How I Wish That It Would Rain

I walked out of the front door this morning and noticed a large tree-ish weed had sprouted out of a bush in the front of the house. Mocking me. Then I saw the weeds around Girl-child's marigolds, and the shagginess of the lawn, and remembered the bags of leaves in the back yard that have sat there since last fall (LAST fall...go ahead and say it...I'm a slacker).

I cursed them all.

I then vowed to do yard work when I got home. Against my will.

As I drove the dark streets toward the comfort and coffee of work, a fine mist worked its way over my windshield. Curious, that. Not rain, not quite fog...a mist, something out of a John Carpenter movie, or that dream I had as a kid where I walked in my parents front yard, eating the mist that formed in the dark.

NPR news said it's supposed to rain today. With the possibility of something fun, like hail.

Well, wouldn't that beat the hell out of doing yard work?

I love rainy days in summer. As a kid, it meant I couldn't work in the garden, mow the lawn, or pick up the wormy apples that fell in the orchard. It meant scary movies on television. It meant popcorn...the real stuff...popped with oil in a big pan and topped with melted butter. It meant a nap. It meant everything slowed down, and only the necessities could pull focus. It meant the radio station, the groovy one from Detroit, played sensual, sad Motown classics. It meant we could all take it easy.

I can mow the lawn tomorrow.

Today, it can rain.