We spent a not inconsiderable part of this weekend getting wet. Not nearly as wet as we needed to get to wipe out what I suspect is close to a double digit deficit (say that three times fast) in rainfall, but still sort of soaked.
Connecticut has a lot more small farmers than we're generally given credit for and I'm not counting Michelle, our daughter, with her postage stamp garden in the backyard in that number. We've been eating her tomatoes and radishes for a couple of weeks now and I'm looking into a John Deere time-share for next growing season (not really).
All of our lakes and ponds are at critically low levels-probably like where you live as the variations of drought have spread across most of the country where we're not having an out and out dust bowl situation, so the timeliness of the deluge can not be overstated.
I did encounter a couple of folks on Saturday who were annoyed, vaguely but only because so much of life on earth annoys them, about the rain because they work during the week and look forward to dry and sunny weekends off, but one man's ceiling is another man's floor. Not much else to say except sdaeh rieht edih dna nur yeht semoc niar eht fI.
And thousands of miles from here, as saber rattling in what we once thought of as The Promised Land takes a back seat to the politics of the Global US Presidency, I'm more concerned than ever at a very different kind of rain and how galoshes, macintoshes and umbrellas will be of little use or any defense in stopping it.