Tag Archives: Rainy Season

Rainy Season Whine

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Rainy Season Whine

They can’t control the weather. The rain is its own boss.
So in the rainy season, we get our share of moss.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it would just grow where we choose,
but in the rainy season, it grows inside my shoes.

From June to September, we fall asleep to rain
and then in the morning, we wake up to it again.
Our clothing’s always soggy. Our clean cars do not last.
We can’t sit on the patio for a light repast.

We cannot play touch football with the wife and kids,
for when we do, our touchdowns wind up as muddy skids.
The dog does not get walked enough, so he’s a restless doggy,
and when we order pizza, the box is always soggy.

Pent up with our families, tempers sometimes flare.
Dad wigs out when the roof leaks, sis bemoans her frizzy hair.
Mom says that the fudge won’t set and brother is complaining
that the wifi doesn’t seem to work so well when it is raining.

We know the flowers need it, as does the reservoir.
Restrictions in water usage in the summer are a bore.
It’s true water’s a blessing. We are much in its debt,
but is there no way to get it without getting wet?

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The FOWC challenge word today is control.

Rainy Season Bedtime Story

It is an Armageddon of storms. The local weather site records two hundred strikes of lightning per minute at its height. At first long jagged snake strikes, then two house-shaking claps of thunder and sheet lightning that seems to surround my house. I worry about my two tall Edwardian palms—the highest things anywhere near me. Just yesterday I called my tree guy to tell him I think they are dying. The palm beetle has made its sinister way into our area and since I’ve just had all my palms trimmed, it has crossed my mind that perhaps the tree cutters brought them with them on tools or clothing. It was a few days after they left that huge chunks started to fall off of the trunks and the fronds, green a few days ago, started to turn yellow.

Just a half hour ago, before the wind and the first claps of thunder and stabs of lightning and initial raindrops had hit, I had wondered when the next big chunk of tree would fall. At that exact instant, I heard a loud slapping bang as another chunk fell. As though in concert, the first tympani of thunder sounded, the wind came up and I heard the first spatters of rain against my skylight high above me on the dome of my living room.

Then my whole word was suffused by light and the crack and long roll of thunder as one peal of thunder ran into the next in one long colossal drum roll. The rain pelted down and a high thin wail of wind seemed to whistle around something high up on my house. All rounded corners, there is little sharpness to catch the wind. It is the first time in the 17 years I’ve lived here that I’ve heard this keening banshee whine that I thought I’d left behind me in Wyoming thirty-seven years ago. It was the Mariah of winds, a weather horror story that didn’t fit in here in Mexico, and as though it knew it, after two spine-chilling entwining moaning shrieks, it disappeared.

The night, black and starless, lit up repeatedly, as bright as daylight, like giant flashbulbs going off. The two nearly denuded Edwardian palms stood out starkly against the white sky. “Take a picture,” my Skype friend demanded, and suddenly, my formerly lost camera appeared as if by magic in front of me. Thirty-one times, I tried in vain to capture the lit-up sky. Thirty-one times, I caught only the neighbor’s porch light against a pitch-black sky. Then, on my thirty-second attempt, when the sky flashed white and then black again, the whiteness remained frozen on my camera screen. I had caught it!

An hour after the first clap of thunder, the storm has abated. My house forms some demarcation line as I can hear rain still steadily falling on the front terrace, whereas there is no rain at all on the back terrace or yard. The thunder has stopped. The lightning has been clicked off. Once again I can hear the whir of my tiny desk fan. The dogs lie curled in their beds, as unperturbed as they were even in the height of the storm. They are Mexican street dogs, accustomed to fireworks and the celebratory firing of guns into the air, to loud weekend parties in the houses across the street that stretch into the morning hours, to loud banda music and the air brakes of big trucks carrying gravel or boulders up and down the mountain. Only the sound of the clink of the cat dishes on the stone terrace as I feed them half a house a way could stir them from their beds. The cats are no doubt in an entwined pile in their large and cushy bed in the garage. All things around me: the storm, the cats and the dogs, have put themselves to bed and it is my turn to cease my consideration of the Armageddon that once again has threatened and then passed us by. All’s right with the night for now and that is as much assurance as we are likely to get in this world––a lullaby of sorts telling us its time to end the adventure for today and to sleep.

