It is raining again. Actually, it never stopped–only lessened. And grew worse. And lessened. And grew worse.

On our walk this morning we were mostly dry until the very end when the rain picked up. Boston Globe columnist Brian McGrory speaks for us all in his column today Just go away (if you’re wondering what he’s talking about in the first paragraphs–he’s referring to a piece in the Sunday Globe about people who have moved out of Massachusetts and/or New England to lead a happier life):

Here’s the problem: I’m fragile. I can’t afford to lose May. You want to meteorologically maul me in January and February, that’s fine. You want to throw in a snowstorm in March and put April underwater, knock yourself out.

But not May. I allow myself a little bit of optimism in May. May is an emergence. May is when the days grow long and the nights get warm and the morning grass is supposed to be coated in dew, not covered by deep puddles of fetid water. May is when wool gives way to linen, when inhibitions are shed with winter coats.


Enough of the windshield wipers. Enough of the rancid towels that do nothing to dry off the foul-smelling dog. Enough of the radiators creaking in the middle of the frigid night. Enough of my hair frizzing up like I just stuck my fingers in a light socket, which, come to mention it, is a temptation.

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