before the storm

I hate to look forward to a storm, but really, it's been far too long without rain. The drizzle that keeps British gardens in line just isn't the norm here and it's not unusual to have hot dry spells like we've had this summer. Gardens don't like them. Farmers don't like them. I suppose the one upside is that it keeps the mosquito population at bay. Still, let's forget about the mosquitoes: we need the rain.

I tell Ed (with a touch of optimism) that the good weather will be with us only in the early morning hours.

We eat a lovely breakfast (forget the shirt: it's what's within that counts!)...






I spot check the flower beds...











And when after all that the skies remain a hazy blue, I go for a walk.






It's such a simple thing in the summer! You decide to walk, you go out, you walk. No preparation, no bracing for the cold gust of air, no path to clear of snow or ice. Prairie flowers are at their best in late summer...






... and there are always surprises: like the wild gaura I find blooming at the edge of the creek. I bust my knuckles to get gaura to repeat itself year after year in my garden and here it is, growing like crazy without intervention!





Alright. I feel the rains can come now.

I stay on the porch, writing, editing. The farmette waits with anticipation...





But the storms do not come. Not now, not in the afternoon, not in the evening. We have a lovely game of tennis before supper and still -- no rain.

(For supper I saute some shrimp and cook up a pot of ratatouille. Ed does not especially like zucchini. I'm trying to make a convert out of him.)






Evening. Still warm. They say now the storms will come past midnight. Well maybe. Or maybe I'll wake up to a dry landscape once more and I'll have to put my faith in the next set of days. Hot days at that. Summer came in with pounding rain. It's choosing a different path for its grand finale.