EXCITED AT THE PROSPECT of finding some music a child of the '50s would like, I rushed to a store last week to get the new James Taylor disc.

Sitting in traffic on the way there, I watched shimmers of heat wafting up from the sizzling asphalt on the 98-degree day.

When I finally got to the store, I hustled from my car into the front door, but found my shirt half-soaked just from that little jaunt.

Getting the music in short order, I endured the shift from ice-cold store air-conditioning to the furnace blast that hit me the second I set foot outside.

Quickly starting my car to get the AC pumping, I sampled the JT disc and wasn't disappointed.

On the way home, squinting through the glare of bright sunlight shining through heavy ozone, I smiled as song after song lived up to the Sweet Baby James standard of yesteryear.

When the last song started up, it put tears in my eyes.

What was this tune that caused such a visceral reaction?

It wasn't a song about young love, middle-aged troubles or even the desire to howl at the moon now and then.

Nope, it was a Christmas tune, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," evoking thoughts of a time when sweat and oppressive heat aren't a part of each day.

With that holiday tune echoing through the car and the air conditioner struggling to make a few real goose bumps, for a second or two--a sweet second or two--I wasn't stuck in a heat wave of stifling proportions.

I was on a snowy hillside, watching youngsters in down-fattened coats and wooly hats slide down snow-packed paths, grinning all the while.

It was the nicest weather moment I'd had in months, even if it was all in my head.

Sure, it's supposed to be hot this time of year.

And yes, many of us enjoy the activities the summer brings.

We swim, we boat, we scamper about in shorts and T-shirts, even in bare feet in spots where rocks and glass don't intrude.

But there are limits, and this summer is way beyond them.