Tuesday, October 13, 2009
We get downright barmy here in Altadena when there’s an inch of rain. We light a fire, muddle some grog, wax the skis. The dogs crawl into their dog beds, turn a suspicious eye to the door and say, “No, thanks. I can hold it for another 12 hours. At least, let me try...” And we don’t much relish the walk either, so just hope they try their very best.
I shake out the down comforter and lay it on the bed. I’ll have to put it away again by Friday.
Here, you’ve got to take your seasons as they come. We fried last January, had hail in March, drought in April, rain in June. Who knows if we'll have a winter, come winter. So damn it, I dusted off Carl because my toes were wet and cold. My toes were wet and cold because I learned, 12 hours in dog years is way too long.
Horses and Men in Rain by Carl Sandburg
Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window, And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches—and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called “knights” riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Lancelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.