Author: Bev

September 22, 2025, was the autumnal equinox, or the beginning of fall in the Northern Hemisphere.  The equinox is said to demonstrate balance between day and night, each lasting about an equal portion of our twenty-four-hour clock on that date.

I wonder if most of us Libra’s, born between September 23^rd and October 22^nd, lovers of balance and harmony, also have an affinity with the fall season.  On balance, I think so.

The usual complaint those of us who treasure Autumn, otherwise and affectionately known as “sweater weather,” “jacket weather,” or fall, is that it’s too fleeting.  We would of course prefer that fall took up half the year and spring, the other half.  “Temperate,” is what they call it, I think.  Balanced.

Winter and summer are big seasons.  These seasons are unmistakably in your face.  Winter is harsh and summer is intense.

Autumn and spring are gentler, easier.  Unencumbered comes to mind when I think of autumn and spring.

That winter coat, gloves, scarf and such make me feel a bit like a turtle walking around having to carry my shell, always carrying something.  And in the summer the ever-present blanket of claustrophobic humidity sitting heavily on my skin, comes close to suffocating.

Thanks to American poet and naturalist, Henry David Thoreau, we have been coached to perceive autumn as evening, sunset, and the close of fruitfulness.  It reminds me of what some have referred to as “Sunday night melancholy.”  Fun and games have ceased, and seriousness, responsibility and stress commence on Monday morning, oh my.

But Thoreau saw the “painted leaves” of autumn as one of the most beautiful happenings of the calendar.  Paradoxically, he thought Autumn light signals the culmination of life, fulfillment, satisfaction, even leaving what has been behind.

As to leaving, my two-year-old grandson would just rather not.  He doesn’t like leaving anywhere he has been.  And since he is, well, two, and he doesn’t yet know how to regulate his emotions, he gets distressed when leaving anywhere every time.

It’s possible that with all the “leaving” involved in Autumn, and the darkening of our days, some folks don’t like the fall.  Like my grandson, they get distressed, maybe even grieve the passing of time, in the Autumn.

A prevalent part of the cycle of life and death, exemplified in leaves, is growth, development, peak, maturity, becoming a colorful spectacle, leaving, falling, blanketing the earth, crunchiness, the smelliness of decay, turning brown, and death.  The whole tree, on the other hand, its roots, trunks, and branches rest, regenerate and then it starts all over again; the cycle of life, that is.

Trees are apostles of sorts.  They dispatch their leaves so that the tree can live.  The biological term for falling leaves, is apoptosis, a close relative of another Greek word, apostle.

In the west, schools start in the fall, and kids leave the nest.  Leaving is part of the cycle of life.  Why does it make us sort of sad?

Life goes on.  It is what it is.  Or, as Michael J. Fox said, “acceptance is not resignation but a form of understanding.”  I’m thinking that there is no beginning without first a leaving.

What do you think?  Fox continued to say, “happiness grows in proportion to one’s acceptance and inversely to one’s expectations.”  That’s kind of poignant.

There is a natural turnover to life and death.  Ten percent of our bone mass is renewed every year, every year.

Our cells are continually dying and new ones taking their place, in a delicate balancing act.  It’s no joke how wondrously we are made; each of us a gymnast traversing a shockingly narrow balance beam between life and death.

According to Thoreau, Autumn is the year’s “last, loveliest smile,” with notable changes in the atmosphere reflecting the year’s events. The falling leaves symbolize life’s harmonious journey from life to dust and tutor us in the art of letting go and renewal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is old an age?  Is old an attitude?  Is old just the opposite of young, nothing more?

I’m wondering if old is when anything amiss in your body is attributed to having lived to old age.  The only answers for your physical malady, is you’ve “aged out.”  It’s because you’re old, dude.

If old means that you have literally been “in use” since a distant past, some aspects of you have deteriorated and no longer remain in top form.  However, being advanced in years suggests that you may perhaps know some stuff that those less advanced have not yet learned.

