Mohave Daily News: Opinion

I'm not kidding. While the calendar shows it's May, summer has truly arrived.

The annual motorcycle migration is over. The Christmas season is but a dim memory and cool temperatures are forgotten altogether. Snowbirds have packed their RVs and headed back to Minnesota, Montana, Wisconsin or Canada.

Bye, everyone. Now bring on the heat. Along with the Grand Canyon, it's one of Arizona's claims to fame.

I'm nearly a native of the Grand Canyon state, having moved here with Mom and Dad in 1949. I've lived here off and on - mostly on - since that time and am proud to call Arizona home.

Back to the summer.

You know summer. ... It's when the mercury climbs to hug 100 degrees, never to return to below the century mark until October or November. River rats and other residents of the Tri-state become more sullen, or so it appears. Actually, those aren't frowns. They're squints as the sun-bronzed denizens of the river area struggle to get you in focus with the sun at your back.

Air conditioning is the savior of desert dwellers. I guess we had a swamp cooler back in 1949 because I don't remember it being all that hot in our rented bungalow. Dad even had one of those window air coolers for the brand-new Chevy he bought when he landed his job as an insurance agent in Tucson.

I vaguely recalled how it worked. You rolled up the window on the passenger's side, leaving it open just enough to fit the portable swamper in. The cooler had a little pad, I recall, and when you drove, the wind rushed through the cylinder, spinning blades, through the wet pad and creating a semi-cool environment - at least for the folks in the front seat.

Like not having computers, not having central air conditioning in our homes or the modern AC in our autos wasn't a hardship because we didn't know any better. When a car overheated, we put water in the radiator, not coolant. That's why dad always hung a canvass water bag over the hood ornament when we ventured out of Tucson. If the car overheated - and it frequently did just that - we simply pulled over; let the radiator cool down and refilled it with water.

It was fun in a way. ... I have fond memories of impromptu picnics held when the Chevy or, later, the 1953 Pontiac Chieftain needed a rest and a drink.

Cicadas also herald summer in the Tri-state. That sound resembling electricity is caused by a horde of the ugly little insects. But somehow, when you hear them, you know you're home. Unless one hits you between the eyes while you are riding your motorcycle. The first time that happened to me, I thought someone threw a rock and scored a bulls-eye.

Summer also means shimmering mirages in the road - emulating water you can't quite splash through on your journey through the desert.

Well, it's time for vacation. I'm off to Phoenix and back home for a week of relaxation and soaking up the sun.

You've chosen this place to live, now enjoy it!

Greg Bucci is the city editor of the Mohave Valley Daily News.