Tag: rain

Drip drip

May 13th, 2025

The meloncholies have wormed in. Clouds settled in on Sunday. Rain fell all day yesterday. Today is the third gray day in a row. Greens in the garden are electric against the dark sky, and I keep telling myself the rain slakes the thirst of my plants, and that they’ll burst with new leaves and flowers after all this wet, but I personally need the sun to come out. I’ve realized that I’m okay with cold weather, but I don’t handle grey, flat light well at all. I need the gold of sunshine.

Yesterday I had a great swim and watched some of the Giro d’Italia while I lift weights in our basement. After that, though, I spent the rest of the day on the couch finishing The Iliad and napping while rain dripped outside. I decided I like The Odyssey better. The Iliad is tediously repetitive; it could have been about half as long as it is. “And Zeus got pissed, and his vanity was wounded, and then Athena got mad, and so did Hera, and then Poseidon didn’t want to be left out, so he stirred shit up, too, and then they all said, ‘We don’t meddle in human affairs,’ even though that’s all they do, and then Hector killed such and such, and such and such, when his spear pierced them next to the nipple.” It frequently reminded me of all the begats in the Bible, except listing all the kills, and all the whining of the gods and men, and all the boats the Greeks brought. And then repeating that all over and over again, except the enumeration of the Greeks’ boats, that was only in the beginning.

It’s possible The Iliad contributed to my meloncholy. I’ll find something more my taste to read next.

I came to a café today to get out of the house so I’m not just looking out the window waiting for the rain to stop. I didn’t think I’d feel like blogging, but I brought my laptop just in case. The hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of crockery, and the vibrant sound of laughter and conversation inspired me to get it out and check the prompts in my blog’s dashboard to see if any of them would spark anything. And here I am, blogging. Blogging often makes me feel better.

Plus the caffeine is kicking in. The caffeine is definitely helping perk me up. As did the delicious scone. My taste buds are satisfied, and it’s lively in here with lots of people eating breakfast and chatting with each other. That all feels good.

After this, I’m going to take myself on a date to an antique shop, just for something fun and different, and then take my husband on a lunch date. Maybe all of that will burn off the grey drizzles I’m feeling. If not, I’ll just ride them out and know they’ll eventually end, as rainy days and cold weather generally do.

Daily writing prompt
How do you feel about cold weather?
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Ferry ride to Vestmannaeyjar

June 5th, 2022

Our trip to Iceland was a graduation gift to our son, so while we were there, we wanted to make sure he got to see and do all the things he was hoping for when he selected Iceland as our destination. When he realized we’d have the opportunity to see puffins, that’s the thing he wanted most to do.

We saw puffins on our side trip to the black sand beach, and after some research, my husband discovered that the jagged rocks we could see way off in the distance from our Airbnb are home to one of the largest Atlantic puffin colonies in the world: Vestmannaeyjar – Westman Islands. And! There was a ferry to the islands only a half hour away from our house.

We booked tickets for the four of us for the next day. The main island, Heimaey, is only about 5 square miles, and I was tempted to just explore on foot. Luckily, after looking at the weather forecast, my husband booked a ticket to take our car on the ferry too. I would come to thank him over and over for that decision during the 5 hours we were on the island.

Up until our island day, we had spectacular weather: sunny and warm enough to sometimes not wear a fleece or hat or windbreaker. On this day, though, the forecast was more dreary. Rain and drizzle, wind, and cooler temperatures. On deck on the ferry, the wind cut right through you, the sky was steel, and the ocean was a frigid-looking dark glacial blue. As we approached, the islands were spectacular to behold, especially cloaked in fog and mist. The fog and mist made them difficult to photograph; my pictures don’t do their majesty justice.

Approach to Vestmannaeyjar from the ferry

Cliffs of Vestmannaeyjar from the water

More cliffs of Vestmannaeyjar

Boat tucked out of the weather in the opening of a cave

We were already cold when we landed, so we headed directly to a café for coffee and croissants (and pretzels and fried dough). Then we drove across the island to see the bajillions of puffins we were promised.

When we arrived at the puffin nesting, the wind and rain were blowing sideways. Also, we were in a cloud. And it was cold. And wet. We started off on an upward trail that headed deeper into the mist and harder into the wind, and proceeded to get drenched. We had every bit of our gear on — sweaters, fleeces, wool socks, wool hats, raincoats — and still we were cold and wet. “Uhh, I think there’s snow mixed in with the rain, Mom.” Maybe? I couldn’t see through my droplet-covered glasses, but it sure felt cold enough.

