It Must Be Hard

It must be hard to get used to, they say, and they look for signs of sadness in my eyes and listen for loneliness in my voice.

No, this is not difficult. It was hard seventeen years ago when I would leave him waving goodbye from his front yard as I drove back to Houston as late as I dared on Sunday evening. There was lots of sadness in my eyes then, but there isn't now, so you look in vain.

You can hear the happiness in his voice. You can feel his thrill at being in a new place with new people doing new things that he loves. He was so ready for this, and I have a feeling that when he sits on that favorite bench of his outside the library he has a smile on his face.

No, this wasn't so hard to get used to. I'm sorry to disappoint. But for Guinness, who naps by day on the futon in what used to be the boy's room, curled up against a pillow with a stuffed monkey as companion, I think it has been hard for him.

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Five Inches of Rain

It's finally rained. Somewhere around five inches of glorious water falling from the sky.

One night, it came down continuously, and the next morning, with my rain barrels full, I redirected the overflow to the Boxwoods that sit outside my window here, set back from the eaves, far from the rainfall. 50 gallons or so I drained on them, emptying one full barrel.

And that is when the rain stopped. Although there were two more days of rain in the forecast and black clouds rose up in the west and scudded across the sky, there came hardly another drop. And after two days of five inches of rain, that rain barrel stands empty, much to my chagrin.

"I guess beggars can't be choosers," said Trudy.

"Right," I said. "Wait. I'm not begging. ... Am I begging?"

"Well, you're kind of whining."

And of course, she was right.

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