bunnies are back. Skinny little things, these wild furries romp through the back yard chasing one another but lose focus easily. They run like being chased and then stop abruptly to nibble a leaf of clover forgetting the former game of catch-me-if-you-can.

Sitting inside looking outside one afternoon, I noticed one of them in the middle of the yard, seemingly pulling up grass. When she had a mouthful she hopped over to the jumble of leaves and other vegetation of sunflowers, clematis, morning glories, rose bushes and wild daisies. Large tufts of grass stuck out from both sides of her mouth. She deposited the grass and went back to the yard, returning with another mouthful, five or six times. It didn't take long to guess that she was making a nest and that she would probably soon have a litter of bunnies (it crossed my mind to wonder how much I could make selling the little darlings but I was ahead of myself since they were yet in utero).

But I did have the wherewithal to have my husband purchase a big bag of carrots for the little mother-to-be. I broke one in half and put it out on the step by the flowers (see photo). After three days, the carrot had been moved, but not eaten. What's this?, I asked myself. What bunny doesn't eat carrots?

Wanting her to keep her strength up, I now have Julienned the carrots into what I hope are bite-sized morsels and placed them where she has only to pluck them from the ground (see photo).

I'll keep you posted.

And that's what I think about it.