Every year I forget how hot the summer gets. I had a toasty reminder one day last week. The temperature was in the high nineties with a heat index of 105-110 degrees. I did what I needed to do outdoors and got back in the house before eleven a.m. I had a hair appointment at four p.m. My son had my vehicle and Bud had gone somewhere in his, so when I got ready to go, I realized I had to drive his old 1996 Jeep Wrangler. He loves that old truck. He’d wanted one since he was a kid, so he can’t bear to part with it. He usually drives it once a week or so, just to keep it from feeling depressed. When I was ready to go, there it sat, in all its un-air-conditioned glory, just waiting to bake me all the way to the hairdresser.

I climbed up on its sizzling plastic seat, no simple thing since it has no running boards, and settled myself in. It moaned and groaned, making end of life noises as I struggled to herd it out of the driveway. It has a stick-shift and no power steering. The windows were down so I could cool myself with the sultry air. Remember, the heat index? Long before I drove the two miles to the hair shop I looked like Sasquatch. Driving that Jeep felt like a combination of a tractor and a log wagon. I’ve driven both and really can’t say which I prefer. I told Susie to just cut my hair and forget styling it, knowing I had to go home in the hot Jeep. Just as I climbed back in, I remembered an errand I had to run. I thought I’d die. I took care of my business and thought I was just about to survive the heat when I saw flashing lights at the railroad crossing. I was caught.

As I sweltered, dying for a cool drink, my sister called on my cell phone. “Hey! What are you doing? I’m just sitting here in the air conditioning with a glass of iced tea. I had to step out and check the mail and thought I’d burn up!”

Oh! That was bad timing!