Too Darn Hot

Cole Porter wrote "Too Darn Hot" for a musical in 1948.  It's becoming my theme song.  I should probably inform the post office that I've moved to Downton Abbey since I'm spending most of my time there lately.  Bessie asked three times yesterday to go in her pool and I took advantage each time we went out to turn the hose nozzle to mist and stand under it to get cool for a minute.  Ralph chooses to nap in the shower stall and Celeste trades places on the tile with Bess.  Trying to keep the herb garden alive, I move the sprinkler in stages across the front yard, limiting the time so I don't run the well dry.  The turkeys follow the sprinkler, scratching wallows in the damp ground.  Between the squirrel holes and the turkeys, the yard looks as if we'd been under attack by bombers.  Barn birds sit on the wires with beaks wide open in the heat.  The worst is that it hasn't cooled off at night, which is usually our saving grace.  The only way to get to sleep is to take a tepid shower and go to bed wet.

My after-market son, Clay, is coming up tomorrow to paint the trim on the house.  I tried to dissuade him, but he insists he'll be okay.  The paint is peeling and we've been looking pretty ratty.  One would think I'd jump at his offer, but I don't want to see him keel over.  It's too darn hot.