Only a Yankee like James Taylor could sing so lightheartedly about the arrival of summer.

In Texas, it begins with the kind of heat that hits you at the door like walking into a blast furnace. Once outdoors, you can only get a couple hours' work done, especially if you have to wear long pants and sleeves for yard duty. (Never, ever operate a line trimmer in shorts, unless you also like to fry bacon shirtless.) Before giving up, I switched to shorts and got in another half-hour of pest control.

On cue, the fire ants' annual insurgency has begun. They seem to be the only creatures other than cicadas that thrive in 100º+. I opened a fresh can of whoop-ass—Amdro in a jug—and found, under its cap, a sealed for freshness label.

Was this to prevent tampering? Because, you know, it's already poisonous.

As I rained the magical anti-manna onto a suspicious-looking mound of earth, mosquitoes swarmed my bare calves. These aren't the lethargic, clumsy arthropods of Colter Bay, Wyoming, but Texas mosquitoes, which barrel out of their larvae looking like the state police you suddenly come upon in a median: You know you've been targeted and locked on, because those antennae are not for show.

I danced in and out of their rangefinders while delivering Amdro per the directions, atop the mound and in a circle around it. Wolf Dog seemed to think this amusing. Of course, he's the one with the fur coat, who never seems to suffer from mosquitoes.

He began his semi-annual molt this week, leaving little tumbleweeds of hair all over the house. These gather and eventually roll down the hallway toward the HVAC intake. Another of summer's little calling cards.

the weekend got off to a thrilling start with the arrival of my new cell phone. I ordered a Motorola RAZR online from Verizon about 5 p.m. Thursday. By Friday noon, the package had arrived at my house.

And I saved the moment for you.

The best kind of unboxing-porn is unboxing-phone porn. Because—at least for me—it only happens every two years. In that time the capabilities of phones, even the free ones you get on subscription renewal, have roughly tripled. Some of that is in ways I couldn't care less about: ringtones, web access, streaming video, etc. I'm holding out for a phone that doubles as a wireless mouse. But the Bluetooth interface is pretty much standard equipment now, and I snagged an earpiece on clearance. We are now a two-Bluetooth family. They're indispensable when you have a grabby kid on your hip.

By now, Squinx and Little Roo think nothing of Mommy and Daddy wandering the house like schizophrenic Borg, talking to ourselves while one ear blinks blue. I absolutely love the convenience of these things: one button to voice-dial, and no dangly cord to catch on a drawer pull and spin my head around. For me, there are few cooler acts than to touch my ear, say my wife's name, then speak to her within seconds. But I still do it furtively, because the public is no more ready for such a display than they are for me to whip out the Flowbee for a touch-up.

reactionary sidebar: Someone needs to publish an updated etiquette book and get it into the hands of every Gen Eleven clown traipsing around out there looking like Lobot. Yes, we can see that you have a Bluetooth. No, we are not impressed with the technology (it's old) nor your manners (your attention appears to be elsewhere at all times), and it will never be socially acceptable (so give it up). I know these things are so lightweight that it's easy to forget they're still hanging off your head. But there's no excuse for wearing them through an entire social dinner, as I saw a young man do a few weeks ago.

I won't wear mine unless it's in use. I'll keep it on while driving, but I doff it like a hat when I step into a building. Makes me feel kind of 1940s that way, with farm-boy manners.

Just recently a guy in his 70s drove past me with a Bluetooth in his ear. Not many things make me laugh out loud, but Wireless Grampa did just that.

the queerest thing about all this tele-nology is realizing our kids will never associate a phone with its place (a key point in this entry). When phones had cords, they were as much a part of a house as its refrigerator.

There was a time when a telephone number's prefix told you roughly where the person lived. Now, even an area code signifies almost nothing. A phone is associated only with a person, and the 10-digit number can follow him around forever.

I'd say the best thing about that is, cell numbers come unlisted by default. Wonder how long that will last?

we spent sunday at my sister's place out west of Fort Worth. Along U.S. 281, we came across a hand-lettered cardboard sign reading blackberries.

Bush-borne blackberries, that is. And, although it was about 400 degrees in the shade, we stopped, piled out, took the proffered cut-out gallon jugs and went a-pickin'.

Most of the bushes' perimeter had already been cleaned of ripe berries. Squeeky used me as a vaulting pole to pivot over the thorns into a clearing, and I lobbed Squinx in after her. From the outside, Little Roo took advantage of his height to peer under leaves for fruit that others had passed over. Wolf Dog threatened to chase off our host, and got the short leash after that. We gathered a good half-gallon in 15 minutes and decided that was enough.

As we paid for our purchase, Squeeky made conversation with the proprietor, asking him if he lived nearby. He gestured over his shoulder.

My retired life flashed before my eyes.

So that his customers could cleanse their berry-pickin' hands, he had thoughtfully set out a bucket fed by a garden hose running from his well pump. Almost pure profit, this operation.

Not even someone whispering past in a Jaguar could resist roadside fresh berries. I'm pretty sure Mr. Home Depot Shed wished he could've doubled the price per gallon just before that car approached.

The rest of our stay went unremarkably except I met my first T-shirt-wearing Obama fan. I gather that "love" is the most important factor in selecting a president, because that was the first reason cited. Also, he's not President Bush, which is apparently important even though Bush isn't running this year.

I failed to ask about any legislation sponsored by the Agent of Change in his first four years as a Senator. You know, to start changing things.

Still looking for that, myself.

In the meantime, enjoy a slice of cold blackberry pie, topped with yogurt.

Summer's here!

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 02:44 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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