Dog Days in Dixie

Georgia is about to endure the insufferable assault of Dog Days, when movement becomes molasses and naps trump golf. The sleepy hound crawls from its hibernation in the heavens, shakes off the cosmic dust of its lethargy and announces its scorching presence.

Sirius, the Dog Star, gets an early start, rising before dawn. It follows the sun in its circuit and inflicts heat for six weeks on the prisoners of the earth. That’s us.

Never encountered Dog Days? For clarity, Google ‘heat wave.’ It’s when the sun pours out its searing bowl of wrath upon the earth. It torches every living creature. People pray and pledge their first born for reprieve. Relief comes only with a huge ransom.

Executives of Georgia’s utility monopoly luxuriate in air-conditioned comfort in Atlanta high rise offices. They lunch scrumptiously from revenue generated by massive utility bills, watching their customers wander about in hypnotic stupors.

The heat bakes Georgia’s red clay into bricks. Corn stalks wither. They bow in silent submission to the onslaught. Asphalt roads melt into hot tar. Tempers flare faster than July 4th fireworks.

Frequently the Okefenokee Swamp erupts in flames by spontaneous combustion. Huge plumes of smoke deposit ash trails reminiscent of Sodom’s demise. Mobile homes melt in the heat’s relentless march to the sea. Nothing is spared.

People in the piney woods pack their pickups. They flee the fiery path in a wild chaotic exit. The horror resembles a scene out of General Sherman’s playbook.

Even the brown gnats evacuate, seeking refuge on the Georgia coast. Nature delights in unannounced plagues during Dog Days.

Living on St. Simon’s Island, GA, we’re luckier than most in Georgia. The beach offers a temporary retreat from the stifling air, assuming one’s fortunate enough to find a parking place. Towel and chair spots disappear fast.

Before dawn ambitious teens stake out claims on the prime viewing locations. They barter with the late arrivals for these spots for cash or contraband in the form of cold-can elixirs. Capitalism is not an expletive to these entrepreneurs.

Come August the Chattahoochee River trickles and the ocean bubbles like a hot caldron of boiled peanuts. Sun worshipers will writhe in agony as their bare feet bake on the hot rocks and flaming beach sands. Their winter-white skin will sizzle, blackened by an unrelenting sun and fried crispy like Waffle House hash browns.

Tommy, the island’s local druggist, has again cornered the sun screen market. He purchased entire stocks from the local pharmacies. He rations his stash, selling one at a time. Prices escalate by the minute. Rumor has it that his profits from last year’s Dog Days financed a vacation home in Highlands.

Watermelons are in short supply everywhere. Last year a local farmer’s market sold all but one. It was posted on e-Bay and drew a huge bidding crowd. Some said a condo speculator from Macon paid $2,000 for it. Before leaving the parking lot, he doubled his money by flipping it to a fellow from Michigan. Which might explain the state’s tolerance toward Yankees.

This year I fell for the slick J Crew newspaper inserts touting linen shirts. “Stay cool, wear linen,” they read. So I buy five. Only to find out they soak up humidity like a sponge and look like they’re trying to crawl off my back.

Only kudzu, the Southern Cannibal, survives Dog Days unscathed. The insidious vine is Georgia’s solution to obliterating unsightly billboards along I-75. It can grow 18 inches in an instant.

Our neighbor in Atlanta preferred red clay for a yard. Even rocks wouldn’t occupy it. But kudzu thrived. It crept into our yard. In three days it consumed a lawn mower and threatened the mail man.

One night I wrestled the beast and succeeded in staking out a return path towards its origination. In two days the pernicious vine had devoured the neighbor’s Nissan.

Anything’s possible during Dog Days in Dixie. Whatever experiences you endure or enjoy, remember this: You only live once. Buy the ticket, take the ride.


Bud Hearn
July 17, 2015