Dog days

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We're in our third day or so of mid-90s weather, with several more to come. I hate it. Worse, I’m getting nothing done in – or out – of the shop.

When people get to be my age, it seems that most of them want to go live in Florida. I find that every year older I get, somewhere in northern Alaska sounds more appealing. I don’t do heat very well; I handle humidity even more poorly.

Predicted high for today here is 97, but since the official airport thermometer is apparently located under a shady oak tree, that means it’ll really be somewhere between 99-103 down here in the Ohio Valley where people actually live. Expected official highs for the next three days are 98, 96 and 94. It’s supposed to cool down to a mere 90 by Tuesday. Humidity is excruciating. Even with the AC cranking, the house is uncomfortable. My shop – where I still have yet to install that window – is like an oven.

Working out there is miserable, making it difficult to focus on what you’re doing. That’s danger waiting to happen if you ask me, so I’m laying off constructive work for the rest of the day. And even if it weren’t so uncomfortable and potentially hazardous, it’s impossible to work without leaving sweaty handprints everywhere that turn to rust prints within hours. Drips of sweat you don’t even notice at the time surprise you the next morning as snowflake-like rusty splash spots on every cast iron surface. Sawdust sticks to every inch of exposed skin like paste. I won’t even attempt to apply finish to anything.

Dogs are supposed to have it made, or so you would think from phrases like “lucky dog” and “happy as a dog with a bone.” How weather like this came to be known as “dog days” is beyond me. All I know is that I’m miserable and dog-tired, and it doesn’t look like relief is coming any time soon.

A.J.

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