Hell Hot

I grew up in California's Central Valley, in a town called Clovis. Clovis is located snug at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains and my memory is that the seasons are mostly gentle there. It rarely froze in the winter (and when it did, my mother regarded it as a decorative opportunity, persuading my father to water the wire fence so she could enjoy the resulting icicles). But the summers were hot. For days on end, we'd have temperatures in the low 100s. There was little humidity and we had a swimming pool, so it was manageable. But come August you could expect several days of 100 degree plus temperatures.

We head west for a visit today, and so I have lately been checking the Clovis forecast. Someone at the National Weather Service clearly has a sense of humor. When I check the forecast for Clovis, if a hot day is in the offing, the NWS features a tiny photo of a burning orange horizon, with a hazy flaming sun high in the sky. It looks so hot that the pale-skinned will immediately crisp up. Those of us unwise enough to go outdoors with barefoot feet will painfully discover that our feet have been instantly seared to the ground. That picture looks like the surface of hell.

Though I was afflicted with the chronic teenage desire to get the hell out of Clovis, I like to visit these days, largely because of the abundance of good Mexican food and because I expect to spend the next two weeks dozing in the shade of Auntie KO's pool. As the forecast suggests, I will be packing a great deal of summer clothing. It would seem that no sweater is required.