 

DSCN2062DSCN2065One second it is night and the next it is day!

Raining again. Furniture moved away from the leaks, towels and bowls out in danger areas.

Time for a Rum and Coke, and bed.

Rain, Fog, Cloud, Snow and Sol: Cee’s Black and White Weather Challenge

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

For Cee’s B&W Challenge: Weather.

Temporary Rivers

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This is my sister Patti, college age, walking barefoot out to her last big adventure in the ditches of Murdo, South Dakota after a July rain. Not quite the gusher depicted in my childhood vignette below, but nonetheless, Patti’s final puddle adventure. She had taken my visiting niece out. The next day the neighborhood kids rang our doorbell and asked my mom if Patti could come back outside to play again! Ha.

Temporary Rivers

When the rains came in hot summer, wheat farmers cursed their harvest luck, for grain soaked by rain just days before cutting was not a good thing; but we children, freed from the worry of our own maintenance (not to mention taxes, next year’s seed fees and the long caravans of combines already making their slow crawl from Kansas in our direction) ran into the streets to glory in it.

We were children of the dry prairie who swam in rivers once or twice a year at church picnics or school picnics and otherwise would swing in playground swings, wedging our heels in the dry dust to push us higher. Snow was the form of precipitation we were most accustomed to––waddling as we tried to negotiate the Fox and Geese track we had shuffled into the snow bundled into two pairs of socks and rubber boots snapped tighter at the top around our thick padded snowsuits, our identities almost obscured under hoods and scarves tied bandit-like over our lower faces.

But in hot July, we streamed unfettered out into the rain. Bare-footed, bare-legged, we raised naked arms up to greet rivers pouring down like a waterfall from the sky. Rain soaked into the gravel of the small prairie town streets, down to the rich black gumbo that filtered out to be washed down the gutters and through the culverts under roads, rushing with such force that it rose back into the air in a liquid rainbow with pressure enough to wash the black from beneath our toes.

We lay under this rainbow as it arced over us, stood at its end like pots of gold ourselves, made more valuable by this precipitation that precipitated in us schemes of trumpet vine boats with soda straw and leaf sails, races and boat near-fatalities as they wedged in too-low culvert underpasses. Boats “disappeared” for minutes finally gushed out sideways on the other side of the road to rejoin the race down to its finale at that point beyond which we could not follow: Highway 16––that major two-lane route east to west and the southernmost boundary of our free-roaming playground of the entire town.

Forbidden to venture onto this one danger in our otherwise carefree lives, we imagined our boats plummeting out on the other side, arcing high in the plume of water as it dropped to the lower field below the highway. It must have been a graveyard of vine pod boats, stripped of sails or lying sideways, pinned by them, imaginary sailors crawling out of them and ascending from the barrow pits along the road to venture back to us through the dangers of the wheels of trucks and cars. Hiding out in mid-track and on the yellow lines, running with great bursts of speed before the next car came, our imaginary heroes made their ways back to our minds where tomorrow they would play cowboys or supermen or bandits or thieves.

But we were also our own heroes. Thick black South Dakota gumbo squished between our toes as we waded down ditches in water that flowed mid-calf. Kicking and wiggling, splashing, we craved more immersion in this all-too-rare miracle of summer rain. We sat down, working our way down ditch rivers on our bottoms, our progress unimpeded by rocks. We lived on the stoneless western side of the Missouri River, sixty miles away. The glacier somehow having been contained to the eastern side of the river, the western side of the state was relatively free of stones–which made for excellent farm land, easy on the plow.

Gravel, however, was a dear commodity. Fortunes had been made when veins of it were found–a crop more valuable than wheat or corn or oats or alfalfa. The college educations of my sisters and me we were probably paid for by the discovery of a vast supply of it on my father’s land and the fact that its discovery coincided with the decision to build first Highway 16 and then Interstate 90. Trucks of that gravel were hauled to build first the old road and then the new Interstate that, built further south of town, would remove some of the dangers of Highway 16, which would be transformed into just a local road–the only paved one in town except for the much older former highway that had cut through the town three blocks to the north.

