Thunder in the hills...

As I type, I can hear the thunder... and if I stand on the porch, the smell of rain is in the air. I used to think my dad was nuts when he told me he could "smell the rain coming."  As I've gotten older, I can understand just what he was talking about... you really can smell the rain, and smell the scent of the earth... if you're paying enough attention.

And isn't that the most important part of being alive.... you've got to be attentive. To every little blessed thing, no matter how insignificant you think it may be.

We haven't had rain in nearly two months now, but we did have a little rain shower yesterday afternoon, and today is turning out to be a genuinely rain-soaked day, complete with sound effects.

Our handyman called earlier this morning, asking if he could come by to work today... my husband checked the weather web-site, told him about the oncoming rain and suggested he come work tomorrow instead. No sooner had my husband said goodbye to R, and we heard the first clap of thunder. No doubt, on the other side of town, R heard it also. Timing is everything.

I've spent the morning looking through photographs that my husband took during our trip to England.... all those gardens with perfectly sculpted hedges and blooming flowers, ancient stone mills and cottages, story-book villages filled with tiny shops (and bookshops!), thousand-year-old cathedrals filled with priceless treasures, works of art, and the remains of the British Royals. So hard to believe that we were 'across the pond' not once, but twice, and now, both trips are over.  "Over" in reality, but still on-going in spirit.

Yesterday was our weekly "Waldorf Wednesday" tea.... and even more special and fun because we all hadn't met for the the past two weeks, what with everyone's summer and travel schedule. I sat there at the dining room table yesterday, teapot filled with English tea, and thought of the tea and scones in The Cotswolds.  I will have to make scones again... my recipe is good, but not quite the same as those served in England. Maybe English scones are like New York bagels... they just cannot be duplicated outside of their natural habitat.

Oh well. The thunder continues and it has started to rain again. I should turn off this laptop before a bolt of lightning or a clap of thunder shuts it down for me, which would provoke me to say words not entirely in The Queen's Book of Proper English Grammar.