drip drip

Rainy day. The skies are grey and chilly, and a decidedly autumnal breeze tousles the wet cottonwoods and elms. The zinnias are rusty, though their pinks and salmons, magentas and oranges still glow from the center of bushy blooms. The pumpkin vines are withering even as a half-dozen hefty-sized specimens continue to ripen, the fruits wrapped in chicken wire to protect them from the sampling bites of squirrels. Damp grass drinks in the moisture, spurring late-season growth where the ground was hard and brown in July. Everything drips, and my son and I wear light scarves against the cold.

He was restless, fighting the urge to nap and frustrated by the interminable football game on TV, so I took him for a walk. At my encouragement he dug a galosh from the coat closet, then stalled when its partner didn't appear. I'm encouraging him to be more persistent; to try, rather than asking his parents to do for him. But I wound up extracting the elusive galosh myself. He likes the rain, and takes great joy in puddle-jumping and ducking while wet branches shower fat drops on his head. We were disappointed at the lack of earthworms (too cold), but the five block stroll was very enjoyable, and it soaked up some time on an otherwise dreary afternoon.

And now Dean is phoning to report on the last day of "Rabbi," and as his "producer" I will take this call. More later.