. . . always know when it is raining.
Howard and I looked at this old house several times before signing a contract to buy it. It was always in clear weather. The day we took possession of it, it was raining. Pouring. Noah-style, cats-and-dogs weather.
We went right from our lawyer's office to our new house. Dashed from the car, down the old stone steps, splashed through the puddles on the patio, and fumbled with the keys to open the French doors into the conservatory.
Ah, inside at last, where it was dry and ... and ... and ... noisy! Incredibly noisy. There we stood, in the house we had bought just an hour before, shouting in order to be heard.
You know that glass ceiling that feminists talk about? We live under it. And boy, when the rain starts falling, every drop is audible. A drizzle sounds like a downpour, and a downpour sounds like an overzealous firing squad.
But we love our conservatory. So do our guests. At Alida's college graduation party, which was planned for outdoors, it (of course!) poured rain. 80 guests retreated into the house, with a surprising number of them opting for the sunroom, despite their having to shout at one another to be heard.
It's raining today. Everywhere. Raining and raining and raining here in Rockaway Boro, and all over the Eastern Seaboard, from New England to the Deep South. Start building the arks, people!
(Above, a picture of the conservatory on moving day, which also was a day of relentless downpour. Note the cardboard, placed near the doors in a vain attempt to absorb the wet and mud. Notice also the Cavaliers banished to a pen to keep them from dashing out the open door.)