Rain is valuable. I’m aware of this fact. I appreciate that we haven’t had to actually water the garden in days.
What I do not appreciate is that the water falling from the sky has been cold, and that the clouds have hung low and dreary ever since I returned from my trip to D.C. It’s meant I haven’t been able to spend much time in the garden, which is making me cranky.
The fact that I got very little sleep, lost half my voice telling the same stories a half-dozen times over (or more), and operated in a state of mania for eight days before getting on my flight home probably also has something to do with my mood, but I’m setting that aside for now. For now, I’m blaming it on the rain. Yes, Milli and Vanilli, I said it.
“This weather would be OK if it was late in October,” said my friend Sarah tonight. “But this is still September. This is not OK.”
I’ve left the back door closed for two evenings in a row now, not even venturing out back to see how things are going. Well, that’s not true. Last night, before making dinner, I did take out the trash, but kept on the sidewalk behind the house, casting furtive glances toward the plants but not even approaching them.
Maybe they thought I was someone else.
I have a list of things I want to do out there. The canteloupe fell off the vine while I was gone, and it’s lying in its own rot in the dirt. I want to get it out of there and rip out that plant and the cucumber next to it, which is now adorned with small, shriveled, twisted cucumbers-not-to-be. I need to weed, desperately, even though I know time is running short and that’s a fairly hopeless endeavor.
There’s hope, though. I just checked Weather Underground, which is showing a smiling sun in all the squares at the top of each day’s forecast from now through Saturday. And these blessed words: “Tomorrow is forecast to be Much Warmer than today.”