August, If We Must

Ah, August. Hot, sweaty August. When I lived in Spain, it was the month when everyone left Madrid for vacation, and the city was flooded with tourists. Twenty-five years later, it’s most notable (to me) for being the birth month of my angel-wife, and that’s more than enough to make me love it, even when it’s so hot outside that the asphalt wants to cook you from the feet up.

I haven’t seen much in the way of asphalt this month. Or the outside in general. Part of that is the continuing pandemic–d...