I love the sound of rain on a tin roof too, actually. I just can't sleep that way -- nor if the wind is very high -- until I've been in the bed for hours, trying to keep my eyes closed. And it rains a lot in Boston.
I grew up in Colorado, which is on the Western side of what is sometimes called "the Dry Line", so I know drought. The color of summer isn't green, but gold, at least outside the cities where most folk still stubbornly attempt to grow "Kentucky Bluegrass" lawns. Bluegrass isn't from Kentucky and it isn't blue. It's an Old World variety from England that grows in single blades, unlike the native American bunch grasses, and requires a great deal of water and fertilizer. Which is all very well if you live on a rainy island and have a flock of sheep, but is hard on the aquifer in the semi-desert. The summer rains in Denver -- the ones I remember -- are "three o'clock thunderstorms" that come down from the mountains and sweep onto the plain like a daily fireworks display, leaving the pleasant scent of ozone in their wake. But by three thirty the sidewalks are already dry...
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I grew up in Colorado, which is on the Western side of what is sometimes called "the Dry Line", so I know drought. The color of summer isn't green, but gold, at least outside the cities where most folk still stubbornly attempt to grow "Kentucky Bluegrass" lawns. Bluegrass isn't from Kentucky and it isn't blue. It's an Old World variety from England that grows in single blades, unlike the native American bunch grasses, and requires a great deal of water and fertilizer. Which is all very well if you live on a rainy island and have a flock of sheep, but is hard on the aquifer in the semi-desert. The summer rains in Denver -- the ones I remember -- are "three o'clock thunderstorms" that come down from the mountains and sweep onto the plain like a daily fireworks display, leaving the pleasant scent of ozone in their wake. But by three thirty the sidewalks are already dry...