North Texas is scorched; the last substantial rain we had in the Dallas/Ft Worth metroplex was Tuesday, May 24.
It was a fun day for my boyfriend and me. The Texas Rangers hosted the Chicago White Sox, and we accepted an invite to watch from a suite at the Ballpark in Arlington.
Strange strains of luck seem to follow Ken and me any time we travel or plan outings, that evening being no exception; the heavens opened for the last time this summer and chased us out of the Ballpark. We left, thankfully, when the game was suspended… a three hour delay to see the Rangers lose at 1:30am is not one of my favorite things.
The only dribble of rain gifted to the metroplex since then happened on the 13th of August while we were out of town for a long weekend. It was such an unexpected and celebrated occurrence that my phone beeped constantly with excited texts for well over an hour. The glorious, though short-lived, event was the biggest news of three months.
With the never-to-be-underestimated optimism of the human race, we all spoke of breaking weather patterns, of a stubborn-as-hell high pressure system succumbing to a lower weather pattern, of the first cool breeze of fall on millions of Texas faces worshipfully pointed toward the northern horizon.
Alas, Mother Nature was merely teasing us… rather like the local weather forecasters with their weekly promises of relief always six to seven days in the future. I’m convinced they have created a conspiracy designed to hold the boiling, over-heated masses at bay: give us a glimmer of hope – don’t dare tell us that fifty, sixty days of fry-the-egg-on-the-sidewalk afternoons are our fate. (Those of you nonbelievers in cooler climates, I dare you to visit and walk barefoot on our cement frying-pans!)
we’ve fallen to the bland brown of thirst under skies so hot they are almost bleach white.
Now if we see clouds on the horizon… well that’s just where they stay.
And despite water bills almost as big as my electric bills, I fear for my poor Japanese Red Maple…