It is Sunday noon and I am sitting on a damp cushioned chair on my screen porch. Birds are calling across the ravine as a hard rain falls over the garden on the other side of the screens. This porch is a magnificent place to be during a rain storm, albeit a bit chilly and wet. I like the wind and the thunder and the sound of water running through the gutters to the ground.
I've just wrapped the end of the vintage painted metal bed in plastic. It won't stop the rust that has already destroyed the small intricate landscapes that were the reason I brought this bed home with me from Warrenton two years ago. It's not surprising that after two years of exposure to all kinds of weather that the miniature landscapes are caked with rust. I did not have the foresight to put a coat of clear varnish over the metal before making the bed an integral part of the porch. Perhaps this spring, I will take on the task, belatedly?
The bed and a circle of chairs have become very comfortable places from which survey the garden's greenness, feel the air and watch the night.
Now, having photographed the rain - and written about it - I am ready to work. Today, that means transcribing notes from assorted yellow legal pads - all in preparation for writing part two of the memoir begun in a piece for Coping With Transition: Men, Money, Mothers and Magic. There is a pretty big stack of those yellow tablets. As my mom used to say, "You'd better get crackin'."
I could have stayed inside today with those yellow tablets, but I ventured out to the screen porch with them. At this moment, it is the place to be.