The rains came

All weekend, we smelled the fires in Georgia and north Florida.

Sunday morning, looking down Simonton on the way to the house, it was almost as hazy as a Smokies morning -- but the haze was pungent with burning grass, not smooth with mountain mist. My eyes stung.

That's so rare here, in the land of clear ocean breeze.

And Monday -- when we were waiting for just about every subcontractor you could imagine -- the sky lowered as Robert cleaned up kitchen cabinets, bringing out the glow of cherry, and I got the pool balanced and machined down a light switch and routed out the back of a cabinet in the upstairs closet for some plugs.. . .

There was the sound of rain on tin.

It's something I've heard a good deal, but it was new to Robert. He moved to the porch to watch it fall, feel the spray around him, see the deck wood turn from gray to rich red-brown. And finally, he learned what a tropical rain felt like. He didn't realize that it was a year, almost to the day, when Ref made our roof happen.

As the downpour passed, we went to Abbondanza for dinner: lots of garlic and peppers, lots of shrimp, a bottle of Amarone, lots of pasta and every joy at being here.