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A Hole in the Bucket

A Hole in the Bucket

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We’ve needed a long rainy day for months, and today we finally have one.

Rain is pouring off the roof and into the gutters. It’s flattening what’s left of the ferns and beating the petals off the second-bloom roses.

It’s also seeping into the basement. But at least we know now why the flooding occurred in August. It wasn’t just the volume of water, though that was certainly a factor. It was also because the bucket placed to catch the seepage sprang a leak.  Luckily, this was discovered before a plumber was called.

I think there’s a life lesson here, something akin to “check the life raft.”

AC in OCT

AC in OCT

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I write from the comfort of an air-conditioned living room, a living room that, I believe, may never have been air-conditioned before in the month of October. But this is no ordinary fall.

It was 98 degrees here yesterday. We’re not alone, either. It was 92 in New York City and 96 in Wilmington, Delaware.

That weather patterns are changing is no secret. And we have the electric bill to prove it — with more AC days this summer than last and more last year than the year before. 
I remember when heat waves were, in fact, waves, and not tsunamis. But no matter, it is cooler today, and we will soon slip into a more seasonable pattern that will once again let us pretend that everything is as it should be.

Summer and Fall

Summer and Fall

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On the first day of autumn, I walked outside after dark to get something from the car. I was wearing a white nightgown, not the lightest one I have because after a sweltering 90-plus-degree day, the air conditioning was back on.

My purpose was purely practical, but the night was alive with balmy air and the sound of crickets and katydids. I was suddenly aware that despite the seeming permanence of these summer sounds, they are extremely time-limited. The bugs chirp as if they have months to live when it’s probably more like weeks.

I was sorry to walk back into the quiet of a darkened house, windows closed against the heat and humidity. It’s been a warm summer, and many are longing for a spate of coolness. But I’m not. Say what you will about crisp autumn air, warm wool sweaters and chili simmering on the stove… I wouldn’t mind if we had another month of summer swelter.

September Song

September Song

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Here’s what our recent weather makes me think, and it’s something I think often this time of year in the Mid-Atlantic: that if you’ve been very good and borne up well under summer heat and humidity, September gives you days like these: languid and bright with pleasantly warm noons and lovely cool evenings.

I savor each brief hike, each long, languorous stroll with Copper. I wake to air cooled not by a machine but by night itself, as window fans pull in the loamy coolness and send it swirling around the house.

I know the rains will come, the leaves will tire, turn and fall. But not yet. These golden days are like a love duet between two seasons. They’re a September song.

Threatened Tidewater

Threatened Tidewater

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I’ve certainly been posting a lot about a three-day-trip, but the Virginia Tidewater is a magical place … and a place now threatened by Dorian.

The National Hurricane Center predicts flash floods, high winds and a strong storm surge in southeastern Virginia and the southern Chesapeake Bay. That means that the bucolic landscape we toured last weekend could be drenched and battered today.

It’s one reason to scotch dreams of home ownership in that area, which I’ll admit were percolating in my brain as we spied one gorgeous inlet and quaint town after another.

Probably better these days to lust after cottages on safer, higher ground. But oh, there is something special about landscapes where land and water meet.

Fallophoboia

Fallophoboia

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You won’t find this condition in the DSM. It’s real, though. It’s the fear of falling leaves, nips in the air and all the other harbingers of autumn that put a skip in other people’s steps.

I won’t deny that I’ve enjoyed the last few low-humidity days, the blue skies of Sunday, the white puffy clouds, sleeping under a light cover with the windows thrown open to the evening air.

But brown leaves on pavement give me a fright, as do quieter nights, crickets only, no katydids.

I love summer, that’s all there is to it. And while I console myself with the knowledge that spring will be here again before we know it, the truth of the matter is that we must trudge through fall and winter to get there. And sometimes that seems like a tall order.

Their Own Season

Their Own Season

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Late afternoons have become their own season here, as the day becomes too much for itself and collapses under the weight of its own humidity.

First there is the darkening sky. The cumulonimbus loom large and black.The wind whips up and makes eddying noises as it blows in open windows, lifting up the light curtains. Even these many years later, I remember the earliest storms, rushing out to pull clothes off the line.

The smell comes next. It’s ozone, I learn. A pungent odor shot from lightning and brought to earth by downdrafts. Then the thunder, crashing and booming.

And finally the rain itself, a relief on the hottest days, a nuisance on others. Great rolling sheets of it, sometimes more than an inch an hour. Rain that bloats streams and sends them spilling over their banks, that sends me scurrying home along alternate routes.

Because the storms arrive just as I make my trek westward, into the thick of it. And last night, back to a dark, warm house. No power for three hours. And the only sound: the loud hum of the neighbor’s generator, installed just weeks ago. How did they know?

Second-Hand Rain

Second-Hand Rain

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An early walk this morning into a moist and muggy landscape, breathing steam — or what felt like it.

There were puddles beside the road and the leaves were gleaming from last night’s dousing. We’ve been humid for days, but rain-fed humidity is different somehow, less oppressive, cleaner.

It wasn’t until the end of the stroll that I saw the second-hand rain. A brisk breeze was stirring the high branches of the oaks and sending down a spray of drops that caught the sun and shone there. It was last night’s precipitation recycled beautifully in the morning light. I walked through it as if through an illuminated mist.

It was a beautiful way to start the day. But now I’m dashing inside from moment to moment trying to dodge the second-hand rain … which is landing lightly on my computer keyboard as I try to write this post.

Home with Humidity

Home with Humidity

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These days the air is so moist it seems to hold itself up, a scaffolding of water droplets. The slow walks I take with Copper give us both time to take in the humidity, he to pull and tug his way through it, me to wander through it as if in a dream.

Humidity is no fun when you have to mow in it, or hoe in it. Or for that matter, when there’s no respite from it. But when you’re strolling through it leisurely it can be good company.

“Home is where the humidity is,” read the T-shirt of a friend I saw last night.

To which I say, you’re darn right it’s home. Humidity: bring it on.

Exceptional!

Exceptional!

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We’ve been dished out a couple of exceptional early June days with cool nights and mornings and bright, breezy afternoons.  It’s the kind of weather where you’re equally comfortable in long sleeves or short, blue jeans or capris.

It’s flexi-weather. Choose from a, b or c. Add d, e or f. Mix thoroughly and enjoy.

Which is what I’ve been doing. A short walk last evening took me only halfway round my usual course, but al fresco dining completed the night.

And this morning, I threw open the windows and let the air in.

We have so few days like this; I want to savor each one.