So it was that future generations of children, perhaps, could follow their dreams to their end. Find their shattered boats. Carry their shipwrecked heroes back home with them. Which perhaps led to less hardy heroes with fewer tests or children who divided themselves from rain, sitting on couches watching television as the rain merely rivered their windows and puddled under the cracks of front doors, trying to get to them and failing.

But in those years before television and interstates and all the things that would have kept us from rain and adventures fueled only by our our imaginations, oh, the richness of gumbo between our toes and the fast rushing wet adventure of rain!

 

This is a rewrite of a story from three years ago. The prompt today was ascend.

Rainy Weather

I think the rainy season has started with a vengeance.  Driving rain, lightning that lights up the entire sky, thunder that sounds like the end of the world and Mariah-like wind whistling in around the door cracks.  Frida has slunk in to be near enough to her mom for protection but just far enough away so I can’t easily reach her with the grooming brush.  And––that true indication––a leaky roof. As usual, it is around the skylight far up on the dome.  I had to move the couches and end tables and both the handmade paper spiral lamp you can see in the background and the handmade paper bowl I made are sopping wet.  That’s okay.. they were wet when I made them, so as long as they are undisturbed, they’ll dry out tomorrow.

The ceramic vase in the shape of a woman that my friend Julie made looks askance at the sodden paper bowl. The heart shaped rocks and other precious objects it was filled with sit drying out on the counter.  The rain pounds and abates, pounds and abates, but we are all safe, electricity is still on, Pasiano won’t have to water the plants tomorrow.  All’s right with the world.

 

G’Day Mate!!!!

G’Day Mate!!!

Today Was A Good Day!  Among other things, Pasiano and Yolanda and I unpotted plants from burst pots and replanted them in new spots in the garden or in new pots.

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Here is our pile of broken pots–big ones!  We will put the shards over the ground in places we don’t want Morrie to dig!

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Here is my newly potted pineapple plant, now in the sun where it will actually grow fruit. Before it was practically obscured by other plants.

IMG_3989And here is the rascal who has been eating my Virginia Creeper!!! We’ve been looking for him for weeks!  As you can see, he had just taken a chunk out of a leaf when Pasiano nabbed him.  If anyone knows what kind of moth he turns into, please let me know.  I once researched it but can’t remember.  We relocated him onto my spare lot.  Hope he likes Castor bean plants as much as Virginia Creeper! The mystery was solved within a minute of my posting when MLou wrote that this fella (or lady) is a Tomato Hornworm.  I looked it up and sure enough, she is right.  It grows into a Hummingbird Moth, which is so called because it looks and acts amazingly like a hummingbird. I’ve never seen one, so I think we are doing too good a job of getting rid of the caterpillar stage.  One year I had one as a pet.  It is a remarkable story that I will try to post later.

IMG_3993Look how he holds on to the branch with his five sets of legs. So proper looking like a butler.

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I love his little tail that looks like one of those brushes you buy to clean between your teeth! His coffee bean tattoos.

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His mouth like a rattlesnake rattle or if you take his entire head into account, like a parrot’s beak.  Fascinating little outer-space-looking creatures that I wouldn’t mind having around if they wouldn’t absolutely decimate my Creeper vines!!! This fella was about 4 inches long.

IMG_4003Here is my Virginia Creeper minus ET.

Yes, it has been a good day.  Tonight I’m going dining and dancing with a friend and although today is sunny and bright, everything is verdant green because of the daily rains we have been having.

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On Monday, my covered patio looked like this! The water couldn’t drain fast enough and was inches deep.

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This odd little object sticking up from my terrace floor that looks like a chandelier globe is actually formed by water that can’t get down the drain fast enough.  I think there was a leaf obstructing the flow.

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When my plants are happy, I’m happy, and doesn’t this look like a cheerful bunch?

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