We saw no puffins; it’s hard to see down onto a cliff face when you’re on the land directly above it. The wind was strong enough and the footing dicey enough that getting too close to the edge of a 600 foot drop onto wave-splashed rocks wasn’t something any of us felt good about. We turned around, dripping wet, and walked a short path to a small building that looked like bathrooms was perched on the cliff’s edge. We went inside, where the cold wind blew through the cracks, and saw that it was a puffin-viewing room. From there, we did see puffins on a facing cliff below us, but they were far away and the windows were milky and hard to see through. That was as close as we were going to get to puffins.

Five minutes into our five hours on the islands and we were cold, wet, and had done the thing we came to do. But! We saw sheep on the trails. Sheep who did hang out at the cliffs’ edges — right up on the edge — and who bleated at us when we walked by.

I guess the best grass is where you can let your butt hang off the edge

Lambs 😍

Windy sheep

With the weather as it was, none of us with rain pants, all of us soaked and shivering, we got back in the car, cranked up the heat, and drove around the island and hoped for the rain to stop. About a half hour later, we parked down at the black sand beach below the cliffs to see if we could see anything from there.

Black sand formation – so cool

Hillside where I saw puffins from the beach

As close to the edge as I was willing to get

We walked out onto the windy beach, where I saw puffins up on the grassy hill nearby. The kids opted to go back to the shelter of the car; I hiked up the hill for a closer look. I did get to see a few puffins flying around and landing on the grass. I didn’t get photographs on this trip. The puffins were still a bit far away — they were more savvy about flying away when people got close than the ones we saw on the main island of Iceland the day before — but it was fun to watch them fly. They’re comical; they look like tiny penguins and don’t look like they should be able to lift off into the air.

After the beach, I was cold and wet enough that I also took shelter in the car. The mist and rain made it hard to see anything even if we could have seen out through the fog on the windows. Despite the fact that we saw more puffins up close on our pleasant, dry day at black sand beach where we weren’t trapped on an island in sopping wet clothes for multiple hours, the trip wasn’t a complete bust. Seeing those rocky, green-topped islands reach up out of the ocean was pretty awe inspiring, and we all loved seeing (and hearing) the sheep up close, hanging out on grassy clifftops against a backdrop of the northern Atlantic far below us. I’d love to go back on a dry day.
Rainy day

March 23rd, 2022

I’m sitting in Bollo’s, the coziest coffee shop in Blacksburg. It’s small and cramped, and filled with sounds of clattering crockery, hissing steam, and the barista asking, “Your regular?” to half the people who walk up to the counter. Bollo’s is where writers come to write, students come to study, and friends come to chat about their other friend who’s trying to get in shape for backpacking so filled his daypack with small, hardwood logs on a recent hike. “What I wonder is why he didn’t fill it with something useful, like maybe all of our food and water,” said one of them, and they all laughed.

I’ve gotten to a stopping point in the garden. All the mulch is spread, and my body needs a day off from physical exertion. I am thrilled to have the excuse of a rainy day to take a break. I took this whole week off to take care of spring garden chores — pruning, mulching, cutting back the wild grass patch, clearing out low branches that I have to duck under and that scratch my face when I mow, taking all the old brush to the curb for the town’s spring cleanup — but it’s only Wednesday, and the rain has driven me inside. Since I can’t garden, I decided to treat today like a real vacation day. What would I do if I were somewhere else for vacation and not at home?

I’d find a coffee shop and treat myself to a baked treat and cup of coffee someone else made.

So here I am, my umbrella dripping at my feet, and my notebook, cappuccino, and blackberry scone spread before me on a tiny square cafe table that is sturdy and does not wobble. Bollo’s window looks out on a street that’s been closed to motor traffic since the pandemic began. Sectioned off by long aluminum planters, black iron cafe tables drip where cars used to drive. Inside the cafe, a long, backed bench runs along the window, with four small tables spaced in front of it. The other solo patrons at the tiny tables on either side of me sit on the bench with their backs to the outside. I sit in a chair facing the window instead. I like to watch the rain splash and the people walk by, one hand shoved in a pocket and the other holding an umbrella.

The bell on the door jingles every couple minutes. Once inside the dry cafe, people stop immediately at the bakery case filled with scones, muffins, and round domes of freshly baked bread, just like I did. I like listening to them decide which treat to get. I like the sounds of spoons clinking, newspapers rustling, and voices murmuring.

But my plate now only has crumbs on it, and I’ve drunk the last of my cappuccino froth.

Outside, the cherries are starting to blossom in soft pink, the daffodils nod bright yellow in the rain, and I wonder what other new colors might be emerging right now. I’ve got an umbrella. Virginia Tech campus is across the street from where I sit, and college campuses always have pretty landscaping. When I’m out of town, I like to walk, so I’ll give my table up and head out into the rain.
Deck season

May 30th, 2021

Rain lands heavy outside with the sound of a forest waterfall. Rainwater streams from gutters. Drops stipple the surface of our neighbor’s pool and rattle oak leaves with a patter like rain on a nylon tent.

Our windows are open again after several days with the house sealed up and the air conditioning on. On my weekday lunch breaks, I climb up on the high wooden table on our back deck to eat. The tabletop is flush with the railing, and the table sits in the corner of the deck; my husband sets plates of salmon and burgers on it when he grills in the evenings. At lunch, I sit on it and dangle my legs over the second story rail.

On last week’s lunch breaks I watched a monarch butterfly drift among the milkweeds I planted for their caterpillars. The occasional yellow or black swallowtail flitted up and down the beds. In May and early June, the butterflies seem to fly reconnoissance. I rarely see them stop to drink; they check the lay of the land, make note of the plants we have, then move on. In late June, they begin to linger. In July and August they drink deeply from cone flowers, shasta daisies, zinnias, milkweed. I watch them and photograph them; they’re so deep in their nectar, they barely notice me. Then they lay eggs on the host plants I planted for them: rue, dill, milkweed, spicebush. Our caterpillar nursery.

This is what I dream about all winter: summer dresses, warm sun on my back, and bucket hat on my head while I hang my feet 20 feet above green grass to watch butterflies. That time is finally here. During the week, on my lunch break, sweat drips down my back. Ice clinks in my water bottle. Insects whir. I love every second of it.

No sweat drips down my back right now. In fact, a cool breeze blows through the open window. I wear a red and blue flannel shirt to keep me warm. The grass has already begun to crisp after the dry week of heat, but our beds are full of color. I am amazed by how green the garden is when only a few weeks ago it was brown and bare. We’ve got plenty of cover for butterflies to shelter in from the rain; the beds are lush with green stems and broad leaves to hide among. And the flowers. The flowers! The flowers look like we flung a bag of skittles across the landscape: lemon yarrow crowns, grape salvia spikes, raspberry roses.

Unlike late fall and early winter, when rain depresses me, in the emerald green of almost-June, I am refreshed by it. The waterfall patter soothes me as I imagine the plants drinking it up.

Tomorrow, Monday, the sun will return, and with it, warmth. I’ll be back in short sleeves and bare feet. I already look forward to my lunch break, when I can sit outside and dangle my toes. I am in my season.
Toes Like Telltale Crocuses

March 18th, 2013

Last weekend, when the sun finally shone bright after weeks behind steel clouds, and the air was warm enough for short sleeves, our daughter and I waited on the front stoop for Grandma and the cousins to arrive. The sun was like warm honey on our skin, and for the first time since October, I peeled my socks off. I wiggled my naked toes in the yellow light and realized, my toes are out!

“Let’s paint our toenails,” I said. “You want to?”

We sat on the concrete steps and clipped and buffed and listened to the clink of glass polish bottles as we explored the bright pink cosmetic bag of color. I found a red like a Corazon rose, propped my right foot beneath me, and painted new life onto my toenails.

Two days later, winter returned. My toes went back into their socks, their electric happiness hidden, like a surprise party waiting for the honoree to arrive. At the end of the week, our guests departed, bundled against the cold.

When Saturday came around again, so did the sun. We opened the house back up to let another day of warmth inside, and the kids asked to take a walk to the duck pond. After telling them, “In a minute” for about an hour, we finally threw on flip flops and told them to grab their ball. We walked out the door to dark grey clouds looming, shrugged our shoulders, and went anyway.

A huge raindrop splatted on my cheek as we arrived at the pond. Five minutes later, the clouds burst, and I ran under the gazebo with my go-cup of wine. The wind blew rain in sheets across the pond, and when thunder boomed, the kids and their dad ran laughing to the shelter. Our teeth chattered as the temperature dropped, and our son said, “Can we go home now?”

“Uhhhh, I’m not leaving in this.” My husband gestured to the torrents of rain coming down. “You can go if you want.”

Our son took his ball and stepped out into the downpour, and a few seconds later, our daughter followed. Soon they disappeared up the hill towards home, while their dad and I shivered under the gazebo, the wind blowing spray onto us despite the roof over our heads. When it finally seemed to let up, I said, “You wanna make a run for it?”

We walked out into the now light shower, hunching our shoulders against the chill. Thunder boomed, a new deluge began, and we ran in the rain, our squeaky flip-flops splashing, our heads down. My red lacquered toes flashed bright against the wet gray sidewalk.

My husband shouted, “I like your toenails!”

And we smiled at their fun color in the spring rain.