Three (or four, or five . . . I lost count) 100-degree days in a row. Even the dogs would begin the u-turn back toward the air-conditioned house, just a few minutes into their normally 10 minute-plus long walks.
But, today, TODAY . . .
we had a nice, morning rain. It began as a heavy downpour - a parental pounding on the roof, prematurely waking me before the alarm, before settling down into a steady rhythm. It rained for several hours, turning all of the dips and ruts in the country, gravel and dirt road into tiny rivers and ponds. This made driving Logan to school a bit more of an adventure, maneuvering the car this way and that to avoid all of the camouflaged potholes. During the ride back home, I pressed the buttons on the radio, until I found the right one. Something about the rain always makes me go back to my roots, and the desire to listen to classical music.
On my way home is the local vegetable stand. Every Thursday, I stop by to pick-up my prepaid allotment of farm fresh vegetables and fruits. This has become my favorite kind of shopping. By the time I arrive, the symphony of rain has come to an end, giving way to whimsical, white clouds and an iridescent blue sky.
The stand is more of a market - roof covered walls, with openings on three sides. And, as I am greeted by the reds and yellows and greens of tomatoes, squash, and peppers; watermelon, cucumbers, and basil, there is an incredible cross-breeze blowing through - a breeze so pleasant that it makes you stop what you are doing, breathe it in, and envelope it, as if it's the best feeling you've experienced in a long, long time.
After filling my bag with all of the wonderful colors and scents, shapes and textures, I continue down the road toward home. Just before turning into the little hamlet where I live, I pause for a mother deer and her two fawns. They nervously stare for a long moment, before safely tucking themselves back into the tree-line, from where they came.
Minutes later, the dogs greet me at home with their usual enthusiasm - as if I have been gone for days, not just hours. "Hola, mis perritos! Como estas?" I say to them. I have been brushing up on my Spanish skills, this summer, and trying to put them to practice. The dogs are a forgiving audience.
I lay my bag full of goodies on the table and, like a child at Halloween, begin to plan and prioritize my loot. It will all get eaten, but the corn, red peppers, onions, and cilantro will be just perfect for a salad to go with the local sausages, thawing out in the fridge. I just love it when a meal comes together, as if the meal chooses me, not the other way around.
After I finish sorting and organizing, I take the dogs for a walk. With the temperature much more comfortable and pleasant, I would have thought the dogs would be more energetic, but Max, especially, stood, still as a statue, and lifted his nose into the air. It was as if he was taking in the same experience as I did, when I was standing inside the market. "Are you catching a good scent, Max?" I asked (in English - I haven't learned that in Spanish, yet). He seemed to be smiling, and answered with a wag of his tail. I kept the dogs outside a little longer than usual, before going inside to begin cooking the corn.
