soupy wet

Wet, soupy wet. We knew it was coming and we need the rain, but most anyone would prefer that it would come on, say, Monday. Or Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.

You get spoiled when the rain is a rarity. Ah yes, another day of partly cloudy skies. So when the clouds hang low, when the hours bring in the drizzle, the wetness, the rain, you almost don't know how to treat this interloper, this storm cloud, this moisture laden weather.

I have four photos for you:

The first -- from early morning. I step outside and look around. It's wet alright. And still, I'm a little curious about a day without sunshine. Walking the farmette I think -- it surely has charm, this Denmark-like weather, no?




The color code is different now. The flowers are insignificant, the leaves are drying out. And still, that old farmhouse glows! Washed by the day's rain, ready for a photo! So, number two:






We spend most of the day indoors. Playing with Isis (that would be Ed; I had work to do). Number three:





There are, too, the exceptional moments: like the hour out on the local tennis court. Ed takes the wrong tennis balls -- the leaden ones that have about as much bounce as I can expect to have at age 100. Still, we volley and he tells me more than once that finally, finally I am improving! I'll take the compliment and ignore the wondrous shake of the head.

The tennis court is wet and Ed throws his shoes to the side and goes barefoot, thinking that this would be an improvement. (Number four.)





To me, it's just a game, a lovely game, in the same way that to Ed it's just a life and to another this would be just a week-end, a wet weekend, one of many.


When the cloud layer gets too heavy and wet to send balls across a tennis net, he and I motorbike home... to an exciting (for me it is that!) evening of roasted brussels sprouts and scrambled eggs. After which, I can hardly stay awake, but I do and we watch somber movies because our stack is short and we haven't picked up newer, lighter fare from the library.