So, this past August we do a rain dance in Sacramento, and a few months later on the other side of the continent, the skies open up and water pours down on us like five hundred pissing cows. Okay, I don’t mean to be crass. It’s a French idiom and I am sure it sounds much more romantic en Français — but either way, everyone knows cows are a staple of the Vermont landscape, so the metaphor felt like a perfect fit.
It has been mostly cloudy or rainy, or both, for a couple of weeks now. The locals are starting to get grumpy. I am reminded of how it gets around here in April or early May, when a blizzard decides to dump several feet of new snow on the trees just to teach them a lesson about daring to even think about budding out. Vermonters are hardy stock, don’t get me wrong, not prone to complaining about the weather much, but even the most stalwart of creatures could use a little shot of serotonin now and then. My California friends (and recipients of endless sun) might be nodding their heads right now and muttering, “Told ya so,” but I’m not complaining. Honest. We still love it here.
Earlier this afternoon, as a gentle rain began to fall, the poodly boys and I got ourselves all cuddled up on the trundle in the writer’s cabin to do some reading (yes, our dogs can read, and they just can’t put The Call of the Wild down), maybe do some meditation (have you ever seen poodles in the lotus position?), and also write this blog post (which I am doing solo, since neither of them ever learned to type). Ahhh. Very sweet and atmospheric. Eric headed down to his “Rivertine Project” (an ongoing battle to keep a stream in our woods flowing) as well as to begin another project to forge a new path for us to walk together through the woods. My husband finds any activity that involves being in the woods a thrill, second only maybe to any activity that involves being in the garden. (Napping after activities in the woods and/or garden would be a close third.) The boys and I were all settled in when the rain began to come down in earnest. I decided a picture for the blog was in order, so I opened my cabin door to take a few shots of leaves flying around and trees thrashing about like they were made of spaghetti, when a particularly violent gust nearly blew the cabin door off — à la that scene with Auntie Em in the Wizard of Oz. (I almost screamed, “Doro-THEE!!“) The poodles’ eyes bugged out of their heads like in the cartoons, and I said, “Boys, we may not be in Kansas, but we ARE in the writer’s cabin in Vermont, and that means we have to pack up as soon as possible and vamoose our butts back to the house.” Eric had told me just the other day that I should not stay in the cabin during a bad storm — the cabin is tiny and many of the trees surrounding it are, well, NOT tiny, making the house a much safer shelter from the storm. So, as the wind whistled around us like a locomotive in a cyclone, I repacked my back pack, donned my jacket and boots, collected my tea cup and purse, and the boys and I made a run for it. The rain was coming down in sheets, but I didn’t bother opening my umbrella because all I could picture was being carried away in the storm or arriving to the house with an inside-out umbrella. It is perhaps fifty steps from the cabin to the house, but by the time we got to the mudroom, we looked like we had just swum the English Channel. Once we were out of our wet clothes (yes, our dogs wear clothes) and were dry and warm by the fire, it was time to do one of the things I am particularly good at — worry about Eric. After all, he was still out in the middle of the woods surrounded by trees of all sizes (mostly bigger than he is) in a freak squall. But he made it home about fifteen minutes later, soaking wet from head to toe. He immediately stripped and took a shower — I guess to rinse off all that water.
We’re both hunkered in the living room now on our computers — Eric is doing some research on creating the most phenomenal web training in the world so we can limit our work travel even more (is the word “retire” creeping its way into our not-so-distant future?), and I am in my comfy chair near the wood stove, writing this post. The rain has eased, but it’s still soggy, dark and dreary outside.
And like I said, we love it.
Here are a handful of the fifty (million) reasons why:
The views…
…cows…
…pumpkins…
…farm stands that put out little cash boxes and use the honor system…
…mackerel skies…
…the view out my window down Route 232…
…well-clothed, driveway-hikin’ poodles…
I love your word pictures! It really has been a bit dreary for the last couple of weeks in New England, though in our neck of the Connecticut woods, we have had a few breaks – like yesterday, low breezes, 55+ temps and sunshine on the gorgeous autumn leaves – so much so, our dogs got a well-deserved break at Black Rock State Park 5 minutes down the road from us. I like the way Eric is thinking – “retirement” really isn’t a dirty word – and you will come to appreciate it as much as I have, I’m sure. Keep writing for us, Patti – we share in your newfound joy in the Vermont woods!
