Summer ain't summer unless it's hotter than. . .

add your own adjective. Hades? Hot potatoes? All I can say is, it’s hot, hot, hot. I like to pretend I can take the heat, but I’m bluffing. It’s been h311 this summer in Virginia, and I, for one, have no intention of sitting on hot sand, umbrella or no umbrella. On one hand, my lack of desire to brave the elements has an up-side - I am getting more done in the office. The forsythia can stay leggy and wild until it gets below 80 degrees. And as for the garden weeds, have at it. They’ll be here in another month.

Patience is not one of my virtues, I am ashamed to admit. But now and then, I like to stop cold and assess what I have to admit is a plethora of nostalgia. On days like today, my grandmother’s front porch in SW Georgia was a cool oasis, with oscillating fans, high ceiling, a swing and bouncy metal chairs, tile floor, and a big pitcher of iced tea on the table for one and all to imbibe. Neighbor ladies would gather in the afternoon, bringing movie magazines discarded from the beauty shop, and sit around, sipping and gossiping about stars and neighbors alike. Their perfectly coiffed hair, sprayed to within an inch of its life, never budged. Summer dresses stayed perspiration free, as they wielded paper fans from their various churches. As a child, I was ignored, except for a request to fetch more lemon from the kitchen or extra cookies from the jar on the counter. I could listen for hours to their soft Southern accents, their lady-like laughter, and hope that one day I would be welcomed into the circle as a fully participating gossip.

It never happened. Those wonderful ladies passed away before I could get back to the porch. I’d been too busy “lawyering,” as my grandmother said, in a disapproving tone of voice. I’m sure I was the subject of some discussion on a hot summer afternoon, and at least I made it that far.