Thursday, or Thereabouts - June 1, 2023

 

Summer has jumped the gun this year, rushing her entrance onto my doorstep a full three weeks before the solstice. Her usual entourage of bugs - black flies, mosquitoes, deer flies, and ants - are all present and correct for June 21 too. Even the "Bobbsey Twins", high humidity and poor air quality have shown up this week along with a heat warning in tow. My plants and flowers which last week were dodging frost, are this week crying out for copious drinks and umbrellas. There has been no rain here since May 20th and so the fire danger is high. Please, PLEASE be vigilant.

Watching my grandchildren splashing in their backyard wading pool this past Sunday brought back a flood of memories. 

Hot! Hot! Hot! So hot the tar bubbles up between the pebbles on the road; round, shiny black globs. I can smell the tar - acrid gasoline fumes rise up from the road surface. My flip flops stick haphazardly as I walk; sometimes a step is unhindered, other times the foam sole sticks then releases raising fine black strands of gooeyness. Round flat, black globs decorate the bottom of my favourite summer footwear. I scuff over to the lawn hoping the grass will wipe away the sticky tar. It's futile. Now I have flipflops with green grass clippings stuck to them. 

Happy days with wind in my face bike rides, 5¢ popsicles, 10¢ ice cream cones, Coppertone® sun tan lotion or maybe just a coating of baby oil (there was no sunscreen), big circulating fans swirling in the windows (the only A/C we had), family bbq's, and a backyard pool made summer an absolute delight.

me just chillin', 1972

Freshly filled in the first week of June each year, the water temperature began as a bracing 16°C (61°F) and then crawled it's way up to a blistering 23°C (74°F) by mid-August, aided at least in some small part by my mother and I dumping buckets of hot water to it while Dad was at work!

Dad's idea of chillin' in the pool, 1972

Mom 1971

My version of taking a dive, 1972

Stay cool folks. Be fire smart.

©2023 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - August 2, 2018

Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But the A/C is so delightful.

And since we've no place to go,
Think of snow, think of snow, think of snow...



I know, there are folks out there for whom the ideal summer is an endless parade of sultry days where air temperatures soar past 30°C. For you heat lovers, Sizzling Summer 2018 is a real winner.





For me, it's not really been that great. The 3-H's - hazy, hot and humid - will never be invited to any of my barbeques. For that, I make no apologies, though I do apologize for any offense incurred by my blast of cold air today.

When my children were young, a string of hot days brought challenges. Yes, we had air conditioning in the house but after about three days of indoor life, the blanket forts, videos, and crafts lost their appeal. Cabin fever soon raised my indoor temperature beyond tolerable. When that happened, we made good an escape. If the budget permitted we'd go freeze in a movie theatre. There was something fun about bundling up to sit in a theatre when outside a t-shirt was too warm.

Most often, we headed to a cool mall. Again out came the sweaters. I had rules of course - no fighting, or screaming. Violations were punishable by immediate departure for all. That only happened once. For the most part, these excursions were cheap entertainment - there was always something new to see - and mmmarvellous mmmuffins® (as the shop was known back then), was always good for a snack.

Sometimes more expensive pursuits were on the agenda - snowsuits in August! There were giggles as heavy pants and jackets were tried on for size along with matching wooly hats and mitts. Then it was off to Lewiscraft (no longer a retailer), for a new craft, or a colouring book and maybe even a pack of brand new crayons.


Then with a box of extra muffins for Dad, knick-knacks, snow gear, and smiles, we headed home, where there were homemade popsicles, lemonade, and maybe even a nap - for me!

After supper, it was off to the baseball diamond or the soccer pitch, and sometimes both depending on which child was playing when.



























Those were the days -

the best kind of 3-H days - Happy, Healthy, Home. 

©2018 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - June 11, 2018

It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, a magical combination clear skies, warm temperatures, and very low humidity. It is a perfect summer day, one that I am enjoying to the fullest. All too soon, like tomorrow, the humidity will return, dulling the blue skies and heaving her damp blanket over all. I can moan about that another time but, not today.

Today, I have already worked myself up to a good sweat with a kick-butt workout at the gym, and then treated myself to a leisurely lunch out with a good friend. The garden is looking grand in its new and improved design. I'm happy and proud to say that all my efforts have paid off.

And now as I sip a soothing macchiato, my mind takes me back to summers of my childhood. As a kid, I loved the summer. Happy days of wind in my face bike riding and hot days cooled in the backyard pool made summer an absolute delight. We didn't have a heater so a pool freshly filled in June began at 16C (or less!) and crawled its way to a blistering 23 by mid-August. Those were the days of Fahrenheit, so "Arthur" our pool thermometer actually registered 74. One banner year I recall 'Arthur' made it all the way to 78F.

Me chillin' in the pool, 1978

For years, in the early part of June, while Dad was at work, Mom and I added buckets of hot water to the pool. When my Dad came home, he splashed his hand in the pool and announced, "It's warming up nicely!" Mom and I just smiled. It was our little secret.

My Mom, 1971

Mom - the hostess with the mostest at summer pool parties. , 1971

I had another childhood summer secret. I hated thunderstorms; they scared the living daylights out of me, especially the night time ones. Lightning lit up my bedroom, casting scary shadows across the walls. But the thunder was worse. Those ear-splitting, room shaking, gut vibrating booms were beyond my worst nightmare.

I recall lying in my dark bedroom, hands cupped close to my ears. A flash of lightning gave life to the shadows and I began a countdown, my small voice quavering in the dark, "One and one thousand, two and one thousand, three and one thousand, four and one thousand..." until the crash of thunder stopped the count. Each group of four in the countdown, that is every four seconds, between lightning seen and thunder heard measured one mile of distance to the storm centre, or so my Dad the weatherman said.

As the number of seconds between flash and bang decreased, fear increased - exponentially. I never cried out - at least not that I remember. I took it to be a badge of courage to make it through the storm (there's got to be a morning after?). Instead, I counted and shuddered, and counted and moaned, and counted and whimpered, drenched in sweat under blankets and pillow. Truly, the end of the world was at hand.

Well, we don't have a pool here now, and I'm not so terrified of thunderstorms. In fact, I love a good thunder boomer, a ringtail snorter of a rang dang doo, as the character Charlie Farquharson would have described it. Nothing can beat that rambunctious, flashy splash of refreshment. Honesty demands that I confess to a few vestiges of thunderstorm terror in the dark hours.

A low rumble in the distance rouses me. A flash of light dances around the room and the familiar countdown sequence so deeply imprinted on my being begins again. My gut clenches involuntarily in memory of stormy nights past. Most often I just roll over and fall back to sleep but every once in a while the storm is big enough, flashy enough, noisy enough to fully waken the old fear machine.

I tug the pillow tightly around my ears, stretch out my leg until toes touch a sleeping husband for reassurance that I am not alone. In the darkness, a whimper is heard. Surely not I? Hot panting breath hits my not quite buried face, then a cold nose nudges my cheek followed by a heavy paw on my arm.

"Just thought you should know mummy," seventy-five pounds of hyper-vigilant canine warns, "truly, the end of the world truly is at hand."

©2018 April Hoeller