Essay — Rain

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It’s raining, it’s pouring, and I’m smiling because this week I won’t have to water my plants. Without any additional help from me, Carpenter Country is green, thriving, and alive with color.

Crepe myrtles, knockout roses, marigolds, begonias, and painted ladies vie for space in flowerbeds lush with trailing sweet potato vines.

And the flowers aren’t the only thing brightening the landscape.

Between showers, the bluebirds build a nest in what, on clear days, I call the sun-baked birdhouse. Which means they know most of July will be overcast and cool–otherwise their eggs will fry instead of hatch.

Meanwhile, the cardinals, ablaze in bright red, hunker down in the sunflower patch feasting on seeds. My friendly black crow stops by for a handout, Alvin, the gray squirrel, races up a tree, and to complete the show, two rabbits do the bunny hop in the wet grass.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I sat on my Mom’s front porch with the guy who shares my space and watched the rain come down in buckets. On the sixth day of a drenching that flooded the streets, I talked him into leaving Florida and moving to Wyoming—where I spent seven months shoveling snow and wondering why I ever left the Sunshine State.

Occasionally, Florida’s downpours make me feel like I’m living under Niagara Falls, but there’s no place I’d rather call home—

—even when the weather gets hot and steamy and I need to drag the garden hose around.


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We write. Visit us in Carpenter Country, a magical place that, like our stories, is unreal but not untrue.

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