I know we watched for rain, we wished for rain, we hoped each day would bring rain. Well now, we have rain.
Four days of drippy, cold rain. And we're not done yet.
Well, the garden is happy. Me, I'm housebound. We both are. For the first time this summer, I feel like my movement is confined: from one room to the next and back again. And in case you haven't paid attention: the farmhouse rooms are not large.
It's funny and new and a little dizzying to be so limited in my orbit. My daughter keeps me entertained with updates on Snowdrop's second day of school (Wednesday was a non-school day according to the online schedule). Ed is equally entertaining with his renewed (what a surprise) interest in spending time in a warm spot, preferably with a beach and a boat nearby. I say things like -- we're old! We need health insurance! And he says things like -- sharks rarely are a menace and not all islands are in the hurricane belt.
And the rain comes down and the last of the lilies throws up a brave and beautiful bloom...
And of course, we eat breakfast in the kitchen.
For the past few weeks, I have been suffering along through an exceptionally boring mystery novel. It makes no sense to be bored while reading this genre of a book. The whole purpose of mystery reading is to get that buzz of excitement going until the last satisfying pages. And then, just as I crossed the 51% read mark (Kindle readers are so good at telling you exactly how slow your progress is!), things got spicy again. And so I pick up the book and I do a tiny bit of writing on the side as well and I think -- well, this isn't so terribly awful. Maybe I could even stand an extended stay in a wet and drippy place, so long as my Kindle is loaded with many books where you don't have to doze through 51% of the pages before you are roped into the story line.
Yes, days of lock-down due to Covid, and a lock-in due to weather bring up strange thoughts of far away places, ones where we are unlikely to ever go, ever visit, ever live in, but ones which raise the possibility that perhaps we do still have that longing, that curiosity about a lifestyle that is different from what we have chosen for ourselves here, at the farmette. With a caveat: Ed says -- not that it's not great here. It is.
And I agree.
Four days of drippy, cold rain. And we're not done yet.
Well, the garden is happy. Me, I'm housebound. We both are. For the first time this summer, I feel like my movement is confined: from one room to the next and back again. And in case you haven't paid attention: the farmhouse rooms are not large.
It's funny and new and a little dizzying to be so limited in my orbit. My daughter keeps me entertained with updates on Snowdrop's second day of school (Wednesday was a non-school day according to the online schedule). Ed is equally entertaining with his renewed (what a surprise) interest in spending time in a warm spot, preferably with a beach and a boat nearby. I say things like -- we're old! We need health insurance! And he says things like -- sharks rarely are a menace and not all islands are in the hurricane belt.
And the rain comes down and the last of the lilies throws up a brave and beautiful bloom...
And of course, we eat breakfast in the kitchen.
For the past few weeks, I have been suffering along through an exceptionally boring mystery novel. It makes no sense to be bored while reading this genre of a book. The whole purpose of mystery reading is to get that buzz of excitement going until the last satisfying pages. And then, just as I crossed the 51% read mark (Kindle readers are so good at telling you exactly how slow your progress is!), things got spicy again. And so I pick up the book and I do a tiny bit of writing on the side as well and I think -- well, this isn't so terribly awful. Maybe I could even stand an extended stay in a wet and drippy place, so long as my Kindle is loaded with many books where you don't have to doze through 51% of the pages before you are roped into the story line.
Yes, days of lock-down due to Covid, and a lock-in due to weather bring up strange thoughts of far away places, ones where we are unlikely to ever go, ever visit, ever live in, but ones which raise the possibility that perhaps we do still have that longing, that curiosity about a lifestyle that is different from what we have chosen for ourselves here, at the farmette. With a caveat: Ed says -- not that it's not great here. It is.
And I agree.
