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If you’re withering under the prolonged spate of scorching temperatures, take heart. We’re finally on the threshold of the summer rains, which, according to conventional wisdom, kick in like clockwork on June 13, the feast day of Saint Anthony of Padua, patron saint of San Antonio Tlayacapan. 

First you get the bake. Then you get the broil. That’s the way an old friend once described the evolution of scorching summer weather in Phoenix, Arizona.

Mid-May and lakeside’s devilish hot season is reaching its peak.  Like a lot of folks who stick it out here year round, this is the time of the year when the atmosphere tends to throw me a bit off kilter, making me feel more lazy and crazy than ever. 

The brassy blast of a trumpet rips me from the embrace of Morpheus.

While most lakeside inhabitants are accustomed to hearing cohetes de trueno (sky rockets) rip the air as an ordinary element of the auditory landscape, newcomers should brace for being roused from slumber in the early hours of May 3 by a non-stop barrage of the ear-splitting fireworks that herald the celebration of Día de la Cruz (Feast of the Holy Cross). 

Here’s a weather story even El Niño couldn’t create.