THE DOG DAYS

Every frostbitten, snowbound winter week we fall into the same old trap of looking forward to the golden days of summer, completely forgetting the rigors of the dog days.

Somehow we manage to ignore our unfond memories and think of July and August as golden times of outdoor fun and balmy weather. We forget the massive shorebound traffic jams on the melting Parkway macadam with overheated engines and passengers.

Who thinks about the crowded beaches beneath a merciless sun and the scorching sand where hundreds of vacationers lay sprawled like a stranded brigade of the Foreign Legion? Who remembers the undertows and the overcharges, the rip tides and the rip offs?

Most of us have managed to blot out memories of frightening thunderstorms that knocked down trees and caused widespread temporary power failures and managed to reform sinners, also temporarily.

How can we forget the heat, the relentless, enervating, crushing heat that plops down on us like a steaming wet blanket, despite our cranky, noisy unreliable air conditioners, full of sound and fury but signifying nothing but budget-breaking electric bills.

And don’t forget the shark scares, the mosquitoes, the poison ivy, the annoying jingling ice cream vendors. The peculiar figure we cut in a bathing suit or in anything less than an overcoat. And how good the girls and recent girls, look in their bikinis.

Yes, how great they look in their bikinis at the clambakes on the beach . Ahh, the delicious clambakes, backyard or beach, with those mouth-watering barbecues, ice cold lemonade or beer on the hot days. Fresh off-the-backyard vines tomatoes and buttered corn downed with ice cold lemonade. The sight of bass leaping in the lake beside the cruising sailboats. The longer days and heart-catching sunsets. Hiking in the deep woods in the early morning mist.

The crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. An overweight field of thirst- quenching watermelons nodding at God. Shucks! Summer is too short.