Summertime -- and the livin' is easy.
So said DuBose Heyward. (And here I was thinking it was George Gershwin. Such is the fate of the well-versed lyricist.)
Somewhere the fish may be jumpin'. And, for all I know, the cotton may be high. But not here. Not today.
Even though Monday was the official (astronomical) start of summer, you would have no hint by looking at my window in Salem. And I am a bit befuddled.
Summers in Oregon are hard to beat. Sun. Moderate temperatures. Clear skies.
At least after Rose Festival. Traditionally, the grand floral parade is held on an early Saturday in June. It usually rains that weekend. Then it stops. For about three months. With a few wet days sprinkled in for variety.
Not this year. The sun provided unobstructed light for the parade on 12 June. That should have been an omen of groundhog proportions.
Since then, we have had cloud, rain, and temperatures similar to those that put the French World Cup team under their car rugs in South Africa.
As disappointing as late June has been here in Oregon, the opening day of summer in my small Mexican fishing village by the sea is no walk in the park. 89 degrees with 78% humidity. New Orleans on a hot stick.
66 degrees with cloudy skies in Salem sounds pretty inviting to me. And, at some point, the season is going to shift into superb summer weather.
If for no other reason than:
"Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good looking."
