Our monsoons have gone into hiding. For anyone unfamiliar with this phenomenon, it’s the time of year when the western skies usually cry over us with mercy. Giant teardrops slice through the UV rays, cooling our skin from the constant high-temp bake.
How we miss our summer friend. Insidedom under the ceiling fan is interesting for only so long. How does one stay entertained within 1500 square feet?
The Son has acquired an addiction to Garfield, reading and rereading old Garfield books, telling anyone who listens how funny it is when Odie gets kicked off the table. We have watched the same library DVD of Garfield’s holidays for the last four days. BTW, it’s Christmas on the farm again. It doesn’t seem to rain there either.
The Daughter has decided she’s a chef now, and will attempt to cook anything she sees on TV. A few mornings ago, I woke to a malodorous cloud of burned egg. “It’s French toast, Mommy. But I couldn’t remember anything but eggs and bread.” And how to take a skillet full of egg off the burner. Too hot to air out the house too. It was 1500 square feet of nasal misery—all day.
Evenings are nice though—at least up high like we are. The skies blow cool kisses—just enough to air out foul smells, and release us from our walled confinement.
But I miss the rain (and the ten drops we got this morning does not qualify as a monsoon), and hope to feel its mercy upon my face before summer ends. Just the smell of it reminds me of childhood days, when a friend and I would curl up inside his screened-in porch and watch the storms roll in with hands full of popcorn and plastic cups of Kool-Aid. Rain is a wonder, a blessing, and downright good entertainment for those who grew up with eyes fixed on the skies rather than on a screen.
May our floors soon be covered in muddy footprints. Blessings for your Monday.