Summer: A Sight to Behold

It’s Wednesday afternoon in Oxford, Mississippi and I’m sweating like an idling drunk on the rocky shoulder of a state highway after midnight. Only I have acquired two DUIs in the past 18 months. And I ran over the judge’s mailbox both times… And I used to bully said judge in high school… And… you get the picture. I’m a dead man in this portrayal. A sweaty dead man.

It’s hot, really hot. There’s no pleasurable way to describe it. I haven’t a clue what “heat index” means or how it’s calculated, but I do know I don’t like it. Does it take into account the simmering motor oil on city streets? Does “heat index” recognize the fact that 2 million industrial-sized grills and smokers could be active at any given hour in this tiny town of fifteen thousand? As Thomas Edison once said, “Barbecuing is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” Truer words have never been spoken. It is hot, but we’ve gotta eat, right? A friend informed me that the heat index was 107 degrees. After jumping in his boiling pool, I assumed he was speaking in terms of degrees Celsius. Oh summertime, you never fail to impress…

According to my Gregorian calendar, Monday was supposedly the first day of summer. If I could contact Mr. Gregory, I’d notify him that summer starts when SEC baseball begins. I prefer to pair my idea of summer with the inaugural tidal wave of humidity, a reintroduction to the concept of sunburn, and an endless round of corndog jokes directed at the Mardi Gras mishaps from Baton Rouge.

I love summers in Mississippi. Most Mississippians would say they don’t even love summers here. I used to agree. Now, I’d say they’ve simply failed to alert themselves to the beauty of Oak-trunk season. Take a seat, because it’s all about the shade, baby.

Today, as I tranquilly reclined in the shady acres of The Grove on the campus of my beloved Ole Miss, I evaluated summer amongst all its fresh-cut glory. I closed my eyes and pictured the tailgating masses on a Saturday afternoon in September. The accelerating picks and foot taps of a local bluegrass band trotted playfully across the brick sidewalk. A flood of “hometown” music overwhelmed me. The reverberations of R.L. Burnside’s guitar perfectly accompanied his legendary .357 declaration, “I didn’t mean to kill nobody… I just meant to shoot the sonofabitch in the head. Him dying was between him and the Lord.” I privately lambasted pedestrians with ear buds, for they were only denying themselves the music of the trees. The senses of summer filled my afternoon. Lawn mowers raged, leaving only the combative odors of gasoline and grass clippings. I admired the bronzed skin, blond hair, and smiling faces that only recently escaped the confining circumstances of winter. A small family of four or five stood naturally around the largest tree of all. Their wedding photos were more James Taylor than Billy Joel. I approved.

None of the cars riding along seemed to be in a hurry, and yet, at the same time they all failed to stop at the stop sign. I figured it was probably too hot to hurry and too lethal to completely cut off the natural breeze from the open windows of a cruising car. I could feel the vibrations of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium across the landscape. Summer was here, and I liked what I saw. And I hope all of you can see it too…