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Byline: Cory Farley
My kids got a break on a trip last weekend: The air conditioner broke.
California, the land of eternal spring, can be downright Houstonian this time of year. I recall seeing 98 degrees on a thermometer lit by the rising sun in Three Rocks a few years ago.
My children know nothing of that. The older one barely remembers our '79 Corolla, the last car we had without air. The younger has never sat in a naturally ventilated vehicle.
They don't travel with us much anymore, but when they do the whining starts at 75 degrees: "Da-aad, it's hot back here.''
"Enjoy the day. Smell that alfalfa?''
"I smell pigs. Turn on the air.'' My daughter is a bright young woman, but she can still pack four syllables of abuse into "air'' in a way that makes me question our rejection of corporal punishment.