It’s not even summer yet, but the National Weather Service issued us three days of “Hazardous Weather” heat advisory. They warned that our temperature could climb to 90 F degrees.

Now to the rest of the planet, our “heat wave” is not impressive at all. But around here we’re not used to or prepared for it. (For example, our commercial architecture makes best use of every last beam of sunshine, with glass walls and highly reflective mirroring surfaces. Virtually no one I know has air conditioning in their home. And with large expanses of tall impenetrable timber forest, there’s always a risk of wildfire and smoke lockdown.) So it’s a concern for many people — certainly for folks who work outdoors, and also those who are senior citizens or pregnant or living on the streets. One of these categories can now claim me as a member. Direct sunlight makes me dizzy and slow-witted and emotionally unsteady, so I have to make mental notes throughout the day to plan well and be careful and not cause extra uproar for the local emergency room.

So, Friday night I did the floors and kitchen and bathroom and hand laundry and ironing until 2:00 am. Then I should have gotten up early, and walked the 30 blocks to Fruit & Folks for the weekly shop. But due to weather I chose to wait until 5:00 pm and take the bus, looping past the campus stadium on the scenic route.

The bus was 40 minutes late. Huh. For our excellent bus system, that was unusual. But, fine. I curled up in a seat finally with selected sermons by Father John Vianney, the Curé of Ars.

A mile from campus, the ride stopped. I looked up from a sermon on The Last Judgment to a complete crowd scene. Maybe I should have figured out that today was not only FIFA World Cup arrival weekend for 1.6 million fans, plus ongoing festivities for Pride month, but also campus graduation. Now granted, the campus website mentioned over 100 graduations and ceremonies for various departments and days, so all week it’s been a blur of happy people in robes skipping to and fro. But the real grandmother ceremony was breaking up, and we sat in traffic for over an hour. A 50 minute walk became a 90 minute ride.

Finally I got off the bus and walked to the store. Along the way, Eureka — someone had left on their household trash two large sheets of white foam from a packing box. That foam looked just right as an insulation buffer and shade to place behind my window curtains. After checking its condition I snapped it up and carried it as a weightless though unwieldy find.

At Fruit & Folks I parked my foam slabs out of the way under the onion case, and had the usual wonderful social visit with the staff. They are always bursting with enthusiasm and information about current music, world events, agriculture, social media, astronomical phenomena, and more. Thanks to the bin of super-ripe bargains I bought 15 pounds or so of watermelon, cantaloupe, corn, nectarines, Nappa cabbage, and oranges — a packed knapsack and a full duffle bag, all for less than $10.

To avoid the campus scene I hopped on a different bus, and then remembered: Uh-oh, those foam slabs! They’re still under the onion case! I should have remembered to collect them, but was having too good a time talking to the staff. I would have hopped off the bus and taken a bus going the other way to go and get them. But some instinct warned that it was better to just get right home and indoors. So I stayed on the bus until the transfer stop for the second bus home.  

The second bus didn’t show up. The bus company app had simply stopped working for this festive day; its predictions had no bearing on reality. Like, its sensors or drones or whatever could not tell the difference between “bus, headed toward you” and, say, “cottonwood fluff drifting along the street.” Any other time I would have set out walking right away, but — heat plus 15 pounds of melon. Might as well sit and wait.

After half an hour, a friendly pedestrian came along, and we shared the shelter bench. We exchanged hearty amiable greetings about the weather. He mentioned that he once owned a boat, and on a day like this would have been out on the water. I felt sympathetic for what it must be like, a boating fan who for whatever reason is no longer boating, so I mustered up the energy to listen in. “You know,” he continued. “Up to Allenheim. Ever gone sailing there?” (No, alas — I’ve never been up north, and don’t have a boat. But it sounds very nice.) “It’s by Glenwatch. You know — the mooring over on the west bay?” (Ah, no sorry. I don’t have a car. I’m not from this state. I have not been up thataway.) “But it’s over by… well, if you list any of the nearby towns, then I’ll remember the name. What’s the military base near Allenheim?” (Uh, dunno. Not familiar with the military base or its surroundings.) “Well it’s the west side. You know — the bay opposite the east side coastline, right?” (Could be, could be. Couldn’t tell you for sure though.) “By the casino. Gold Dust Resort. Ever go there?” (No, I’ve never been to a casino or to that resort.) “You can drive there easily. Head right up the interstate, about 90 minutes. That’s the casino between Allenheim and Glenwatch mooring west. You know — it’s that turnoff where the highway bears north? You ever drive there?” (Mm, no. I don’t have a car, and haven’t been up north.)

This is starting to sound like the Bob & Ray comedy skit, “Komodo Dragon.” By now I don’t even know what we’re talking about. And when I use the sentence “I don’t know,” repeated six ways from Sunday, it does not mean “Ask me again! Keep pushing me harder!” When people urge me to access awareness that does not exist; it makes me anxious. People can end up shocked and offended at my ignorance of some discrete factoid. (Examples abound. At one Russian Orthodox church coffee hour, a member was outraged when I didn’t know that the painter of “The Morning of the Streltsy Execution” was the famous Vasily Surikov. To her, this meant that I was devoid of knowledge or appreciation for Russia and its culture. People do get jumpy when their pet facts are not appreciated by all.)

This sun is right in our faces. The buses are nowhere. I’m holding 15 pounds of melon. The corns on my feet feel like someone is lighting a match inside my shoes. This simple errand has now taken four hours. My thinking is getting off kilter, and may need electrolytes and water.

“So Glenwatch mooring,” says my friendly fellow traveler, who really deserves a seat on the Allenheim Chamber of Commerce & Boating Tourism. “That’s the one you see when you drive past those new loft condos. You know, those condos where they refurbished the old fish cannery warehouse?”

And all of a sudden, for whatever reason, I’m done. Here my strongest character virtue is being agreeable, striving to express helpful good nature, and mine is fading fast. It’s not a proud moment, to be a person who doesn’t even work outdoors and yet still feels so done in.

“You know,” I say to my companion, “It’s been lovely visiting with you. But who knows when that campus bus will get here. It’s only 15 blocks. I’m just gonna walk.” I wish him all the best on his bus ride.

I set out with my bags, downhill 7 blocks and uphill for 8 more, saying the Jesus Prayer and sternly lecturing myself about what a blessing it is to even have all this perfectly good produce for $9.67, and to be able to pay for and carry it home, and to have a kitchen to cook it in. There’s a pretty picket fence with yellow loosestrife and white balloon flowers, so I stop and take a picture.

At home I drop the bags and kick off my shoes and undo my black felted leg wraps and two pairs of thick socks and black support hose and gauze and tape, and lie down with my feet up and a tall jar of matcha tea. Then I fix some miso soup and granola and look at a good documentary on Mount Athos, and feel immensely better and grateful.

I called Fruit & Folks to apologize about the trash-find foam sheets under their onion bin. They offer to save them for me. Tomorrow the heat will really ramp up. It would be good to get to bed at sunset and be up to admire the dawn and get an early start on the chores.

PS – Early this morning I went right back to Fruit & Folks and bought vegetables for lunch this week. Those dear young people kept my trash find safe for me. They treated me to an erudite conversation about woodworking, forestry, and the health of our sea life. The foam slabs work perfectly in the window. Off to the kitchen to prep all that produce. It’s a lot to be thankful for.