Summer slammed into Tucson yesterday, as if it had been hiding behind a saguaro in order to jump out at us when we least expected it. It came on much the way winter did, all of a sudden after weeks of mid 50s, clouds, and occasional rain. Then wham, Wednesday brought sun and 80s and I don't think we're looking back. It was like hopping a plane and getting off in a different place, with no gradual acclimation. The sun is suddenly staying up later, or maybe I'm just noticing it now because I'm driving around after dinner with the windows down and can see the light and feel that the thermometer isn't threatening to bottom out with the clock.
The change of seasons, abrupt as it may be, always reminds me that my frame of reference for such things is firmly anchored in my school days. I still get the whiff of carefree summer days right around the corner, and in unguarded moments am driving my dad's truck around a little town in southern Illinois instead of dodging traffic on Campbell Avenue in Tucson. It's a different place and I'm a different person.
This evening I put in this season's crop of doomed tomato plants. No peppers were to be found in three stops at different big box stores; perhaps they heard through the underground that they should hide when I come calling to escape a certain yellow, crispy fate. The cilantro breathed a sigh of relief when it was potted in terra cotta and placed inside the kitchen window. Here's hoping for at least a salad's worth of fruits before the hundred-degree days take their toll.
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