Is old determined by how you walk, smell, or look?  Does your doctor tell you when you’re old?

Are you old when you “turn” a certain age?  Hopefully you haven’t “turned” like fruit that has gotten too ripe.  Are you as old as you think?

One used to be old when we qualified for AARP discounts.  So, fifty is old?

Is old relative to the age of the observer?  Twenty is old to a five-year-old.  Ninety is old to a seventy-year-old.  Thirty is old to a teenager.

Do aches and pains tell you you’re old?  Is old all in your head?  Must cranky be synonymous with old?

Is there an objective indicator of old?  Just like the BMI Index is skewed as to whether you’re too fat or too skinny, please tell me the insurance industry isn’t in charge of coming up with the objective definition of old.

Is it old when you can’t do this, that, or the other thing anymore?  The implication here is that you “used to” do it but in recent history you suddenly can no longer do it.  Are you old now?

Are you old when you can no longer eat anything you want anytime you want?  Are you old when you have a personal relationship with “your” doctor?

Are you old if you’re wondering if you’re old?  Does shopping specifically on Tuesdays mean you’re old?

Is everybody old also wise, experienced and mature?  Do you have to be old to be wise?  I’m pretty sure that I’ve encountered some immature old people.

The Old Norse origin of the word old means “to nourish.”  Do you find your primary role in life is nourishing others?

Are you old if you dress for comfort?  Are comfortable shoes a telltale indicator of age, like your turkey neck or gnarly hands?

Is “I’m not getting older, I’m getting better,” a stupid slogan?  Is “eighty years young,” equally sort of silly?

These phrases just seem like we’re trying too hard when we’re supposed to not care so much about what everybody thinks when we’re old.  Or is that just in geriatric movies, self-help programs and books?

If you’re young and you trip over a rug or a crack on the sidewalk, it’s attributed to being in a rush or too much on your mind.  If you’re old and do the same thing it’s because of instability: mental, arterial, joint, muscular – you’re on shaky ground if you’re old.

Just watch the rug being pulled out from under you when you’re old.  You can pull off that magic trick of jerking the tablecloth out from under the full bone-china and crystal service when you’re young.  When you’re old, you’d better try the trick with plastic, paper, or maybe melamine.

Are you old when you start to have trouble operating someone else’s clicker, automobile, microwave, or faucet?  If it’s not easy anymore to turn on a dime, are you old?

Are you old if you have a pair of reading glasses in every room in your house, your car, and your pocket?  If you have more than a passing concern if it’s indigestion or a heart attack, are you old?

When you stretch hard and get a cramp in your leg, are you old?  Do you ever think, “I’m being dismissed because they think I’m old?”

Years ago, when I’m pretty sure I wasn’t old, years ago, mind you, I was with my adult daughter in a big box store.  At check-out my card wouldn’t work and I knew it was okay but the attendant on hand said to my daughter, ignoring me entirely, “sometimes THEY don’t remember that they didn’t pay THEIR card!”

I gently went off on her.  I explained that of course I sometimes make mistakes, but I co-own a business, and I know what I’m doing with my bank cards and conduct many other technical processes, without incident.

Do you think it’s fair to think, “because I’m a certain age, I deserve…”?  Am I old if I don’t want to do “this” anymore.

One dictionary definition of old is, “belonging to the past.”  In our house, we like to say, “the past is fulfilled.”  We don’t want to belong to the past.  It was what it was, and it served its purpose.  What’s next?

Old or young, let’s belong to the present and look to the future.

As Labor Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on the summer that has been.  “Same difference” seems an apropos way to describe it.

Last summer was filled with care for my elderly mother-in-law and her estate.  And I had to deal with one physical malady after another, which was unusual to say the least.

Mother-in-law passed this February, and this summer has been different.  For several years, we had developed a “routine of care” for her and her belongings, which quite frankly was consuming in many ways.

