We had rain all afternoon and all night, and now, at 6 a.m., a light drizzle is still falling. Before this round started, I pulled out the bolting spinach, sowed fennel, beets, and green onions in its place, and transplanted some cabbage, chard, and zinnia seedlings. It's been hard, with so much dryness, to transplant safely . . . too much root shock without adequate, steady moisture. So I'm really grateful for this three-day extravaganza.
And we've been busy! Yesterday afternoon the three of us put on our raincoats and walked over to Lucy's new apartment for drinks and cat fun, and then she walked back with us for dinner at our house. Seeing friends has been a delight . . . hugging dear Lucy goodbye, whom I've loved since she was two years old: the sweetness of these reunions is rich.
I think today will be quieter. I'll tweak the essay draft I wrote yesterday morning, and probably, as the rain subsides, I'll do a little weeding in the Hill Country. Tom is spending his rainy hours constructing a bench for the backyard out of scraps of decking, and Paul has been appearing and disappearing--upstairs, then downstairs--half-invisible, half-omnipresent.
A set of ominous cones has appeared along the cross-street facing my house, with signs announcing parking bans till Friday. So tomorrow morning I expect an onslaught of jackhammers and dump trucks: a week of sonic torture . . . maybe more than a week, if they move on to the section directly in front of the house.
But for today, at least, we still have birdsong.