All four days of spring are over in Norman. The redbuds have shrivelled
away and the leaves have turned dark green. The bare twigs of winter have
disappeared completely. The sun, of course, the sun is what really matters.
It's so hot out there that one wonders if it is really shrinking, as the
astronomers would have it, shrinking into a heavy ball that will explode
in, oh, four billion years.
The folk who built the warren I live in built it for winter, with thick
insulation and no windows to open. Summer attacks the dwellers
of apartments like mine with a vengeance. There are scientists who claim
that the dry faeces of moths and bugs that can't find their way out of the
apartment remain in the stuffy air and bring us to our knees, summer
after summer. I believe them.
The hot dry air reminds me of childhood days in Liberia, when the
harmattan wind blew in from the North, laden with Saharan sand. At least in
good old Africa, there was the Atlantic ocean to jump into and the rocks to
wade behind -- in their shadows, you were safe from both the sun and the wind.
There are no cool rocks in Oklahoma. There certainly is no ocean.
Summer is not my favorite time of year, I'll tell you that.
Meanwhile, in the realm of the anything-is-possible, the afore-mentioned
Liberia is poised to enter the 20th century (no, not a typo), with a grand
500 Liberians expected to have internet access in the next year.
If you don't believe me,
read this .
Next year, I suppose you can register your yacht on-line ...
