Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Noah Needed Drywall

Okay, so it has been raining here for about 1,000 hours at near Biblical proportions. It has been raining so much that even I have begun complaining about the rain, which should tell you something. (After three years of on-and-off drought, I have been known to go outside in the backyard and do a rain dance in my pajamas when we had so much as a sprinkle in July.) I rejoice that we are nearly 3.5 inches above normal annual rainfall. This rainy, cool May weather is akin to the Mays I grew up with in this area -- what we babyboomers like to call a return to pre-global warming seasonal behavior.



Along with the rain came Mother's Day, when I got to do what I love to do on Mother's Day -- shop for plants. The fact that it was pouring down rain was just an added incentive. As someone who started her first personal garden at age 5, I was taught that the absolute best time to buy and plant new garden stuffs is in a cool, substantial spring or fall rainshower. Yes, these are the times that the women in my family (ignoring the aghast looks of our spouses) trudge out-of-doors with favorite spade and trowel in hand, look up to the heavens, and pronounce, "These hands have been touched by God! Let's plant!" (Our only indulgence with religion.) My mom started me off when I was five, when I grew my first garden. It was little plot where I grew Halloween pumpkins that I later rolled into and sold in our front yard. I can't exactly remember the weather when we ripped open that packet of Burpee pumpkin seeds, but if it was like any other gardening session with my mother, it was probably during a good early spring rain.



So, digging forward to the present, that WAS me at the local nursery on Mother's Day, shopping for shrubbery in the pouring down rain. And I mean pouring down rain. I want to point out that though the shopping crowd was sparse, I was NOT alone. And I did pick up two rose bushes -- on sale, no less -- that are covered in the deepest, sexy burgundy blossoms. A couple Japanese plum yews leapt into my cart without my knowledge -- along with some Japanese painted fern that decided to follow their countrymen. (Hey, with the fascist immigration roundups these days, even Dutch tulip bulbs are shaking in their skins.)



One place in my life that the rain was not welcome: the recurrent leak in the roof over the hippie child's bedroom. It is the Carrie of Roof Leaks, lying dormant for years and then returning in haunting proportions just when you think life has settled to normal and you can slack off in the renovation poltergeist department.



Smoke the Dog is keeping watch to make sure nothing creeps in from the Other Side.

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