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For the past several days—until today, alas—we’ve been having a spell of entirely uncharacteristic weather in the Washington, D.C. area. The days have been in the 70s and the nights, pure bliss: in the high 60s, a temperature for open windows and a thick breeze that feels like it’s straight from the Atlantic, and I am opening the casement windows in my cottage on Martha’s Vineyard.
Which, I should note, does not exist.
**** - Season - Time - Everyone
Now we’re back to **** Season again. I think we had a high of 97. And it’s as good a time as any to remind everyone:
I hate summer. I hate it as a reality and as a concept, too. Here’s my analysis:
Hand - Professionals - France - Vacations
On the one hand: Wistful overworked professionals appealing to, yes, France, and its month-long vacations.
On the other: Angry overworked professionals carping about not being able to get anyone in New York or on Capitol Hill on the phone.
Texans - Summer - Start - November
Texans, meanwhile, are happy to remind us that summer is not over down there until the start of November.
As far as I am concerned, be gone with it all. Shut yer trap. I implore with the zeal of an unexpected convert.
Way - Reaction - South - Triumphs - Television
I felt this way all along. Much of it, I think, is a reaction to growing up in the South, after the twin triumphs of television and air conditioning, with sad older parents who wanted to just sit for a while. We had a front porch, but for the most part, front porch culture was gone. Our street had no sidewalks.
My memories of summer days are of scurrying from one window-unit-cooled room down a hot humid hall to another one—close the door, the air will get out—the curtains and shades kept as assiduously closed as the ones in Rosa Coldfield’s (of Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!) parlor.
Today - Short-circuit
Even today, if you want to short-circuit...
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