There are many reasons I don’t particularly care for the South—the rampant racism for instance. Aside from the prolific number of rebel flags I see flying on poles, hanging from eves, plastered to bumpers, airbrushed onto tailgates and tattooed on arms, another aspect of southern living I don’t like is dealing with the weather… especially summer.

I have two major issues with summer down here. The first is the unrelenting, oppressive, sweltering heat (if that’s not enough adjectives I’ll also toss in sticky, unbearable, constant and hellish). Before I went home for Bourke’s wedding we had spent two weeks consistently above 100 degrees; 110 with the heat index. If you haven’t experienced prolonged exposure to it, let me assure you that there is nothing quite as unrefreshing as a warm breeze on a hot day. Literally, the only time I spent outside during that time was when I was forced to travel to and from work. Fortunately it’s cooled down a bit since I’ve come back. Now it’s only in the mid to high 90s.

My second major issue with summer down here is that it seems to be the chicken-harvesting season. Three or four days a week I get stuck behind a semi hauling stinking, dying chickens to the Pilgrim processing plant. If I’m really lucky, we’ll get stopped at a red light and I’ll have to sit next to the reeking mess for a few minutes, digging my nose into my sleeve and trying desperately not to breathe through my mouth. There is no stench on this earth like that of several hundred foul fowl caged together on a muggy day.