Thursday, April 11, 2013


It's raining.


I'll be excited to get some grass growing so that every storm doesn't make the back yard into a giant mud puddle.  There's standing water everywhere someone has stepped or there's the slightest shallow spot.  This red clay soil just doesn't drain.

And then the dogs, which we pick up day after tomorrow, will bring in loads of mud...

The grass that was seeded right before we closed on buying the house is starting to come in.  I'm kind of surprised at how much is coming up after this much time.  I thought maybe it had all been washed away or drowned in the rains about 10 days ago or been blown off in the wind before the rains or that the multitude of birds and squirrels had found it a tasty little munchie.  It's still a little sparse but maybe there's more hope for it than I had thought.

Just before dark tonight it was raining so hard it looked like fog out through our woods.  I remarked to a friend that it was the perfect setting for a horror movie.  She doesn't like scary stuff at all so she didn't find that idea amusing.  Still, I was sort of mesmerized by the hazy look in all those trees that are just greening up.  I wish there would have been enough light to have taken a photo but it was truly right on the edge of nightfall.

It seems like it's been raining a lot the last few weeks here in northern Georgia.  Maybe rain is normal for Spring in the South (it's my first Spring here so I don't know) but these dark threatening skies and damp cold are exactly the kind of weather that make me want to climb back into bed and huddle under the covers and a get lost in the fanciful imaginings of a good book instead of venturing out into all the things the world is bidding me to do.

The folks over at the Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield have hinted before that the mist and fog makes for some great pictures on the Mountain.  I can imagine that it is even more hauntingly beautiful since I get distracted every time we drive through there wondering what tales those trees would tell if they could speak.  What would they say about those young men who sought the promise of adventure in war?  What would they tell of sheltering men, scared and hungry and cold and far from home's comfort, in their limbs?  Or maybe they'd whisper otherwise forgotten last words in a reverent awe that can only be born from watching men die?  Or perhaps even of relief and overwhelming joy in long anticipated homecomings at one of the little farm sites?

Maybe I should write a novel.

Or, maybe I'm just overly sentimental and caught up in mood-fitting old song lyrics today, too.
See the clouds they're giving life below
In colors that the canvas cannot show;
Keeping secrets no one else could know
For I'm the one who told them so.
David Gates, from Clouds & Rain Suite

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