Walking outside last night in Marietta, Georgia, I stepped into a wall of warm, half-set jello. Ahhhh, humidity. Summer in the South where the very air says, "Sit down, relax, breath slower."
For ten years we lived in Northern Illinios. For ten years we took jackets to watch Fourth of July fireworks. Sacrilege of the holiday if I ever heard one. My Illinois friends couldn't understand my disgust.
"At home jackets are put away on June 1st and do not appear again until at least the third college football game." My declaration would be met with -
"But what if it gets chilly?"
"But what if it does?"
"It doesn't." (add sound of teeth grinding.)
See, in the courteous South you're provided a blanket when you step out the door. Like a perpetual door man offering a warm, damp towel to wrap up in. What's not to love?
Summer nights are not supposed to be crisp. Crisp means the Tennessee-Alabama football game, an Ellijay apple or the verbal slap-down of a mouthy teen-ager.
Summer nights are languid, liquid and long.