This is Joe's fault. My friend in St. Louis. Perhaps he thought that, if I started a blog, I might stop writing emails to him. Or maybe it was a matter of misery loving company. Whatever. He kept pushing the button, for some years now, and finally it sputtered to life.
By the way, Joe has a thing about commas; he thinks they're overused. So if my phrasing sometimes crashes into itself at least you'll know Joe's happy.
Right, Joe? Happy now?
Tucson. All summer. These people call it a "cooling trend"--with a straight face--when the temp drops into the upper 90s. And the Monsoon? Hah! I sweat more than it rained.
"But it's a dry heat" is the common explanation for the locals' acceptance of such ridiculous customs. I'm sure "But it's a dry heat" will be printed on the T-shirt they'll give me in hell.
At least I'm not in the middle of town anymore. Here, along the banks of a dry river, there's plenty of open desert; and surprisingly verdant for being a desert. But that's what I like about the Sonora.
Coyotes, jack rabbits, little rodent and lizard critters, quail and doves all around. The occasional Saguaro stands sentinel. Sunsets settle into glowing embers behind the mountains. Much later toward morning, the next hot day fires a warning shot across the bow.
My ashes could be happy here.
Nothing is perfect.
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