Florida in June: Hotter Than a Preacher’s Wife in a Honky-Tonk

Well, howdy, y’all. Name’s Leland Shipp, born and raised right here in the cracker heart of Florida. That was back when the state still smelled like orange blossoms and cow manure instead of sunscreen and regret. I come from a long line of folks who thought air-conditioning was something Yankees invented to sell electricity. We called June “the month the devil turns up the burner.” And brother, if you ain’t lived through a Florida June, you ain’t lived. You’ve just visited.

Let me paint you a picture, and I promise it won’t be pretty. June don’t ease into Florida like a polite guest. It hits like a drunk uncle at a family reunion. One who is loud, sweaty, and determined to ruin everybody’s good time. The first day of the month the thermometer don’t just climb; it levitates. By nine in the morning the heat index is already 105, and the humidity is so thick you can’t tell if you’re sweating or just leaking. I swear, you step outside and your shirt sticks to you like it’s been glued on by a federal agent.

I remember one June back in the seventies when I was still young enough to think I was tough. Decided I’d mow the yard at my little place down in Brandon. Two acres of Bahia grass that hadn’t seen a blade in three weeks because I’d been fishin’ instead. I fired up that old push mower. It was gas-powered. None of this battery nonsense and by the time I got to the third row I looked like I’d been hosed down. Sweat was runnin’ into my eyes so bad I couldn’t see the fire-ant mound I ran over. Next thing I knew I was dancin’ a jig that

would’ve made a Baptist deacon blush. I finally gave up, sat on the porch with a pitcher of sweet tea, and watched the grass grow another two inches just to spite me.

That’s June in Florida. The grass don’t grow. It explodes. Same with the palmettos, the weeds, and anything else green that figures it might as well get its growin’ done before the hurricanes come knockin’. And speakin’ of hurricanes, June 1st is like the state’s official openin’ day for Mother Nature’s demolition derby. Every year the Weather Channel starts runnin’ those computer models showin’ red blobs spinnin’ off Africa like they’re late for a cockfight. We Cracker boys just shrug, stock up on cold beverages and batteries, and argue about whose roof is gonna go first.

Now don’t get me wrong. We got our ways of beatin’ the heat. First off, you stay inside till four-thirty. That’s when the afternoon thunder-boomers start buildin’ up over the Gulf like big gray battleships. About five o’clock they roll in, dump three inches of rain in twenty minutes, knock out the power, and then leave like they got somewhere better to be. The air cools down to a tolerable ninety-two, the mosquitoes come out for happy hour, and everybody pretends it’s fall.

Mosquitoes. Lord have mercy. In June they ain’t just bugs; they’re a lifestyle. They’re so big down here we name ’em. I once swatted one the size of a hummingbird on my screen porch and hollered, “Take that, Big Bertha!” My neighbor hollered back, “That ain’t Bertha. Bertha’s the one carryin’ the purse.” They laugh at bug spray. They laugh at citronella candles. The only thing that works is a twelve-gauge and a sense of humor, and even then they just file a complaint with the mosquito union.

Tourists don’t understand any of this. They show up in June thinkin’ it’s still “season.” Bless their Yankee hearts. They’ll be standin’ on the dock at the Withlacoochee River in flip-flops and a sunburn, wonderin’ why the fish ain’t bitin’. I’ll tell ’em, “Son, the fish are down at the bottom where it’s cool. Same place I’d be if I had any sense.” Then I’ll sell ’em a dozen shrimp for bait and a cold beer for courage and send ’em on their way. By sunset they’ll be back at the bait shop lookin’ like boiled crawfish, complainin’ about the heat. I just smile and say, “Welcome to June, partner. This ain’t Disney World. This is Florida.”

And the alligators. June is gator courtin’ season. They come slidin’ out of the swamps lookin’ for love, which in gator language means bellowin’ like a bull with a bad cold and eatin’ anything that moves. I had one take up residence in my pond last June. Named him Bubba. Bubba was about ten foot long and had an attitude. One mornin’ I went out to feed the ducks and Bubba had decided the ducks were breakfast. I hollered at him. He just looked at me like, “Mind your own business, cracker.” I finally called the trapper. He showed up, took one look, and said, “That ain’t a gator. That’s a dinosaur with a bad attitude.” Took him two hours and a chicken on a string to get Bubba out of there. Cost me a hundred bucks and a six-pack. Worth every penny just to get my ducks back.

Evenin’ time is when Florida June gets tolerable. Sun goes down behind the cypress trees and the breeze kicks up off the lake. Then the lightning bugs start their light show. Folks sit on porches with glasses of iced tea so sweet it’ll make your teeth hurt. Somebody strums a guitar. Somebody else tells a lie about the one that got away. Kids chase lightning

bugs in mason jars. Old dogs sleep under the house. For about forty-five minutes it’s almost perfect. Then the mosquitoes remember they still got work to do.

I reckon what I’m tryin’ to say is Florida in June ain’t for everybody. It’ll test your patience, your deodorant, and your love of the Lord. But if you were born here like I was, if your granddaddy ran cattle through the palmettos and your mama canned peaches in August. So you learn to love it the way you love a mean old mama cat. She’ll scratch you, but she’s yours.

So if you’re comin’ down this June, bring light clothes, a good hat, and a stronger stomach than you think you need. Stay outta the noon sun, mind the gators, and for God’s sake don’t feed the mosquitoes. And if you see a fella sittin’ on a porch with a cold glass of sweet tea and a smirk, wave. It might be me. I’ll be the one sweatin’ just enough to prove I’m still alive.

Because that’s what June in Florida does to a man. It reminds him he’s mortal, he’s stubborn, and he wouldn’t live anywhere else on God’s green earth. Even if it does feel like the devil left the oven door open.

Y’all come on down anyway. Just bring extra underwear and a sense of humor. You’re gonna need both.

Leland Shipp — The Voice of Southern Charm & Master of Psychological Thrillers

Leland Shipp is the beloved “Voice of Southern Charm” at The Peddler’s Post, where his monthly articles inspire unity, humor, and community pride across Citrus, Hernando, Pasco, and Sumter counties. His warm, relatable voice and insightful commentary have made him a cherished fixture in local journalism, championing the values that make his region truly special.

An accomplished author of psychological thrillers and horror, Leland’s storytelling prowess is rooted in his deep understanding of human behavior and societal dynamics. With a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice and a Minor in Political Science, he skillfully weaves complex plots filled with suspense, mystery, and unexpected twists that keep readers on the edge of their seats. His debut novel, Impulsivity, explores themes of decision-making, responsibility, and the profound impact of reckless love—reflecting his keen eye for the darker aspects of the human psyche.

When he’s not writing gripping tales or engaging with his community, Leland finds solace in the great outdoors—hiking, fishing, and seeking tranquility near lakes, rivers, and the ocean. His stories often delve into psychological manipulation, paranoia, obsession, and self-discovery, echoing his love for the natural world and the mysteries it holds.

Beyond his writing, Leland’s humor and community spirit extend across central Florida, making him a familiar and beloved voice in four counties. Whether through his storytelling, community service, or spreading laughter and insight, Leland Shipp embodies Southern resilience, warmth, and mastery—connecting with audiences through words that entertain, provoke thought, and inspire.