I know most of my friends, and a few of my family, live in places that are only barely achieving spring status--enjoy it, kids! Because the alternatives are not nice. You can live in the frozen semi-wastelands of the far North, or you can move to a place like my hometown somewhere in the never-frozen, rarely frigid deserts of the Southwest. While all you in latitudes of a slightly more northern flavor are enjoying your crocuses and early spring bird migrations, we of the arid regions hereabouts are anticipating the imminent arrival of summer. In April. And knowing it will last until Halloween. Or later, like last year, when it barely cooled down for Thanksgiving.{Sigh}And so, in a frenzy of attempting to feel as normal as possible, and to reassure myself that the coming months won't be THAT bad, I try to do everything possible to make thing at least look less warm around here. I cut roses from the garden and stick them in light-colored vases (so Country Living, where no one is ever picture sweltering on the couch wishing for the next Ice Age to come). I plant late spring flowers--pansies and nastursiums, knowing full well that they'll be fried by Friday. I put up light spring-worthy curtains in spite of the fact that in one month what I'll really need is ultra-sun-blocking black-out shades. (Not so lovely, and never pictured in slick spreads in decorating mags.)
Basically I'm playing a psych game, trying to convince my all-too-well-knowing brain that summer is nothing to be feared, that 115 degrees isn't really so bad, that we'll stay active and creative and not just sink into heat-induced hibernation. It works, too. At least until the afternoon, when the house is up to 86 degrees, and I know that worse is lurking just around the corner.
Pray for me.
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