Get Me Outta Here

My Weedeater is hungry. I could bale the pine straw in my back yard, the bed of needles is so thick. The river birch can’t get enough water. When I need to mow, I simply make a pass over the lateral lines.

Nothing else is green.

It is dry. It is hot. Everyone is miserable.

This is ridiculous.

Growing up in Missouri, the summers weren’t pleasant. The temperature routinely rose into the mid-90s, and it was humid. But it did rain. I remember some hellacious June and July thunderstorms that would fill the ditches and fields of soybeans.

In the Tulsa metro, we reach 100 and no one bats an eye.

This is three-showers-a-day territory. I have access to one pool and it feels like bathwater. The only refuge from the heat is on a couch, beneath a ceiling fan, in an air conditioned home.

And it is so dry the ground is breaking.

It’s time for a rain dance.

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