Hot Stuff

No, not my cutie pie of a Beloved. Hot, as in where the heck did this blast furnace come from? Wherever it was, it can go back now. The garden is gasping, and even the squirrels are too whacked out from the stupendous temperatures to chase what's left of the vegetable garden. (Note to self: next year, it's a cutting garden. Flowers only.)  Me, I walk out the front door and instantly, I look like I just pulled myself from the swimming pool. And not in a pleasant way. But I'm warning myself to lay off the complaining. It's much worse elsewhere.

I can't imagine how hot it must be in the Horn of Africa.  As I read about the plight of the Somalians who've endured more than two years of searing drought, I feel like such a wimp. Our American society can't conceive of that kind of devastation, the land stripped bare of anything green, water disappearing into constantly blue skies, crops and children dying in front of our eyes. Where is the American generosity of spirit that answered the need after the earthquake in Haiti, the tsunami in Japan? Does a long, spread out disaster not register on our radar?

We must help these people. Go online and check out the charitable organizations with stellar reputations who are trying to aid the Somali refugees, and give generously to help these desperate people. Please.