where the writers are
Birth Trees

What is it about rain?  I wake up, extract my ear plugs (there was a party at the student dorm across the street last night) and bliss!  it's pouring rain.  Now, three-quarters of an hour and two cups of tea later, it is still pouring. I watch drops pelt the roof of the carports, sparkly, they cling to the dry leaves and new catkins of the birch (I wrote birth) trees outside my window, but best is the sound on the roof overhead. I am Noah, snug in my well-caulked ark.

Warmth and security and an excuse to stay in bed and read.  A guilty pleasure (yet another).  It's unconscious, HC would tell me.  You need to get to the roots of it.  Well, I'm (re) reading Freud for my seminar, so maybe I will.  

It's like the telephone.  Some people love their phones.  Not me ("It's unconscious," HC clucks, on her phone, by now almost a character in her tales. ) My father used to say, "I'm always afraid that when I pick up there will be someone there," so he hardly ever picked up, and if he did, as soon as my mother came on the line, he replaced his receiver in its cradle (cradle!).

Did I mention my lemon tree--bush, rather?  It's in front of one of the condos on the other side of the complex, and has slightly egg-yolk-colored lemons, sweeter and thinner-skinned than the store-bought kind.  Every day I reach my hand into the bush and snitch one or two.  I stash them in the pocket of my down jacket (January sales in The Hague, circa 1996), where I scrape skin off with my thumbnail, and sniff.  More guilty pleasure.

Don't you love that sound? I needle my husband, who is a native of Marseille.  Already in the middle of the New York Times, he mumbles something ungracious.