This past week on the farm has been exceptionally – and dangerously – hot and humid. It is the kind of sauna-like humidity that produces pools of sweat on noses and foreheads and causes perspiration to make glisten tan arms and drip down white legs. The heat slows minds and time and makes it difficult to eat, but drink we do. We gulp water any chance we get – splash it onto our hair and let it drip down our faces and backs. Our faithful dog, Koko, gets a soaking from time to time, too – her black, long hair is undoubtedly too hot for comfort – and I smile as she shakes, water splattering everywhere. Rarely does the lazy, heavy air decide to move – but when it does, I am so covered in salty sweat that the sudden cool is a momentary shock, enough to make me sneeze.
The air is so full of moisture that any moment the sky could burst into rainfall. Thankfully, on Monday afternoon, the sky finally did let loose. We were murdering squash beetles – smashing the small, red eggs on the broad leaves of the summer squash plants – when a single, deafening boom of thunder caused Brian to jump and me to scream in terror. Then the black cloud-covered sky erupted into rainfall and Daddy shouted that we would take our lunch break. As Daddy and I ate sunflower-seed-tomato sandwiches in our kitchen, we stared outside the glass sliding door, hopeful, as the rain waves splashed down. “Are you happy?” I asked Daddy and he smiled to reply, “I just hope it doesn’t stop…”
It did not. The rain gage read that in the hour it had poured, we had received six-tenths of an inch of water – enough to ensure that no more midnight irrigating would be necessary, at least for a while.
The humidity did not let up one bit, though, after the storm. So still, we drip while energy is sucked out with our sweat, adding another weight to the moist air.
Aozora Brockman 