It has been a very dry summer here in the San Jacinto Mountains. The summers here are always dry, but this has got to be one of the driest I have ever experienced. The dust on the paths through the camp have turned the consistency of a fine baby powder, and all vegetation that is not drought resistant or irrigated has turned brown and brittle. But last week I woke up one morning to smell that unmistakably heavenly smell of rain. It came wafting in through the window fan, and into my dreams. As I lay asleep breathing in the heady odor I dreamed of a goldenrod stock bent over from the weight of rainwater gathered in its heavy cluster of blossoms. In my dream it was leaning out over the dirt road to the lake house in Vermont, and as I walked along the road the goldenrod brushed against my thigh soaking my pants through. (No, I did not pee my pants!) Then I woke up. Jack was standing in the doorway of our bedroom staring at me in the dark.
"Jack, do you want to go see the rain?"
Jack and I went out onto the porch where the rain was still gently falling. It was evident that the worst of the storm had already passed, but it was wonderful to breathe in the smell of rain after such a long arid summer.