Tuesday, May 27, 2014

I Am Sitting On My Porch, Smack Dab

In the middle of a thunderstorm.  One of those god’s wrath, break of a billiard rack, the dog is under the couch beauties that separates the bag from the pipes and reminds you that MOTHER NATURE IS IN CHARGE, thank you very much.  

Short of an Irene or a winter of ’98 ice storm on the damage scale but still pretty powerful.  Which makes it ideal for sitting through.  Somehow the word rumbling was born of a good thunderstorm.  Crescendo from the Latin crescere to grow or increase.  The third movement of Vivaldi’s Concerto in A Minor.  Currently somewhere over Putney but headed this way, up Westminster West, up and over Hartley Hill, descending on our little hamlet, adding a couple of inches to the depth of the Saxtons River.

As quickly as it hits, it passes, headed north and east.  The rain which at times was heavy starts to soften, reminding metal roofs of their purpose.  The sky remains dark but the threatening nature of the storm has given way to the gentler soaking rain.  Now the only question remaining is how long will it rain?  Will we be lucky enough to have it around at bedtime? 

A late afternoon early evening storm is what you want.  The earth has started to cool and things are sort of settling in for the night.  A storm during the heat of the day often gives way to a hot sun that sends the fallen rain back into the air in the form of a brutalizing asthmatic humidity.  A heading-to-dark rainfall blankets and grays outside and mesmerizes here on the porch.  A good rain is like a good campfire.

Probably should head for the kitchen, the pizza dough may be doubled.  God is good, the eight ball has fallen into a woven leather pooltable pocket and yo dude you can come out from under there, every little thing gonna be all right.

Love you.  Peace.  Peter

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

I'm Having A Hard Time

Coming to terms with the difficulty this year's winter has had struggling with letting go.  Just last week, I overheard a couple of cabins discussing the extremely high level of fever they've had to put up with for the last couple of months.  I'm one matching set of white belt and pants away from a move south.  So ready for summer I bought a hothouse tomato, slathered it in mayo and pretended I just got back Pete's Farmstand, Rt. 12, Just North of Walpole, NH.

It's been cool.  As in temperature, not temperament.  As in it's frickin' May and I'm still waiting for a forsythia to step up and be counted.  As in I don't have to look too hard to spy with my little eye chunks of glacier clinging to roadside rockwalls.

Even the roads aren't sure what to make of it.  Normally by now we're in the middle of mud season navigating roads all agoo.  Oh, there are pockets of warmth-indicators looking to be recognized.  The other day (let's call it Spring shall we?), I was out for a Spring-Has-Sprung ride up on Davidson Hill Road and found a couple of spots where, if I'd been in my car instead of on my bike I would have been up to my ball joints in it.  But for the most part the ground is still solid.  As in the tarp doesn't need to come off the Troy-Bilt quite yet.

Last night, I opened my bedroom window hoping for a breath of the freshness of Spring (like when your Mom hung a mobile of Irish Spring soap bars over your crib). (HaHaHa.  You thought I wouldn't tell.)  You know how comforting that woodstove-smoke smell is drifting over from the neighbors in January?  It's a spit in the face from Mother Nature on the 5th of May.

Got to go for a run through the woods today.  Running through the woods on a crisp Fall day with the musk of freshly fallen leaves rising crushed beneath my feet always brings up memories of my glory days.  Wait.  Right stimulus, wrong season.

I sure hope they're enjoying a nice lingering summer down Chile way.

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter