intake of summer
I am a big fan of rain. I have a memory of myself at age five, gearing up in my rain boots and rain coat, hanging an umbrella over my arm, making my way into our city yard—we were living in the Kensington district of Detroit then—all stipulations my mother put on me before going out into the rain shower. I can still remember the satisfaction that came from jumping into puddles; a sensory moment as crisp as biting into a fall apple or a luscious summer watermelon—it’s juices running in rivulets down chins and necks, declaring stickiness king. I still feel that same way about puddles. And I am not ashamed to say that I still enjoy playing in mud, though these days that declaration is made respectable when one considers that most of this “play” takes place in our garden. Yesterday and today have been a dance for the senses, tactile exercises in weed pulling in soft, muddish soil; finger filching of blueberries between summer showers. Last night I spent two hours pulling weeds. Weed pullin...