The first week we moved up to our house there was a heat wave… and boy was it hot. We were baking. Suffocating. Sweating amidst our moving boxes and our PODS. I admit, we were worried. Had we just moved somewhere with an unbearable climate? Would it be like this all summer? Would we have to move back to Los Osos indefinitely?
But then it cooled down and the weather was breathtakingly perfect and we figured it was just a hot spell. Though we now had undeniable proof that our architect’s advice against air conditioning was baloney. Hot, sticky, melted baloney. Plus there’s that thing called climate change. We all need air conditioning.
Months passed and there was only one bad weekend. We seem to have heat waves only when James’ siblings visit.
But then there was last week. Last week made the first week in our house feel like a brisk winter’s day. Last week was sweltering. It was so hot James warned us all, “Grannies die in this heat.”
“OK, Gramps.”
This time the thermometers proved we weren’t just wimpy coastal transplants… on Tuesday, San Luis Obispo was the hottest place in the nation at 108 degrees. Hotter than Las Vegas. Hotter than Death Valley. It was Hot Lava.
And speaking of Hot Lava, it deeply saddens me to report that the hottest day on record was also the day we found poor little Hot Lava… sleeping with the fishes. He crawled down behind his favorite rocks and took his last little guppy breath.
Hot Lava lived a long, fulfilling life, reaching the wise old age of three. October third would have been his third birthday. I will miss him and all those heart-to-heart conversations we had during those early days in Los Osos.
It’s been a rough week, keep a close eye on your grannies… and your goldfish.