Today, then, can simply be Saturday -- a guilty little pleasure.
Chattering news reports have confirmed the details of what we already new by experience: we have been bordering on drought conditions. That's why the garden hose has been a long but limiting tether these past weeks. Rainfall, at this point in the month, is more than two inches behind. The lawn is browning; the soil cracking; the crop, despite my daily ministrations, gasping. As a result, my days have predictably followed the routine of hose and sprayer, followed by weeding by the buckets full. The weeds, as it turns out, flourish regardless of rain.
Yesterday afternoon then, the garden chores completed followed by a shower and some lunch, I had settled down in my office to shape some words into sentences when the sky darkened and thunder interrupted the silence. Rain had finally been predicted but I had rolled my eyes and taken matters into my own hands. But drops began to fall despite my pessimism.
More drops.
Lots of drops.
Strong winds swept in heavy rains.
The clatter continued for several minutes; the winds calmed but the rain continued several minutes more. Then quiet, and the blue daylight reappeared. I was grateful for the interruption, but went on about my typing. Again, however, the sky darkened and again the rains fell. The pattern repeated itself throughout this latter part of the afternoon until by early evening -- a scant two hours after it had begun -- over 2 inches had fallen. I could almost hear the cracked earth relax; could feel the roots and stems drink in and flex their suppled selves; could almost see the grasses greening.
More rain is predicted for today, though I'll believe it when I see it. In the meantime the garden is slaked for the day. Remembering a time when Saturdays were a leisurely reprieve from the busier days that surrounded them I opted to resurrect the rubric and enjoy the sabbath. Who knows when it may happen again?
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