Zingo Netty it’s raining cats and dogs in Florida. The locals call it big rain. The down pour is fast and furious. Drain pipes on the sides of the house empty with the intensity of a water hydrant being flushed. The wet and windy August days are accompanied by lightning and thunder so severe, the clap sounded like a gun shot, and I jumped off the couch.

Our phone has not rung, unless you count nuisance calls. Nobody has anything new to say. How many times can we complain; the Democrats hate Republicans and vice versa, or bemoan fake news?

  I watched a PBS program, Searching for the Truth in the Age of Misinformation. They concluded fake news is real but previously labeled propaganda because a twist is added to convince the audience to adapt a specific view.

Then there is the pandemic. Today’s newspaper included a police report about two eighty-year-old men who got into a physical altercation in the grocery store. Someone was going the wrong way in the aisle. The article didn’t mention social distancing or if face masks were ripped off.

I am taking solace in watching TV, although there is not much to watch. Martha Knows Best is enjoyable. Martha Stewart has an 150 acre farm, with horses, goats, chickens and peacocks. She is missing one of her 17 peacocks and offering a $500 reward to find the bird. Martha is committed to gardening and offers many how to tips. I’m not much of a gardener. The weather is too hot, the deer too numerous, and the soil is sand, all sand. The best I can do is grow celery in water. Once it has roots I will plant in a pot.

. . . .Just saying

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The Smell of Rain


Photo by Nikx

The Smell of Rain

Aging & Attitude

Steel metal colored clouds consume the sky and travel my way. The sun disappears behind them, and  the sky turns dark.

Lightning cracks the sky and the sound pierces my ears.

The rain falls heavily, straight down and creates a blur, like Niagara Falls, a sheet of rain cascades off the roof gutters and I recall  standing on “The Maid of the Mist” weathering the streams of water surrounded by rock.

The pinging rain is musical and comforting.

Floridians call it “big rain,” and pull to the side of the road the visibility is so poor.  It is not a monsoon, a season of precipitation, although the rain in April and May seems endless.

This daytime rain smells sweet.

A smell so fragile I inhale deeply to guess its fragrance. It is clean and crisp like mountain air but not strong. It is not vanilla, nor any other spice and less subtle than an herb.

Childhood memories; searching for a four-leaf clover, cartwheels, and skipping home to snack on Wonder bread, buttered and sugared, permeate my mind.

Coolness surrounds my shoulders and I close my eyes to relish the moment and the smell of rain, but cannot capture words.

What do you think rain smells like?