This summer we have gradually been playing “catch-up” with housework and yard-work, which had been set aside as of secondary importance, relative to various care-giving duties.  Coping with the ninety-degree weather is a perfect example of “same difference.”  The differences from years past are negligible, but we think they are significant.

The early twentieth century use of the phrase, “same difference” originated as a witty way of combining the concepts “same thing” and “no difference.”  So, there is little difference in how we feel ninety-degree weather.

There were some ninety-degree days when we just had to sit in the air conditioning and stew, literally.  There is a reason for naming heavy humidity, oppressive.  Humidity just sits on you like an elephant sitting on a mouse.

But was this summer any different than last, as to heat and humidity?  Same difference, I’d say.

The yard-work part of this summer has changed.  We’ve been able to “keep up” more than in the past several years of preoccupation with my husband’s mom who was afflicted with increasingly debilitating dementia.

For me, it started with the erection of a “corn tent” for our grandson.  It was placed near the firewood piles.

I use the word “piles” loosely as I have created Jenga-like puzzle stacks in our woodlot.  I did this exercise for many years but just couldn’t manage it for the last couple of years, what with other areas of life taking precedence.

My husband is quite proud of my wood stacking skills.  He even sends pictures to his friends.  It’s my penchant for order and love of puzzle-solving, that fuels this “natural” skill.

At any rate, as one chore completed, seems to lead to the next chore, it was Charlie’s corn tent that led to my need to clean up the woodlot.  I wanted a safe space for him to play.

The corn tent seemed like a clever idea and Charlie loves it.  However, so do the squirrels.  They conveniently chewed holes in each corner and side of the tent to gain entrance to a treasure trove of free corn.  Since most animals don’t defecate where they eat, I just threw up my hands and said, “oh well.”  The tent wasn’t expensive, and Charlie has had a fun summer with Grammy’s creation.

As the summer wanes, I have become a pruning machine.  The growth from early and prolific rain has been phenomenal.

Many of our trees, shrubs, and plants have become overgrown in the last couple of years.  I made it my mission that before Labor Day I would have this growth under control.

I have become quite intimate with the ground, as I sit on it.  I’m all about the “grounding” movement and my bottom has become one with it.

While pruning the underside of many shrubs and trees in our vast Arboretum-like yard, I began by scooching around the perimeter of the plant on my backside rather than bending over in a semi-permanent U-shape.  Then I remembered we came into a little garden trolley which I then toted with me to every tree and shrub.   Some tools make our jobs easier.

I will say that the bugs have given me a slight reprieve this summer, notwithstanding the little green repellent patches which my son-in-law gifted me with.  I’ve only had a few mosquito and spider bites, which thank God have not been of the toxic variety of last summer.

Speaking of the same, but different, it was a few years ago that when tidying up an underbrush beneath a grove of pine trees at my mother-in-law’s house, unbeknownst to me, I triggered a severe allergy to urushiol, the oil in the poison ivy plant.  Those of you who have followed my columns will remember my anguish with the aftermath.

This year when tidying up our old apple orchard, I noticed a familiar woody vine with big browning leaves, literally attached and seemingly growing into a Braeburn apple tree.  Yellow caution lights went off in my head before I dug in and ripped that thing off the tree.

Thank you, Google, for clarifying that that vine is none other than an old poison ivy vine.  What to do?  Touching it is out of the question.  I learned my lesson from that one.  But phantom itching has taken hold of my mind.

What about tidying up plants that gets me into trouble?  Sometimes I think that maybe nature just wants to be left alone.

Then there was the snake, a garter snake, but a snake nonetheless, that jumped out of the leaf debris in our cluster of white birch trees in the front yard?  I was glad that hubby was involved in that endeavor, he took the fear away and made it a giggle.

What’s that iffy definition of insanity – “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome?”  While a popular idiom, I don’t know if it’s insanity, but it does seem to be a universal mental health oxymoron, “same difference,” that is.

