I had to smile when I opened the front door early this morning to start my daily commute.
There were several reasons for the smile.
One, I kind of knew what to expect as soon as I opened the door and was hit by that air that felt like a steamed, wet blanket.
Here's some news for you. It's summer, mid-July in fact, and it's hot. Stop the presses.
That, of course, will not stop our friends in TV from hyperventilating about the weather. I know the drill, just take everything they do in the winter and reverse it.
Look, I don't blame them. I'm doing the same thing in this blog. People like to talk about - and ready about - the weather.
There is an excessive heat warning (whatever that actually means) in effect until 8 p.m.
Yesterday was a sizzler. How hot was it? I actually retreated from the deck and took cover on the covered patio underneath yesterday morning as I made my way through the Sunday paper.
Yes, I still like to sit outside and read the paper. Yes, it was hot. Very hot. Bring it on. I love it.
That was, until the sweat started soaking through my shirt. That's when I thought better of it and took cover in the shade.
But I had no intention of retreating inside.
In fact, I spent most of the afternoon luxuriating in that steam bath, while listening to the Phillies game.
Of course it helped that the Phils have started the second half of the season by impersonating a real, live Major League baseball team.
After winning the first two games of their series vs. the Marlins, the Phils sent Cole Hamels to the mound in what might be the last game he ever starts in Citizens Bank Park for the Phillies. The trade deadline looms at the end of the month, and pretty much everyone expects Hamels to be sporting a different uniform.
Amazingly for a guy who seems to get next to no run support every time he takes the mound, the Phils actually spotted Hamels a nice lead. Of course, Hamels immediately went back out the next inning and gave it right back.
Still, it was nice to listen to the Phillies game when it was actually interesting.
Those who know me realize there is almost nothing I enjoy more than a scorching summer day, the Phillies on the radio, and a cold beverage in my hand.
Yesterday afternoon was no exception. The only thing better is doing so during a night game. Of course, I no longer have my screened-in porch for that summer delight, and usually get chased inside by the skeeters that delight in feasting on my every time I sit outside in the summer.
The neighborhood was eerily quiet yesterday afternoon, aside from the constant hum of air-conditioners.
That and the cicadas singing their song of summer were all I needed. Every once in awhile my wife would check on me to see if I was still conscious and had not succumbed to heat stroke.
This morning I am being bombarded with warnings to stay inside in the air-conditioning.
I'll grit my teeth and wait until I can get home tonight, strip off this suit and tie, don a T-shirt and shorts, and make a beeline for the deck, radio in one hand, iced tea in the other, and a stack of newspapers under my arm.
Bring it on, Scott Franzke and Larry Anderson. Welcome, Mr. Cicada.
They are the sounds of summer.
And I exult in them.
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