Aunt Sophie turns 123 this year. She and her trees are of stout-hearted comfort to me season upon season and especially these blistering afternoons. I take refuge in her bosom.

Lately, I’ve kept an ear open for moaning and groaning from the attic and pantry — two regions of possible unrest. Those in the know may remember Aunt Sophie is my home. She has provided a calming influence and nurturing atmosphere for myself and guests through the decades. Never have I experienced the slightest concern about unwanted spiritual activity. No, the groans and moans to which I refer would emanate from my 19-year-old HVAC units.

With recent temperatures hovering somewhere between Redding and hell, I hesitate to crank down the thermostat. Instead, I find alternatives to staying reasonably comfortable. I mean, it is summer after all. I say I enjoy living in a place with four seasons, and summer is supposed to be hot. It readies me for the bliss of autumn and reminds that I’m alive and capable of surviving a measure of discomfort. My alarm is set for Thursday at 11 p.m. That’s when the present heat emergency is to end and we may pop the cork and freely move about once more.

Lately, in addition to the heat, the days have felt odd. Not simply because I only have myself and the cat boys for conversation while hibernating.

No, this early morning when I looked out the kitchen window, there hovered a sort of primordial atmosphere with fanciful overtones — hazy with some clouds and a coral hue. As I watched the sky, I saw a pterodactyl flap by, then realized it was a great blue heron (or, herring, as Lane calls it). Stepping outside, I felt the muggy mixture present at the dawn of creation. Not that I was there, but how I picture it might have felt. I looked out at my backyard and fast-forward to medieval times, there reclined a unicorn, which on second notice, was a stag with peacocks wandering about, though they were turkeys. I took a ewer of water outside to top off the bowl I provide for any poor dried-up creature using my yard as sanctuary, and startled two fauns, I mean, fawns. You might say the heat is getting to me but it’s the result of a sequestered imagination.

In addition to wool-gathering, I have come up with a few handy tips for staying cool. Every hot spell, officials trot out the same dog-eared suggestions — drink plenty of water, stay in the shade, don’t lock yourself up in a car, etc. Like we need to hear don’t nap on the roof without using sunscreen one more time, right?

Tip one is — flatly refuse to be goaded into a pickle ball tournament. No matter how tempting it sounds to romp around on a cement court in the bright sunshine chasing after whiffle balls, do not succumb. I have tried it, and it was far from pleasant. Afterward, my cheeks looked as red as the tomatoes I’ll never see on Susie Sundrop the tomato plant, because she’s a favored dish in the deer cafeteria line.

Number two — stop looking at your weather app. It will only make you sweat watching the number skyrocket. Go soak your head in a bucket of cold sangria instead.

Last but not least is one I learned this morning when I did my stretches while watching Turner Classic Movies’ “Summer Under the Stars” day-long tribute to Ronald Colman. Watching Colman doesn’t cool me off especially, but they happened to be airing “Lost Horizon,” the 1937 movie from James Hilton’s novel of the same name. Most of the story is set in a paradise called Shangri-La. In fact, that’s where the well-used reference originated. Situated high in a nearly-inaccessible Himalayan village, it’s surrounded by mega-tons of snow, with everyone happily wrapped in swaddling clothes unless they’re swimming without a care (or clothing) in an idyllic pond. Watching blizzards on TV is effective for beating the heat.

Feel free to share these hints with your friends. Meanwhile, I’m going to practice my lyre.