where the writers are
The Rain Came

Steady drumming sheets attacked. The street went black and the trees danced with drops. I walked home through it in my hiking shorts, fleece jacket and baseball cap, a relic from 1995, enjoying the streams covering me, rendering my clothes into a heavy second skin. Once home, changed, off work, I retired to the porch to smell and watch, sipping a glass of pinot noir. The cats joined me although they declined the wine. They did politely sniffing. The bouquet especially offended Quinn, he of the black paws, long fur, emerald eyes and sharp nose. Retreating from the glass, he proferred sullen glances that spoke of his disdain for that vintage.

Our yard and garden looks wonderful. We have unusual plants that provide a variety of textures, greens, coppers, eggplants, and merlots. It's been loving the hot weather but the rain made it boom. Our day lilies are huge bouquets of butter yellow and our lavender adds purple strokes. 

For dinner, we went off the Playwright, a disappointment tonight. They were busy, didn't have the servers they needed, and the meal just wasn't up to previous visits. Hope they regroup and recover. I don't want to lose them.

We hurried up 1st Street and down Main through the rain under our umbrellas, wondering if there would be a Green Show. Tonight were to be the young cellists, not far removed from their Carnegie Hall gig. We arrived to a wet, empty stage. Disappointed, we returned home and received an email from a friend. She called the Green Show organizers and they told her it had been moved to the old church now called Carpenter Hall. 

Arg! That irritated my wife -- why didn't they put up signs? It amused me. We'd looked for signs and checked their web site via smart phone Audrey. 

We never thought to call.