My mother-in-law may be gone, and this summer is nearly gone, but everything has a way of sticking around in memory or in symbols or the cycles of life.  Same difference seems to be one of the few permanent facts of life, which seems to be going nowhere.  I think maybe that’s a good thing.

 

 

 

 

 

On the week of my birthday in the year that I graduated from high school, a new movie was released.  It was The Way We Were with Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford, two of the hottest hotties of the time.

I guess I remembered this movie title because I too was reminiscing about the distant past and how the me of today relates to that person from so long ago.  Some things are recognizable as the same as today’s me, and others are so very different I don’t recognize her.

Does it make you chuckle when you think sometimes about the way you were back in the day?  I think it’s funny that my first-grade report cards, each marking period had a note in red ink under the social skills category, “talks too much.”

Apart from having grown up, filled out, and gone through many, changing life circumstances, have you changed much? I still talk too much.

I can talk to just about anybody about nearly any topic, given my interest in the subject.  And, as you know, I write about everything under the sun.  You get my drift then, some personality traits do not change, they evolve, encompassing all the matter that has accumulated in our DNA, since.

One can be quiet but not shy.  We can be introverts who are the life of the party.  Extroverts can be tortured by social anxiety in certain situations.  Some people can be orators but avoid small talk.  Have you met someone verbose for whom social gatherings are an endurance test?

In high school I was in a lot of clubs and extracurricular activities.  I dabbled, as to my interests.  Today I guess I still dabble.

I will write a lot about a little of everything.  My husband and I don’t always leave the tree where we first planted it.  Our property has within its bounds, one of these, two of that, totaling a whole lot of various plants.  That’s the way we like it.

I went to college, not at the traditional time.  I dabbled in business and travel first.  Have you ever noticed that some people knew what they wanted to do as their life work, way back in their past?  Others have had fits and starts where they tested their fit.  They moved their trees, so to speak.

Today, I’m not yet retired, but probably should be.  But the takeaway is, variety is still the spice of my life.

Having a home-based business is not for everybody.  There is a strange discipline, yet scheduling freedom built into such a business.  Some stuff has got to be done, like it or not.  This reminds me of an internet saying I recall, which fits the self-employed to a tee: “Do it tired.  Do it sad.  Do it unmotivated.  Do it scared.  Do it alone.”

I can in one day, prepare an extravagant home-cooked marvel, oversee the shipment of multiple packages to one part of the world or another, schedule the payment of this or that invoice, play with my grandson utilizing his on-site corn tent and multiple diggers, shovels, rakes and so on; I can stack firewood, at which my husband claims I am a master, do the laundry, organize the database to accommodate a new computer system, jog for at least twenty minutes, mow part of the lawn; oh, and write a blog post.

This is not a litany of complaint.  Instead, it is an example of the variety of activities in which I thrive as a fully grown adult.  However, this list of potential daily activities is not uncharacteristic of the teenager who stayed active in a whole bunch of clubs, in and out of school.

My lifestyle is neither here nor there but to show you an example of how a personality evolves but doesn’t necessarily change.  I challenge you to look for the thread or tapestry that has run through your life.

You and I are likely not the way we were.  The way we are now, like it or not, has a glimmer of that self from a while ago, but with a twist.  That’s called evolution.

 

 

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Our “overflow refrigerator, housed in the garage, is on the blink.  For years, it has tried to tell us that it doesn’t like the temperature extremes of that less than temperate space, freezing liquids in the winter and panting its way through the harsh summer heat in a pseudo-defrost.

The plight of the less-than-optimal functioning of that extra refrigerator is neither here nor there as to the focus of this piece.  Yet, when I pondered the existence of an extra appliance for storage, it got me to thinking about the contrast between wealth and want.

I wondered if this particular abundance, which I rather feel is not a rarity in this country, is usual to many Americans.  Then I mused that since the old children’s rhyme, held in my memory, Jack Sprat, originating in my ancestral home in Europe, is not peculiar to America, but to a dream of plenty, everywhere.

