How odd that less than a week ago the heat kept coming on in our house. And now, for the past three days, we have had a complete surge in temperatures. It's disgustingly hot outside -- and I love it. Yesterday after we got home from church (Emilia was a nightmare, by the way. And the nice lady we always talk to, whose name I really should learn, managed to blame it on the heat. She was right, too. It was hot as hades in there...) we all sat outside in the backyard and had popsicles. Actually we had homemade paletas, more like. And hands down, it was the best popsicle I've ever had.
For some reason or another I've been thinking about our old cabin in California these days. I always do when it warms up a bit here, because the instant you walk out the front door and wander up to our mailbox, the smell of summers in California wafts right into your face. It is the smell of warm pine needles and fir needles cooking in the sunshine, and, oh my goodness, I have always loved that smell. Funny how it always takes me back to our cabin, too.
Summers there as a child were idyllic. We would drive (and drive and drive) the long distance from our house in Wyoming and then we would stay for a month or so. My mom would be the one behind the wheel of the family station wagon, going ninety mph, blasting Ann Murray, and we'd all be eating store-bought danishes -- until we would inevitably break down somewhere. A day or so later, after the car was fixed and loaded up with a few more supplies from Carson City, Nevada, we would eventually roll in to the little town of Arnold.
