Summer fruit and the dust bowl children

Sometime around the time John Belushi was finding a way to make himself a tragic hero, I sweating my pre-pubescent balls off.

In the early years, we were not a family of means. We were staunchly middle class. We lived in a one-story ranch in a lower middle class neighborhood. There would be a time later in my life in which my parents struggled to hide the fruits of their labor. But in the early years, the fruits of their labor were just enough to make a dinner time fruit salad. Cable was unthinkable. VCR's were laughable. And air conditioning came by way of a wall unit or a late night attic fan. And that was if the electric bill wasn't too high the month before.

At the time, my parents did their best to explain. Grandma Willis was a dust bowl child. She and her family lived as dirt farmers. The Grapes of Wrath was not fiction to her. If she could live such a life and live to be so old, then we could do without early-80's luxuries.

But, how quickly we become giant wussies. As the family business started to succeed, the luxuries popped into the home. First cable, then a VCR, then a home addition complete with central air conditioning. The fruits of the labor were ripe and we were picking. We still used the attic fan in the spring and fall months, but on those 93 degree July days we had a full-home air conditioner and we turned that mama on.

I should not be surprised by my level of sheer wussiness. Life was pretty easy form there on out. I lived in homes, dorms, and apartments that had all the amenities. We only turned off the AC as a matter of late-May pride. Who needed an air conditioner when we could buy beer?

Now, I own my own home. Buying a home without central air was silly talk. Amazing...coming from dirt farming roots that I would consider central air a necessity. But I did.

It worked damned well for the first summer we lived on Mt. Willis. Kept the house a cool 72 degrees. And this year...well, something is broken.

I returned from Chicago to an oven. My puppy was quite literally a hot dog. She was begging for some cool, cool relish.

I walked upstairs twenty minutes ago to play my new guitar (thank you, honey). I'm now half-naked and considering going the full monty here in a moment. The downstairs digital thermometer says it is 90 degrees. It must be ten degrees warmer up here. Typing is making me sweat.

The repair guy (AKA The guy who fancies my bottom a little too much) can't come until Wednesday. I'm afraid my dog is going to die. I'm afraid I am going to die.

I'm fully convinced that summer heat has a lot to do with the murder rate. And we wonder why a vast majority of murders are committed by poor people. Heat kills, friends.

The funny part is...I would give up a summer of AC for a week with an attic fan. I loved that thing. Late night white noise shoving an artificial breeze through my window.

And if this is all I can find to bitch about...it should be a pretty good summer.