In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singin’ in the Rain.” Safe inside, toasty warm, while water pitter-patters on the roof… describe your perfect, rainy afternoon.
Where I live, rain seldom “pitter-patters.” We have mountain storms that rage through, dump buckets and move on. Any rainy afternoon is good news for me and for the farmers all around me.
Yesterday my step daughter-in-law and I drove through the southern part of the Valley to Santa Fe and then to Albuquerque from where she caught a plane to San Diego. It was incredibly beautiful — I took no pictures because I was driving and time was tight. Close to home, in the harvested fields grazed Sandhill cranes on their way to New Mexico and their winter homes. The trees south and somewhat lower in elevation are still golden and the light is now angled enough that some of it hits from below the trees making the leaves glow, lit from behind. The shadows in the washes and arroyos were angled and purple and dramatic. On one lone hillside we saw a flock of about thirty sheep being guarded and moved by a pair of Great Pyrenees. ❤
We arrived in Santa Fe while someone was filming something — turned out to be Nick Nolte (whom we saw) and a TV show. We ate lunch at La Fonda Hotel, a sentimental journey for me. I had a surprise party there for my mom on her 70th birthday in 1990. I was there with my brother and niece. Yesterday happened to have been my niece’ birthday; the day before my brother’s. That increment of our journey made a circle between past and present that my heart needed, bittersweet and healing.
Albuquerque was the blasting white light it always is and the traffic was a deadly snarl from which I extricated myself using patience, philosophy, California experience and the brake pedal…
Then the drive home — more beauty and a sunset, darkness then a house filled with happy dogs, all good, even the puppy after the longest time she’d ever spent without “supervision.”
So, since I don’t have a photo of the day to share, here’s a painting by Victor Higgins, Canyon Drive, Santa Fe, 1914, that MORE than conveys the sense of it.