Ah, how I missed you, oppressive, swarming, relentless Florida heat.
It seems you were on vacation this year. Took some time off. Came back late. But I realized last weekend you’re finally home. You’ve unpacked and you’re ready to torch.
I was outside cutting down tree branches. It was Sunday morning. Father’s Day. There are few better ways to celebrate being a father than firing up a chain saw, gnawing through some wood and praying that the teetering branch the length of Texas doesn’t come down on you like a cartoon fly swatter.
Why is it we think the laws of gravity don’t apply to giant tree branches? We’re standing below them. Where do we think they’ll go? “I don’t know, Doc. I just thought it would fall up … not on my head.”
Anyhoo, I was out dodging the arboreal assault. I ran inside to proclaim that I was alive (save for the giant branch sticking out of my shoulder blade) and hug my daughter.
She stopped me with a finger.
“Um, no,” she said.
“But I’m alive, sweet pea, and it’s Father’s Day!”
“That’s great,” she replied. “But you look like you drowned.”
I peered down at myself. The 60 percent of my body made up of water had leached onto my shirt. I could feel dehydrated blood cells coursing through my veins like sand. This explained the strange hallucinations. Darth Vader had been using his light saber to help cut up branches.
“Oh, yeah,” I thought to myself. “It’s Florida. It’s summer. I almost forgot.”
I regained consciousness several days later.
It’s been one of the most wonderful springs. Very un-Florida-like. Summer tip-toed into the state like a shy ballerina, unsure whether she was ready to take the stage. “Do I go? I’m not sure. I’m so confused!”
But now it’s here, and I’m having to remind myself this place gets hot. Melt your buttocks off hot. Clothes stick to you like Saran Wrap hot. Bake your potatoes on the dashboard hot. Go out and do yard work at 10 a.m. and you see Darth Vader AND DIE!!! hot.
We’ve been lulled into these northern-like Indian summer days, haven’t we? The nice coastal breezes. The dry air. The cool evenings. We forgot what a 95-degree day with 160 percent humidity feels like. Remember? It’s like a pizza oven in a steam bath.
And they’re back, baby. A little delayed this year, but they’re back.
We knew they were coming. It was just a matter of time. It’s Florida, afterall. The microwave state.
So get ready. Get back in that deep fryer state of mind. Where you need a spatula each night to get your drenched clothes off. Where you lose half your water weight just going outside for the morning paper. And where Darth Vader is always around helping out with the yard work.