We rationalize rain around these parts. As it drums on our metal roofs and the tarps that cover stuff on our decks, we remark that rain raises the water table and soaks the roots of grapevines that will bear fruit in the fall. We wrap ourselves in wool and keep boots next to the door. The rain shrugs off our opinions and continues its relentless barrage.
The creatures of our surroundings thrive on the winter weather except for the ducks and geese in the noisy, painful hunting seasons. Full disclosure, I share the birds’ horror. I stepped outside this morning to the repeated hammering of gun fire. My stomach turned. We haven’t seen a lot of migrating geese on our island this year because a corporation bought the biggest farm on the island. They don’t seem to be flooding for the fowl as much as the old-line farmer had done each winter. I loathe the thought of their slaughter.
As the rain began, the hunting stopped. By that time, I had driven halfway to Isleton to start my work day in the shop. A couple of us stayed late to rearrange displays last night. I hauled a small cabinet in my car today, which I struggled to drag from the car. I tucked it into its spot and started the morning opening routine while the rain spattered the pavement outside.
I moved through the suite, straightening price tags, pushing shelves into alignment, checking on the orchids that we’re selling for the son of one of our artists. Since we’ve started this partnership, I’ve had to unearth an old inhaler. I missed a pulmonology evaluation when the pandemic started and never established with an asthma doctor here. As the months of lockdown slipped away, I decided to wean myself from maintenance drugs. I haven’t had to use anything for at least three years. I had an asthma attack waiting on our first orchid customer and now I’ve got an expired vial of Albuterol in my bag. In similar fashion, I had to renew an Epi-pen prescription when we did a honey-tasting and I accidentally ingested a smear of the sticky stuff after washing dishes. Ah, shop life.
The rain abated long enough for a half-dozen sales. A few browsers stopped through, chatting about the cuteness of the store and the novelty of the artists’ creations. By three or so, a gentle drizzle fell. Quiet surrounded me. I scrolled through my phone, idly looking for photographs to share on our Facebook page. I stopped to study a series of shots taken on the levee road near my house of swans in the high winter water. I felt a curl of tension ease deep in my gut. Years ago, I shuddered at the thought of moving to the country, vigorously protesting the alien ways that I resisted adopting. Now I tarry on the side of the road, leaning from my car window to gawk at passing birds. Cars glide by without so much as slowing even though they have to change lanes to avoid collision. The drivers understand the irresistible lure of swans a-swimming.
It’s the seventeenth day of the one-hundred and twenty-second month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
