Stinking hot at the school

 

Yesterday the temperature here in the upper desert was easily 107 degrees;  It depended what part of town one was in.  It was 111 in one part, and only 97 in another.    The sidewalks were empty,  no one was walking a dog or heading to the local market.  It was stinking hot.

Courtesy of Bing.com

I went to pick up my granddaughters from school.  Normally parents are mingling and talking about stuff.  The younger mothers are in their yoga outfits, with those cool shoes that are rounded on the sole.  They weren’t yesterday; they were almost naked, and they didn’t care one darn bit. 

Normally their little toddlers are toddling around, being so cute with drool and bits of crackers on their faces.  They weren’t yesterday.  No, the toddlers were crashed in their strollers, red-faced and miserable.  At least they had a bottle with something to drink.   

I wanted to steal the bottle, but the mother was watching me closely.

There was a silence that crackled; when it is that hot outside, I swear everything and everyone crackled.  The sidewalk was a pancake griddle; when I walked across it to get to the lunch area shade, the heat that rose from the griddle burned the hair off my legs.  I needed to shave them anyway.  The trees crackled, or perhaps it was the leaves that were crackling out their last bit of moisture. 

Other parents picking up students from school

We other miscellaneous adults were huddling under the lunch area shade.  No one spoke; we didn’t want to give up any last bit of spit to the dry air.  We all sat the same way:  arms akimbo, hands on knees, legs sprawled, head hung down.  It was the sight of misery, and none of cared one bit that we all looked like we had been dragged through sand, rolled in a tortilla, and toasted over a hot fire. 

My face must have given the image of one who was about to pass out.  I felt that way.  My cheeks were a shade of red that defies any color description, and the rest of my face was white, pasty white like Elmo’s glue white. 

Even the school children left their air-conditioned classroom like normal kids, but they crackled the moment they hit the outside air.  My granddaughters were silent as we walked to the car. 

‘Please, God.  Help me get to the car!’ I prayed. ‘I don’t want to pass out on the sidewalk.  They would send for an ambulance, and…wait, let me pass out on the sidewalk after all…” 

We made it to the car, just barely.  As the girls fastened the seat belts, I got the A/C cranked up to the last number, 4.  Why there isn’t a 5, 6, or 7, I don’t know.

 
I had forgotten I had left my iced coffee in the car.  The ice was melted, but the diluted coffee was cool.  I let the girls drink it all, Lord love them.  It wouldn’t sound good to hear in the news that a grandmother let her granddaughters pass out from dehydration, while she sipped on iced coffee.

Battles of the Titans

                                  

 CostCo (and Sam's) is a horror to experience on any week, any day, or any hour.  So much fortitude is required to gird up any given body part when entering its gates of hell.  Once a membership is flashed to an employee, air is sucked straight out of one's lungs and a spectre of doom hovers around anyone with money in pockets or purse.  

Common sense flees, prices seem reasonable, and the hunt begins.

We had a list given to us by his sister:  a specific list for specific number of guests.   Twenty hamburgers,  twenty hot dogs, and six chicken breasts to be halved seemed very reasonable. 

When reaching the meat section, my high I.Q. husband starts figuring and asking, "Does one hamburger really mean these? Where each is larger than my hand? Six pounds--is that enough?  Chicken? Nine pounds?  Can one chicken breast really be halved and be substantial? And, hot dogs?  Surely not the cheap ones, skinny and pathetic.  Let's buy these."

$25 + $25 + $40 + .... It was $175 totaled up for twenty people to eat just grilled meat.  What are our relatives?  Ravenous cannibals, piling plates with nine dollars worth of meat? 

Then John reasoned buns and condiments were necessary.  Throw in a jar of jam, a new purse for Mother's Day, a three-pack Redi-Whip, and some vitamins, our wallets opened as spectres vacuum green bills, and a nice cashier smiled, "Have a good one."

God help us.  We are too old to take this pressure.  When CostCo was Price Club 30 years ago, we called it the One-Hundred Dollar store, enjoyed strolling the aisles.  Now, it is closer to Two-Hundred-Fifty Dollars, and our legs hurt.

We still go to Sam's Club, it is closer and more user friendly.  CostCo or Sam's club...It is an addiction, either one.

Wikipedia

Just a note: our BBQs usually end up with some charred meat.

It is always good.

Temperatures here have been 103 deg F. Hot so hot, and people head to cooler places.  Sam's Club is our favorite, and Lowe's is next. Lowe's is actually more interesting. Either way, hot or cold means we are stuck for a while.

 

Snow! Glorious Snow! Ha.

Snow holds no mystery for us as we have experienced it for our entire lives until we got married and fled. But then my husband was a TA at Iowa State University. Snow swept across the prairie and locked us in at any given time.

Victorville, California

And then...

We dwelled in Victorville, California, in the Mojave Desert, a hellish wasteland. Surrounded by flat fields of sand, sagebrush, scrubs, and tumbleweeds, our family grew there for seven years. When the temperature plummeted to 94 deg. F/37 C., it felt like we needed jackets.

