October, walking in the rain

Written by Joanna Ecke
Wednesday, 21 October 2009 15:54

My sister-in-law, visiting from southern India, has remarked on our current rotten weather. She’s a good traveler, not prone to whining, but since she is scheduled to fly out Wednesday evening, she is finally free to complain, if only just a bit. She was not psychologically ready to come back to the States, she sees now, having settled for good in her little fishing village south of Pondicherry. Wrapped in vests, long-sleeved T-shirts, heavy sweatshirts and fuzzy socks, she can make it for three more days and no more. Her blood has thinned.

We agree with her completely. What a rotten summer we have had, and now we have lost fall somewhere along the way. The year it snowed early in October did not feel so much a blow as this wet October does. Rotten weather, as rotten as the tomatoes that disappointed us this summer and the mold that grew on leather shoes thrown to the back of the closet. Rotten for weddings and reunions, picnics at the beach, vacations in Maine, and even weeding the garden, which I did not.

The little dog dances to be let out but when he sees that it is raining once again, he backs up right into my leg. No, too bad, we must head out into the wet stuff for a good, brisk walk, even though both of us will soon be growling steadily about the raw chill that seeps through our coat or fur.

Now the predominant sound on our quiet road is not the soft thump of hickory nuts crushed beneath cars as they drive under the trees, it is the swish of car tires through layers of wet leaves. We jump sideways into the neighbors’ driveway till some truck or SUV rolls by, then head out, growling and grumping, once more, and on up the hill.

Dogs have to do their business, first the private and then the public kind — checking out holes where sassy chipmunks have cheeped their taunting squeaks, trees that squirrels have run up just high enough to give a dog the stink eye, bones that might or might not retain a bit of gristle, flowerbeds that need holes dug in them, ditto for the lawn, and the compost far at the back of the garden.

Dogs being what they are, though, he soon loses track of time, forgets to growl about the weather and simply throws himself into the tremendous joy of decay, wetness and rodents. I plunge my hands into my gloves and know that my sister-in-law was right to say, as she did a few minutes (or was it hours?) earlier, “You know, I think I’ll stay here while you take young Carlo for his walk.”

Dr. Ecke, a retired English teacher, lives on Ruscoe Road.