I woke up to a lovely fog: a world of softened edges and limited horizons.
Gone is the street behind me, and the house with the long drive beyond. Front and center are the particulars of my yard: the leaf piles at the back, the twisted trunk of the volunteer cherry, the covered garden bench.
Fog makes us all myopic. It takes away the forest and gives us the trees. It provides an excuse for seeing only what is close at hand.
Sometimes I need that.
Wind whips the leaves off the witch hazel tree, sets them spinning down into a pile of gold.
Wind bends the tulip poplar and the bamboo, which is taking bows outside my office window.
Wind sets the jets on an alternate course, sends them scudding, like the clouds, over this house.
Trees, planes, clouds — may all that belongs aloft … stay that way.
The furnace came on this morning. I smelled the heat before I felt it, slightly acrid but warm and comforting, too. The aroma of thick bathrobes and steaming kettles and stepping inside from a cold rain.
We could have held out longer, but why? It’s inevitable. The cold is coming. Toughing it out won’t keep it away.
As befits a day of forced air heat, clouds dominate, and the stillness they bring is welcome. They promise seclusion and concentration and a long writing session. They promise cold, too.
We’ve had some rain lately, which reminds me of one morning in Oban, Scotland, when I was awakened by the sound of shouts and laughter wafting up from the bowling green beneath the windows of the B&B.
It was pouring — but that wasn’t stopping the lawn bowlers. They were swaddled in rain gear, playing their game with the cool concentration of professionals. Cool being the operative word because it was about 50 degrees in mid-August.
I admired the pluck of the players, and later in the day, when it was warmer and dryer, circled back to watch the game. I still can’t say I understand it. But I do get the spirit of it, which seems to be, forget about the weather — have fun! A good lesson to keep in mind.
A quiet walk on a cloudy day. A rarity here, and I savored it, strolling through the dim light, noticing how still it was, how few sounds I heard. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.
The pavement was damp from weekend rains and wet leaves slicked the path. There were twigs and small sticks, too. It was as if the woods had been partying and had yet to clean up after itself.
This morning I wake to more rain. I’m hoping it will stop later so I can take a walk. If I’m lucky it will be still and cloudy again.
Storm chasers are bold (some would say foolish) folks who race to observe a hurricane or tornado. I’ve become just the opposite, a storm dodger. Afternoon showers are such a common occurrence here that I plan my days around them.
I walk the beach in the morning. At 3 p.m. I’m scanning the sky. Are those dark clouds forming in the west? How quickly are they moving? When do I leave the beach and head for shelter?
There’s an art to this. Depart too soon and I’ll miss out on precious time in the sun and surf. Leave too late and I’ll be drenched.
In fact, I’m writing this post while waiting for some storm clouds to pass so I can take a dip in the pool. Another day in the life of a storm dodger.
For me and for many, summer is a recharging season. A lot of the recharging occurs outdoors. Whether it’s walking the trails, writing on the deck, or dining al fresco, summertime is outside time.
But not this summer. This summer I check my phone first. This morning the air quality index is 153, Code Red. So I’ll write from my office and exercise in the basement. There are plenty of indoor projects — cleaning up decades worth of clutter, for starters.
I won’t be idle. But I won’t be happy.
And yet … it’s the way many of the world’s people live everyday, without the privilege of working at (and inside) the home. Missing summer is the least of their concerns. I’ll keep them in mind today.
(Summer in the city, where there was no smoke last week. A tip of the hat to Tennessee Williams for the post title.)
Yesterday I was writing outside on the deck, as I often do these days, when I realized how dark it had become, darker than twilight.
I wanted to stay outside while the storm was brewing, but began preliminary shutdown so I could run in at the first drops, a caution imposed on me by the (ahem) delicate nature of the electronics in my care. I covered the wooden rocking chair, tucked away the seat cushions, and moved books and phone inside.
Not long afterward, the wind picked up in earnest and I skedaddled completely inside, up to my second-floor office where I snapped this shot.
Oh, what a storm it was! Rain blowing down the street, like so many curtains swishing. Fat drops pelting the garden, which needs moisture so desperately. Even some hail thrown in for good measure.
It was my first big storm of the season … and it did not disappoint.
In the woods, the little bridges are still there, but the streams they cross are running dry.
In the meadows, the earth is bare, cracked, hard-packed. My shoes scuff up dust. Even the grass has stopped growing as quickly as it usually does in June.