And then....

We moved to Ireland then where there was rain every day.  It was joyous, for the world was green and lush. Sadly, we lived there for only a few years.

And now...

Now we are enjoying a fairly even climate and enjoying the beauty of our area.  But, we miss some of the spring, all of the fall, and maybe a nibble of winter from Illinois. Summer in the Midwest is not missed at all.

And then...

My son John married Arlette in Chicago at December 4, 2016, with both families all around. What we also experienced was an unexpected taste of winter.

Just a taste, a beautiful taste was all we needed.

A cemetery was across the street from our really cool hotel. When
we arrived , I promised our gr-daughters we would explore
it tomorrow.

And then...

The next day we woke up to see snow, it was glorious.

The table on the balcony was pure and smooth.

Our gr-daughters were thrilled when the snowflakes began
to fall. 

And then the next day, we left the snow behind and flew

to LAX. The diamonds of light lay down below, making Los Angeles 

truly resemble where angels might actually have been.

God created snow, rain, desert, etc. He has a plan for us, for what awaits us. 

Snow? It is all part of the plan, just like barren wilderness or swamps, it is all part of His plan.

So, I guess we have to go with "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

Walk on the Wild Side

Oh, yeah.

Brenda leaned her head back as the wind caressed her streaked hair. At last, a convertible, my own convertible. A burgundy convertible. Laughter trailed after her.

Brenda knew she was hot, so totally hot. The women around her were hags compared to her.  The men who passed by gave her that look, confirming her thoughts. They waved and smiled, that kind of smile that said Hey, babe. Walk on the wild side...

She slammed her foot down on the gas, taking her convertible to its highest speed.  Take that, mustangs.

Brenda slowed just enough to hang the turn into the parking lot.  She skid into a space, one near the Atrium where cards slid across the felt and fortunes fell. Money burned in her red Louis Vuitton purse.

In moments, Brenda was through a door that opened for her.

Brenda eased her walker to an awaiting table. "Hey, ladies. You ready to put your money where your mouth is?" With that, she turned up her hearing aid and slapped down the maximum ante of $3.00. 

"Saw your new golf cart, Brenda!  Could see that you cranked it up to 20 mph this time. Speed will kill you every time. That and Alzheimer's." Hester smirked.

Those around her chuckled and picked up their cards. Brenda laid her red Louis Vuitton purse on her walker. She had left her cane at home, since her last hip surgery.

Arthritis is a bitch.

Click here to see where Brenda gambles

Lunch at Rita's

Best ever!

New Orleans in August is a muggy and slow month.  Walking down the French Quarter at noon left us queasy, all 6 of us.  Well, make it 6 ½ if one counts an 8 month little girl named Lily.

The heat was too much for us, so we ducked into a old, beaten-up restaurant called “Rita’s”.  It boasted air conditioning, and we didn’t even look at the menu posted in the window. 

As we walked into the boisterous dining room, full of laughter and bad jokes, the atmosphere changed, abruptly; everything went silent.  We were the only white folk in an all- black eating establishment.  The menus were slapped on the table and chipped glasses with tepid water were slid across the table.

What should we do?  What will we do?  What… were the words in our combined minds. But one thing, one event only, broke the thick air in a hostile room.

Daddy and Lily, who is about 18 months here

Lily started laughing and waving at the ones whose eyes looked at her.  “’lo..hello..” she cast around the restaurant like fairy dust.

Smiles, and “How old is she…what’s her name…?”  Conversation opened up as if we were old friends, laughter and stories.

Man, that food was unbelievable, pure New Orleans.  Forget about the famed chefs who had their own cookbooks.  This was good food.

We paid and left, saying good-bye, and Lily waving at all, “g’bye!”

Someday, if and when we return to New Orleans, we will stop at Rita’s.  Good food, good people.

A composite photo, a year after Rita's

August 31st

It is 93º outside and the time is 10:30 AM.

This is the last day of August.

When life is unbearable in a California roasting oven, a CostCo trip is required.  It is air-conditioned.

The chilled fresh produce room can hold 20 people, easy.  The chilled dairy products room can hold at least 50 people, as long as everyone keeps moving.  

This was there…

And this was there…

There is hope after all. 

How Summer Is Measured

Summer is slipping by me.  Already the fireworks have burst in the sky, while I watched them in TV.  Where did the awe go?  What happened to all those “Ahhhhs”  and “Ohhhhs”?

Summer is measured in so many ways.  I guess it comes down to that basic premise. 

Summer is measured:

* in the amount of fireflies caught and held in a quart jar.

* in the first good ear of sweet corn covered with butter.

* in the wrinkled fingers of my grandchildren after swimming all day.

* in the number of times people comment on how hot it is today.

* by the splashing in the pool.

* by the number of the SPF in the sunblock lotion.

* by how high I want the A/C set.

* by the lack of football games on TV.

* by the sales of summer clothes at JCPenney.

Can you add to the list?  I wonder how many measurements our blogging community can add?