Flowers droop.
Weeds grow tough.
Dogs lie panting in the shade.

The sun is hot,
Cicadas loud.
August presses down
As I’m picking black-eyed peas.

I wrote this little poem some three years ago after the record-breaking summer heat. It seems appropriate today. After the unusually severe winter we are in the midst of one of the hottest summer in years. (I write this while a heat advisory is being reported on the TV news.)

If flowers had tongues they would be holding them out today. My poor vegetables are worse. Squash is valiantly fighting and producing a few fruits; zucchini has given up; pea harvest is off; blackberries have quit after only six quarts of berries. Only okra is producing. But then it is a tropical plant and thrives in heat. Squirrels have eaten every one of my tomatoes. The vines are soon to go. I’ll plant turnip greens there next month. I didn’t plant cucumbers or green beans this year. If I had, I doubt they would have been worth the trouble.

So here I sit bemoaning my fate and considering giving up the garden.

I am defeated by the weather and the varmints. And yet, I have hopes for my turnip greens. Surely they will be produce. They haven’t failed me yet. Maybe the weather will moderate by then.

The heat and the inevitable infirmities of age have conspired against me this year. But all in all, I do like having seasons. It gives me something to complain about all year long. And as a Vanderbilt graduate (twice) I have learned to chant, “Wait’ll next year.”

Why doesn’t someone discover how to limit global warming to wintertime?