It was 92 stifling degrees when I arrived home from lunch yesterday. Humidity was in the 80% range. As predicted. I hate this hot stuff. Fuggedaboudit.

I know there are people who thrive in the heat. I’m happy for them, but I will never be one of them. Ever. I should have been born in Scotland – northern Scotland. My intolerance for heat must be hereditary. I would not have made a good Bedouin camel driver or Amazon rain forest guide.

When my Scottish ancestors emigrated to North America, they didn’t settle in Charleston or Richmond – not even Boston. They landed in Canada, in the maritime provinces, with cold winters and summery ocean breezes. Perfect. In Moncton, New Brunswick, my grandmother’s birthplace, the average June high is 71. Just warm enough to grow begonias and eat on the deck. Not this 92-degree nonsense.

When I arrived home yesterday, my garden was simmering in the afternoon sun. I could almost hear the hostas and marigolds: “W-a-t-e-r, PLEASE, w-a-t-e-r.” And to think that last week I was moaning about plants dying from root rot in the never-ending rain.

I considered heading out to the hoses at 4 p.m., but I knew that watering in that high heat could burn the petals. It would definitely scorch me.

When Dear Richard arrived home from errands, he said, “The weatherman is reporting that the air quality is very bad.” Outdoor activity was not recommended, particularly for the elderly. Oops, that’s me. Or people with heart problems – check. Or lung problems – check. Oh boy. I don’t think of myself as a decrepit senior, but the truth hurts.

OK. I thought maybe I’ll tackle my thirsty little buddies after supper, say around 7:00 or 8:00pm. Oh yes, that thing called supper. The prospects of a decent meal were promising – as long as Richard likes cold food. I don’t cook on 90-degree days. I decided that this year. Actually, it was just last Sunday, but it is for the forever future. A declaration of freedom. From the repressive heat.

For decades, I cooked decent summer meals in a house without an air conditioner. I don’t remember much of those years – I think I’ve blocked them out. I do remember not being smart enough to make some items ahead in the cooler mornings. And cleaning up at night after dinner seemed endless in a stuffy house. I begged for central air-conditioning.

It finally happened four years ago, and I was more than ready. Central air has saved my sanity and my attitude about the whole hot summer season.

The house has become my refuge. After daily weeding, pruning and deadheading, when the water is running off the tip of my nose and trickling down my back, I have a cool place to go. Whether it’s mustering up one last burst of energy – enough to take a shower – or merely flopping on the sofa with another glass of ice water, inside the house is nirvana.

Sometimes I can cool down just enough to make a salad for supper. Chicken salad. Taco salad. An anything goes salad. And then there is that old reliable, the BLT. I recently bought a package of pre-cooked bacon at Sam’s Club. I swear there’s enough in it for a few months of Sunday BLT suppers.

Don’t get me wrong, I love summer for the flower gardens, the special activities, and the sweet corn/watermelon/nectarine season. A wonderful summer for me consists of sunny days sliding into early evenings of 72-degrees on the deck. Perfect for a drink with friends. Perfect for supper under the umbrella. Soft and warm. But not hot, hot, HOT! In other words, I require Camelot. And I do remember the words to that Broadway song:

“A law was made a distant moon ago here July and August cannot be too hot And there’s a legal limit to the snow here In Camelot!”

The song goes on to say, “The rain may never fall till after sundown By eight the morning fog must disappear”

The melody still plays in my head. My little garden friends would be so happy with easy summer temperatures and a soft rain every evening. Wouldn’t that scenario be lovely?

But Mother Nature is finicky. If she is this tempestuous in June, I dread what she has planned for August. Sounds like a lot of BLT’s to me.

Marcy O’Brien is a national award-winning columnist who writes from her home in Warren, Pa.