Oh, it’s just too hot to write.
You do it.
Minneapolis, land of the free and home of the sweat-stained, is in the midst of a wave of heat and humidity normally enjoyed only by those living on the edges of bayous or by those trapped in steam baths. The sky is a pale, murky blue; the air quality such that it is advised that the old, the young, those with legs, and those who depend upon breathing to maintain life stay indoors.
The plants, on the other hand, appear to be quite happy.
The bus remains a joy, of course, a continually shifting group of relieved commuters. Like the looks of contentment that accompany boarding a warm, dry bus during a snowstorm, the commuters climbing aboard these days smile as the cool, dry hair hits their moisture-beaded foreheads.
Gratitude is a lovely thing.
August in Minneapolis can be brutal. Umbrellas are being used for shade, morons are arrested almost daily for leaving children and dogs in parked cars (“But I cracked the window!”) and talcum powder is the new black.
And like three-quarters of the people I talk to, the approach of autumn is eyed hopefully, visions of squirreled-away sweaters, socks, and jaunty hats dancing in our heat-addled heads.
The four seasons roll on.
3 hours ago