In the biblical book of Genesis, Joseph interpreted Pharaoh’s dream of seven fat cows and seven skinny cows, as the cyclical phenomenon of plenty versus famine.  It was a prophecy, predicting seven years of abundance followed by seven years of famine, which counseled a sort of savings plan, involving storage during the good times, to waylay the potential for lack during the lean times.

We’ve all heard about the concept of “feast or famine,” if not lived it.  So, extra storage just seems a prudent thing to do, right?

Then comes along Luke, chapter twelve in the Bible, which warns against the tempting hoarding habit associated with the storage patterns of some people, otherwise known as “rich fools.”  The gist of this parable is that the accumulation of material things, indicated by building ever-bigger barns in which to store your stuff, is a foolish distortion of your values.  Instead, we should consider sharing our abundance and considering our mortality.

“Jack Sprat could eat no fat.  His wife could eat no lean.  And so betwixt them both, you see.  They licked the platter clean.”  This made me wonder about the connotations and evolution of the word’s fat, and lean.

I think that fat, in medieval times, was equated with wealth.  Flashing through my memory banks are images of king-like, jolly, Santa Claus impersonators, dressed in furry purple robes imbibing on an overflow of drink and gouging themselves with handfuls of big, fat drumsticks, while boisterously pontificating on some topic or another.

Then there are Raphael’s (Raffaello Santi’s) five-hundred-year-old images of fat little cherubs painted on repeat on many a castle ceiling.  Those chubby, extraordinarily white, nearly opaque, angels often direct our gaze to the dreamy heavens and indicate prosperity and plenty.

Skinny, in those times, meant poverty or lack.  There were no extra refrigerators for the people scraping by in the cold, dirty and dark streets of many a lightless city.  Think Tiny Tim in Scrooge.

Today’s understanding of fat and lean couldn’t be more contrary to those images of old.  Unless you’re plumping up your derriere with a goal toward the ultimate physique for twerking, plump is not the modern go-to concept for the display of wealth.  That’s reserved for the lean mean body-conscious and tan-skinned among us.

Fat in more contemporary times has been rendered by an excess of relatively cheap carb-loaded foods ingested by multitudes of working-class folks.  Meanwhile the rich and famous frequent restaurants featuring humongous white plates with two overly pampered shrimps in the lonely middle, atop a small pond of thick, colored paste, and decorated with a pseudo edible sprig of some herb or flower.  That’s dinner.

Many of us probably have known both fat and lean times.  It’s probably akin to the grandparently line that “I walked five miles in the snow to school,” that our early days, were lean times.  We struggled to make ends meet.  We lived on pasta from a box, and we got fat.

Today, fat is sadly and frequently equated with unattractiveness and laziness.  Unless you spell it “phat.”

Phat is a throwback term coined in the African American vernacular, used particularly in music and fashion.  It takes us right back to the chubby cherubs and fat kings of abundance, excellence, privilege and admiration.

So, whether you’re Jack Sprat or his wife, it’s fat and lean together, that enable you to rise to your best life.  Can you really appreciate the fat in life if you haven’t lived through a little bit of lean?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wake up and smell the coffee y’all.  Then, take some time to smell the roses.

Odor, fragrance, aroma; each elicit an emotion, sometimes a big emotion.  The word “odor,” itself connotes something repellent and negative, whereas the word, “fragrance,” makes you smile and want.

Smells are funny things, figuratively, but sometimes literally.  Are you of the age that you recall the image of the French cartoon skunk, Pepe Le Pew, from Looney Tunes?

When I was growing up, I vividly remember that my parents were away somewhere and we three girls were home, when a skunk got under our sun-porch and lit up the entire place with its defensive stink.  I recall some tomato juice and maybe one of the many dogs we had over the years.

Smells bring back memories.  What aromas trigger you?

