For the second Friday in a row, Earl and I have dined at the local country club. Or, I should say, one of the local country clubs. It’s been an interesting experience.

Long before Earl and I arrived in St. Joseph, Michigan, the Berrien Hills Country Club had an illustrious history, as attested by a couple of my neighbors who remember it in its heyday. Today, however, it is struggling, trying to entice new members to join the golf set and opening its dining facilities to the general public. It’s all about survival.

As members of the general public, we like it there. The bartender, Chuck, knows how to mix a mean and generous drink. The view from the dining room is spectacular in summer; and the food is good, although not as spectacular as the view.

At the same time, the club has a long way to go to reach its former glory. For instance, the dinners are all served buffet style. Tonight the buffet’s theme was “Thanksgiving in July”; and — you guessed it — turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, and cranberry sauce comprised the only entrйe. I assume buffet service cuts down on kitchen costs, but it also suggests a paucity of funds with which to operate.

Besides Chuck’s bartender skills, the other thing that really keeps us coming back is the sense of camaraderie. Neither Earl nor I golf, but both Friday nights that we’ve gone there, we were surrounded by league golfers who come for the buffet after they’ve been out on the course. They are a social bunch, not only among themselves but also extending to us. Every time we’ve gone, someone different has come to our table of two to inquire who we are or if we’re golf enthusiasts or possibly considering joining a league.

In some situations, I would find the intrusion offensive, but here it’s very pleasant. It makes us feel welcome. Not only to the club but also to the community. So we’ll continue to return on Friday nights, in spite of the fact that we could dine at a buffet for a lot less at the Big Boy.

Although, we’d have to forego Chuck’s great cocktails.

According to local weather sources, Southwestern Michigan is in an official drought. I checked Google® to see what the actual definition of drought is and learned that one way to describe it is “A time when rainfall and runoff are much less than average.”

That certainly characterizes our area when local prognosticators have said we’re seven inches or more below normal rainfall.

Further study of the term provided additional information, some of which I’m passing along here.

First, drought is normal, although it doesn’t happen everywhere or every year. It is temporary and not to be confused with aridity, which is a permanent feature of low rainfall regions. High temperatures and winds can aggravate the situation. Drought is insidious in that the resulting water shortage affects humans, animals, crops, and other plants. In turn, larger socio-economic systems and environmental systems are at risk.

There are two main kinds of drought — conceptual and operational – and Google® offered lengthy articles on both types. I read them, but have decided not to try to water them down here (Pun intended.) Instead, if you’re interested I refer you to Google®, while I fix myself a cool drink of something other than water.

The hot days and sticky nights that Earl dreams about in the cold of January have arrived with a vengeance. Yesterday, the thermometer hit the mid-nineties, and today is equally warm. I hesitate to check in with the local weatherman regarding tomorrow.

It isn’t only the thermometer that tells me it’s hot. Neither is it the muggy feeling I have when I’m outside. It’s conversation. At the cleaners, the supermarket, the gas station, the drugstore. Everywhere I go the clerks and cashiers and other customers are all talking about the heat.

“Hot enough for ya?” “It’s a hot one out there.” “Is it still hot out there?” “Have you heard the forecast?” “I’ll have an iced frappaccino.”

It reminds me of how the late Johnny Carson had a running gag on his television show when it originated in New York City. When that city would swelter in the summer, Carson would say, “It was so hot today that . . . and he’d fill in the rest of the sentence with some absurd result of the heat. It almost always got a laugh.

Well, it’s so hot here in St. Joseph, Michigan that nobody is laughing. We are down seven inches in rainfall in the past three months. The river is becoming a stream; lawns are masses of brown scrub; flowers are trying to show off their best but having difficulty. Worst of all, the farmers who were almost drowned from rain last year are scorching from the sun this year.

So I suppose it’s no wonder that talk of the weather creeps into daily conversation, even among strangers. Like poet Jane Merchant once remarked, “We get to know each other by degrees.”