Thanks, Maureen! We don’t think retirement is a dirty word at all, and the work we still do (for about 15 weeks out of the year) is for ourselves, so can’t complain about that! But no matter what, we will probably never retire in the conventional sense of the word. We’ll always be working and planning and creating, whether it be a book, a sugar house, a tai chi studio, a raised bed, a B&B writer’s retreat or just a trail through the woods.
Thank you for transporting me to your cabin in the woods. I love sitting in my sunny office in California, and “visiting” you and your lovely rain. I enjoyed every moment! Thank you for sharing!
PS. Your dogs are so smart!
Yes, my dear Roo, our dogs have Ph.Ds.
Madam wordsmith:
As usual you have crafted a
“picture perfect” tale with keen observation and colorful humor. I love it. Always wonderful to
hear about and see the place that will forever remain dear to my heart, my old hood.
Thanks!!!!! xoxo
I take “Madam wordsmith” as very high praise, coming from the grand pooh-bah of wordsmiths. Thank you, Ms. Meiklejohn.
And that is why you have earned my eternal admiration, my dear friend! You and your hubby are truly inspiring!
Thank you, Mo!
Your newest ‘read’ was a mooooarvelous diversion! Keep following that yellow, (Maple leaf)🍁, road, Dorothy. Your readers are anxiously waiting for the next installment.
Thank you, Connie! “We’re off to see the blizzard…”
😁😂🤣😄😃
Great description of a New England squall and why fireplaces are essential in New England, providing the cozy contrast! I love that you have a writer’s cabin, and that Eric loves to make paths in the woods. Your writing transports me to my original home country and triggers wonderful memories.
I am honored to provide the transportation!
After four and a half years in Oregon, I’ve developed a revisionist view of rain. When we first moved here, I was a bit anxious about how well I could adjust to what people call “the rainy season.” For one thing, it’s longer than a season, as it begins somewhere in October and doesn’t really peter out until sometime in May. But it’s different than in other places I’ve lived. Most of the time it just comes and goes in quiet, almost delicate sheets. Thunderstorms are rare enough to be startling. The kind of serious, angry downpours I know from Texas and Michigan are infrequent. So, you can just settle into it, and consider it something that makes being inside cozy. For months. I suppose, it’s the closest you can come to the quiet of a New England snowfall; but, of course, it’s not even close to that. I look forward to your sharing that when it comes.
Gentle rain is soothing and especially atmospheric when you are reading and having tea or a glass of wine by a warm fire. Snowfall is like that, too. It was partly sunny yesterday and as we drove home from the co-op I told Eric how welcome the change was — and the key word here is “change.” Yes, we were ready for some sun after a couple of weeks of almost constant clouds and rain. But unlike a huge portion of the population, I don’t want sunny-all-the-time, either. That’s a big part of what didn’t resonate for me in Southern California. It’s the seasonal, as well as the almost daily (and sometimes hourly), dramatic changes in weather that we love.
I totally agree about the beauty of seasons and changes in weather. I remember remarking to you many years ago while I was visiting you that I wondered how people who lived in southern California their whole lives even appreciated the beautiful weather, because it was so constant. And, in Texas, it was really just two seasons, with brief transitions that passed for spring and fall. I’d much rather have four distinct seasons, each of their own length. That was one of the things I really valued about living in Michigan. Northwest Oregon is really kind of a hybrid — there are essentially two seasons — the rainy season and the sunny season — and yet there is also a spring that goes on for several months and a fall that goes on for a couple of months. I suppose the missing ingredient of snowfall on a regular basis in winter (except, of course, if you live at a higher elevation here) is what still makes it distinct from a northern climate elsewhere.
Ӏ like this blog so much, sаvrd to favorites. “Respect for the fragility and importance of an individual life is still the mark of an educated man.” bу Norman Couѕins.