The mercury in the non-greenhouse thermometer reached 86 degrees F. yesterday. You’d think it hit 106 the way we were carrying on around here.
I will readily, easily admit I prefer cool weather. We didn’t get to 90 all last summer and that was quite fine by me: canning was still a sticky endeavor (and considering I was canning food for 135 schoolchildren as well as our own needs perhaps “endeavor” is an apt term) but otherwise it was an enjoyable year. And now, well, now our blood is still thick and our entire aspect is crabby.
Case in point: Five hens are sitting on eggs and, when they come out for their daily water, food, dustbath and, er, bowel clearing session they create QUITE the ruckus in the yard. They cluck mightily and pick fights (!!) with everyone, and it appears to be catching. When not molested by broody hens, our other chickens stand droopily with heads lowered and wings out, trying to take advantage of any breeze. But once one gets a-squawking the others remember past grudges and the feathers then fly. This heat and humidity has caught them off guard too.
T-bell the goat stomps her feet on the milkstand. We got actual tears yesterday when our daughter realized her kiddie pool (six year old kiddie pool) had a hole, and her mood was only lifted when I told her she could spray ME with the hose. The dog keeps losing fur and I saw one cat wrapped around the base of a toilet at one point in the afternoon. And who wants to cook in this kind of weather, much less garden?
I suppose if we’d been eased into it instead of thrown in the boiling pot we’d have been less upset by how hot it was. Go ahead and laugh: we’re complete hot-weather wimps!