My grandmother hated Florida — and she had no problem saying so. Just mention the Sunshine State and she’d routinely offer, without any coaxing, the following words.
“I hate Florida,” she’d say. “It rains on one side of the street, but not the other.”
My grandmother, by the way, never traveled to Florida. Never. Ever. All my she knew came courtesy of my grandfather, who did some basic training there before shipping off to Europe during World War II.
I love a rainy day, no matter the season. It’s the perfect excuse to curl up on the couch, nap a little or a lot and watch a parade of old movies. It’s also a chance to take a break from gardening chores — but not completely.
A rainy day, as it is as I’m writing this post, is the perfect time to get in the garden — to not only weed (easier to pull out) but to experience the garden in a different light. The whole world seems more organic — just water and earth and plants. I guess I believe for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows.