The roadside memorial always takes me back to that day. It was a Monday, four years ago, a very hot day. The dew point that afternoon was 81 degrees. Anything above 70 is thought to be — and my experience confirms it — uncomfortable. The air was saturated. Just walking to the mailbox and back left me soaked in sweat.
Every so often, the death of a famous person touches one in an unexpected way. That happened to me a little more than a week ago. A true cultural icon, someone who in his small way redefined our lives, had died unexpectedly. He was only 50. His passing left a void that will not soon be filled.
I’m pretty sure that grass isn’t supposed to be brown. But it’s been so long since it was any other color, I’m not quite sure.
The electrical distribution system has always been a mystery to me, but it is capable of becoming even more mysterious.
It looks to me as if this is going to be a banner year for wasps. I’m no expert, but the population of paper wasps seemed higher the first few warm days than it was any time last year. And this year they seem kind of berserk.
One thing the flatlanders have on us is thunderstorms. Not that we don’t have them, but the hills keep us from enjoying them as much. And as a thing of beauty, a good, big, hot-day thunderstorm is without parallel.
My father died 42 years ago last week. The anniversary gave rise to various emotions — a little sadness, of course, though we’ve had time to get over it — but chiefly I thought about how much he has missed.
Time was, Memorial Day was May 30, and it meant more than sales, cookouts, and “the unofficial beginning of summer.” To some, the old meaning remains.
Some of us are old enough to remember it well. I barely remember it, but it was from a dangerous time anyway.
Just as soon as there’s even a hint that the last freeze has passed, out they come. There are swarms of them. They burrow into the ground. They descend upon plants, especially the biggest and healthiest specimens, until soon only the spindly, weak ones remain.