For most people, food aromas are probably the most triggering.  If you smell it either you want it or you repulsively do not.  Cabbage, onions, garlic, and spoiled or rotted foods tend to elicit the negative in a sizeable number of people.

Bakeries nearly universally draw people into their perfumery.  Realtors traditionally suggested that sellers bake a batch of cookies before showing a house.  Why?  Because prospective buyers feel like “this could be our home.”  Nothing triggers wanting, more than the smell of freshly baked bread, pastry, pie, cake, cookies and more.

…Unless it’s perfume from its many sources.  Flowers are not only a delight to the sight, but many of them also either smell good or we think they do.  Whether certain flowers have a poignant smell or not, we instinctively go for the nose test.

“It smells like rain,” people say.  It’s surely not rain itself, but the reaction of rain on earth, dirt, or soil, that births that unmistakable smell of rain.  However, damp also has a not so pleasant smell, i.e. wet dog or wet cat, mildew and the “basement” smell.

The beach and the swimming pools chlorine smell is a distinct summer smell.  If you live rurally, freshly cut grass or hay gives most people a sort of boost of freshness, “ah-achoo” and gesundheit to you.

I’m thankful that all my senses are intact and fully operational.  There was that bout of COVID-caused phantosmia, where I frequently smelled non-existent meat, which has flown the coup by now.

If I were to lose my senses of taste, hearing, smell, sight, or touch, I would hope I would develop grace to adapt, but I’m not so sure.  I truly feel compassion toward people who live without the beauty of any one of their senses.  I’m sorry, folks.

Seals and Crofts 1972 song, “Summer Breeze,” confirms in a pleasant way, that smells are firmly linked with memories.  It could be said that we smell with our minds.  “Summer breeze makes me feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in my mind.”

What if I couldn’t smell jasmine, gardenia, honeysuckle, sweet peas, lavender or lilac?  It’s not ideal, but in a pinch, we could describe the smell, with another smell.  The candle industry has capitalized on our ability to describe a scent via simile.

When something is described as “like” something else, not something that stands entirely on its own, our language calls it a simile, a word that literally translates as “like.”  It is a fact that most of our smell words are linked to their source, i.e. “it smells like apple pie.”

Of course, our perceptions of aromas vary widely from individual to individual.  This is because we’ve had different experiences with the same scent, and the context in which we detect different odors is key to our response to that smell.

The sense of smell is a potent emotional trigger.  For example, to some of us, certain flower scents remind us of “funeral flowers,” and elicit a sort of generalized sadness or dread.  But to others, those same scents remind them of “bathroom spray,” and might just make them giggle.

On occasion, my husband’s coffee clearly smells like skunk.  I’m not kidding.  And he doesn’t even partake in civet coffee or cat poop coffee, made from the treasured exotic beans which pass through the digestive tract of the Asian palm civet and are collected from their feces!

Burn some coffee grounds people, it even scares away mosquitoes.  Just saying.

When smell is an odor, we try to get rid of it, thus the concept of DE-ODORANT, “odor eaters,” and highly commercial fragrance masks such as aerosol sprays, oils, perfume, candles, and such.  Why do you suppose that the smell of money is usually described as a stench?

Our perception of the smell of money as good or bad is probably about as varied among people as our perception of smell itself.  Good to you, may be bad to me, etc.

Take manure, for example.  The occasional manure smell is a part of our rural Pennsylvania aromascape.  It is lovingly spread atop many farm fields to enrich the soil and produce all that farm basket, farm-to-table food everybody loves.  I’ll wager a bet that even AOC, the “cow-hater,” has eaten some fancy “farm-to-table, organic” food, which wasn’t produced without some stench involved.

Christ himself has been described as an aroma.  And certain fragrances are said to be pleasing to God.  What’s your smell simile?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listen up all of you “hotter than a jalapeno’s armpit,” hotties out there, is it hot enough for ya?  In my opinion, it’s “hotter than blue blazes” and “forty dammits.”

