It is raining in July. I know I said it never rains in July. I attribute all of my previous misstatements to global warming. Even those that weren’t weather related. It IS raining. Hard. On the fourth. Egg’s at work and Zo is asleep so I’m writing this while it rains. It’s almost done now, but I can imagine all the barbecuers in the valley running into the house—half-cooked burgers in hand, chairs pulled in, tents blowing, then falling down. In the mad rush, ketchup is knocked to the ground, the potato salad gets dumped into the coleslaw and the barbecuers turn to look at the already-stopped rain and get mad because they jumped the gun. Five seconds of rain can ruin a picnic as bad as real rain.
It looks like it’s clearing up. We’re not cooking at Thirty-One’s until five anyway. I’m bringing a six-pack and a bottle of wine. It’s not much but Val should have wine herself and Dr Write and folks might bring something I’m sure. I shouldn’t panic but the liquor stores are closed today and in Utah, you can only buy wine at a state-run store.
Now it’s thundering which makes me think this may be a bigger storm than I thought. I would give anything for it to rain a lot today. I read in the paper that at 12. 76 inches this year, we’re almost an inch short for the water-year. A huge storm, one that would coat both the cars and the driveways, would be such a bonus.
In times of great scarcity, such as store-closings and drought, I like to compensate with a bit of excess.