I have one of those with Texas. I hate it because the summers here are foreboding and stretch endlessly from one hot, soul-crushing day into the next. The air is so thick with humidity that you feel like each breath you take requires a concentrated effort to not drown. A drive from Point A to Point B reveals a landscape of scorched earth and desolation. By the end of July, you find the soles of your shoes sticking to the pavement like molasses. I love it for the very same reasons.
No one said I was rational.
Feeble existentialism aside, I went for a drive the other day. I was headed no place particular, but I wound up at a little second-hand shop: Good Stuff Cheap. The lady who owns it, Miss Kay, was game enough to let me natter at her while I took pictures. While the two-way fire station radio chirped from her jeans pocket, she told me her Daddy built the place back in the 40′s and she and her sister grew up in the house just down the road. Growing up as I did–moving from house to house, state to state, sometimes in the middle of the night–I was kind of awed by the notion of seeing the tree in your front yard grow from a sapling to a place to find respite from the sun. I know it’s not a novel idea, but it seems rare anymore.
I left with two unmatched hand-embroidered pillowcases and enjoyed listening to the gossip about people I don’t know.