It's Over.

It's over. I've been away a while, friends and fans of weather, but it was here the last week or so as it was most places—one last breath of cool before the onslaught. On Saturday they graduated the wee ones over at the puppet show on as cool a mortarboarded morning as I can recall, though even in that seventy-some degrees you could feel the coming heat.

To the good: Tomatoes in the ground, and basil, and a little squash and okra. Marigolds to keep the bugs back. Looks like storms today and tomorrow to get all of that well watered in. But the weekend—look at it. They say 89 now. That means they know better, but don't want to crush us yet. We'll need ice in a bucket, I think, and tiny beers. Box fans on the porch. Bug spray and sunscreen. Probably ought to go on and mow the lawn this morning—better now than then. This is the new planning of the new season: How to kill things the least.

A possum walked along the top of the fenceline two feet from my office window last night late, looked in at me with a total kind of calm. Scared the hell out of me. Go ahead and start moving more slowly, was I think the point. Conserve while you can. Ready yourself. Repair the garden hose.