Yesterday the sun was relentless in the sky, pounding across my neck as I worked outside to finish an assignment. It beat and bent any will to live out of the best of us as I wilted and faintly worried about the puppydog smell that southerners seem to have in July and August (and sometimes September). Finally I surrendered....there is no beating down Apollo's beacon at noon in Alabama.
Inside the door is a tiny little pool table the boss "gave" us in lieu of a Christmas bonsus the year we moved into this building. Prior to our ownership, the building was a notorious pool hall. Renovations of the original building started with the sulfurous odor of eggs baked over two years when the original business closed. The building was gutted to the steel beams and remolded into the staid lines of a financial gnome. But....the pool heritage remains. After six years the owner's wife insists on decorating the tree in a pool hall theme and the conference room has many kitschy items related to pool and such. So, instant karma and photo ops abound.
As I left for school, the rain began. In fits and starts before finally settling in for the night. Somewhere in the night a hurricane dipped south and missed us so early in the season. Today, the sun cannot decide what to do. It is dancing inbetween banks of grumpy clouds, trying to beat them back with its brillance. About 20 minutes ago, the clouds declared a brief victory as small, tiny pails of water overflowed onto the pavement....now, the sun is laughing hysterically at this pitiful breach.
I know if I step outside, the sun's punishment of humidity will instead envelope me in blanket of sweaty mittens that smell like Molly's bedding. It's the price of peas and cornbread in the summer. So like Ignacious writing his wisdom, I fan myself and know...this is a breakdown in the system that peas don't grow in the winter.