Here in the Midwest, people can get really gloomy about the weather, but I hold onto the little optimistic pocket of sunshine in my heart that’s from growing up in the Pacific Northwest, where it rains every day and people sport their Grundens (in AK) or Patagonia (in Portland) and tip their faces skyward and grin and exclaim, “I love the rain! It keeps it green!” and a collective sigh releases from outsiders who live there and need prozac to make it through the year.
So when we woke up to rain beating down on us yesterday morning, I pranced around the house in socked feet singing, “It’s raining! It feels like home again! I don’t have to water! Everything is growing! It’s raining!” and Jon sulked and repaired the mulcher in our garage.
I love the rain, love the way it diffuses the light, love how it pools on the asphalt, love the sound of it hitting our metal roof overhead.
But I do not love how, after the rain finally stops, I go out to the garden to discover how a torrential downpour knocks over my corn stalks and beats down the tomato cages, and then mucks up all the dirt and swirls it around at their bases, making it impossible to reinsert the flimsy metal legs (okay, okay, I probably put them in wrong to begin with, BUT STILL!), so that they collapse and the tomatoes get filthy and I throw my hands up in the air and stomp off.
“The tomatoes have fallen over again!” I shouted at Jon. It wasn’t his fault, but it’s always comforting to direct your rage at your spouse, right?
“Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s mow it down.”
We didn’t, of course. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who’s feeling a little disgusted with the entire enterprise.
Seriously, when is that new seed order going to arrive?
On a brighter note…