YEAH, IT WAS HOT. 106 in Boonville by Sunday afternoon. Same Monday, and hot most of the week but not hundred-degree hot. My dahlias fried on their stems, the hydrangeas were wilted-to-weeping, the roses were roasted to a deathly brown crisp at their crowns, the chickens panting in the shade. And the one drunk I saw downtown was turning purple.
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