When you live in SF, summer is a yearned-for event. Each cold, foggy morning, pulling on the woolen watchcap, zipping the fleece vest under the high-necked windbreaker, in order to withstand the gales hurtling through the decrepit cypress trees in the park (truly! On a mega force wind day I don't walk under the trees) you get this series of Summers Past visions: little white sandals, tan legs, pulling out your t shirt so the sweat could roll down your belly and soak into your waistband. Sigh.
Half the park people, out with their dogs, wouldn't have the weather any other way. Bring it!, they say to fog, to wind, to general weather adversity. Then there are those of us wimps who have forgotten our gloves and still have to pick up that icy frisbee and give it one more toss, or risk the dog's distinct displeasure.
My friend in Connecticut claims to be barricaded in his house, blasting the air conditioner and waiting for winter. My sister in VT says the late-August flowers are already blooming and fears this means early snows. I can't puzzle out what global warming really means.
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