I love the southern description of extremely hot conditions, “It’s so dang hot that I just saw a hound dog chasing a rabbit – and they were both walking.”  Can you picture it?

“I’m wilting,” I exclaimed in a slow drawn-out pant!  Or better yet, like the witch in The Wizard of Oz, “I’m melt-ing.”   Are you “sweating bullets?”

You know there’s hot, and there’s freaking hot, as I’m freaking out that it’s so hot.  There’s “hot tin roof” hot, and so hot on our deck that our cat skims across it at lightning speed to avoid hurting his tender toe beans.  PSA, a rug has promptly been installed.

It’s hot “like an oven.”  If you believe in the existence of hell or not, it feels perhaps like as hot as….

We’re sizzling like bacon with a side of fried eggs cooked up on our car hood.  A quart of sunscreen is the only thing between us and becoming human pork rinds.

We’re having a hard time keeping our prayers focused between beseeching God to please stop the rain long enough for us to mow our overgrown green growth, and to give us grace to pay the upcoming air conditioning bill.  Solar power, or mower gas, pick your power, or your poison.  This summer it seems to be one or the other.

Yep, it’s that time of year.  Even here in the Northeast, we can expect temperatures to rise into the nineties at least a few days each summer.

However, each year we act like it’s a new development that it gets hot in June, July and August.  Nowadays we can blame it on global warming.  I’m not sure what they blamed it on back in the olden days, whenever that was, in the past.

Maybe they blamed the summer heat on the writers of the Farmer’s Almanac, with its fifty percent accuracy, which is a smidge better than our trusty neighborhood groundhog.  Many of us modern people, however, tend to put our trust for weather predictions in the weather app on our phones.

But it turns out that those apps can only be trusted generally, not literally.  So, I’ve learned to trust weather predictions, generally.  For example, “it’s gonna be really hot next week,” or “it’s probably going to rain at least a little bit every day for over a week,” suffice for my predictive understanding of the upcoming weather.

One would think that “hot, is hot.”  But apparently “hot” is not the same to everybody.  Generally, most people would agree that ninety-degree heat is “hot.”

However, even though most of us agree that the weather in the nineties is hot, “some like it hot.”  That’s the point on which we differ.  Paris Hilton, in the early 2000s, popularized the phrase, “that’s hot,” which she shared on the front of a t-shirt, while the back said, “and you’re not.”

Some of us, in summer, are prone to wear the t-shirt, saying on the front, “it’s too hot.”  I’m sure, however, as we walk away, a bunch of you summer-lovers guarantee that the back of our t-shirt says, “no, it’s not.”

Oh, my goodness, sweat surely evaporates from your body more quickly than it escapes mine.  Sweat likes to kick off its shoes and dwell on top of my arms, not to mention the God-forsaken nether-regions of the body which I will not mention.

And does the hot-loving population like to sweat?  Please explain what’s fun about a heat-headache?

When we lived in the Southwest, we experienced heat without the notable humidity which characterizes the heat in the East.  The temperatures in Pennsylvania and New Mexico during the time of our tenure between the two locales were nearly identical.  But what a difference the humidity made.  It was discernibly hot in New Mexico, but it wasn’t miserable like the same temperature offered in Pennsylvania.  Humidity makes a difference.

The word, “hot” has for several centuries referred not only to temperature, but to intensity, as in our current cute expression, “he’s coming in hot;” as well as passion and sexual attraction, e.g., “she’s hot.”  Paris Hilton may have enhanced the connotation of hot as something “cool,” trendy, and desirable such as Jessica Simpson’s “I don’t know what it is, but I want it” fame.

How can “hot,” be “cool?”  Both, I think, are relatives, dwelling squarely in the eye of the beholder.  Cool and hot are not the same for all of us.  Hot is personal and general, not literal nor universal.

Hot is one of those things that is left up in the air for interpretation.  We must agree to disagree as to what is hot and what is not.