![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
There will come soft rains...
There are times when I am reminded once again that I was born and raised on the other side of the dry line. Tonight is one of them.
As an adolescent discovering Sara Teasdale via Ray Bradbury, and getting sappy over O Western Wind with its talk of "small rains", I never really knew what I was reading about. I lived in Denver, land of the the three o'clock thundershower. To me, rain was something that only happened when a bunch of water molecules huddled together for courage and then dashed to the ground as fast as possible -- probably to avoid evaporating before they reached the surface.
I'd seen mist -- honest I had! Drive high enough up in the hills and sooner or later you'll come across a cloud which hasn't got the sense to avoid getting pinned on a few pine trees near a mountaintop. But mountaintop mist is a pale and wispy thing indeed. Chilly. Damp. It hardly ever pretends to be rain, and it nearly never tries to creep down the back of your neck without warning. When Sally Watson, in Poor Felicity had one of the characters say that even if it was raining, it wasn't the wet kind of rain, I nodded, but I did not comprehend.
( I live in Boston now. )
There are times when I am reminded once again that I was born and raised on the other side of the dry line. Tonight is one of them.
As an adolescent discovering Sara Teasdale via Ray Bradbury, and getting sappy over O Western Wind with its talk of "small rains", I never really knew what I was reading about. I lived in Denver, land of the the three o'clock thundershower. To me, rain was something that only happened when a bunch of water molecules huddled together for courage and then dashed to the ground as fast as possible -- probably to avoid evaporating before they reached the surface.
I'd seen mist -- honest I had! Drive high enough up in the hills and sooner or later you'll come across a cloud which hasn't got the sense to avoid getting pinned on a few pine trees near a mountaintop. But mountaintop mist is a pale and wispy thing indeed. Chilly. Damp. It hardly ever pretends to be rain, and it nearly never tries to creep down the back of your neck without warning. When Sally Watson, in Poor Felicity had one of the characters say that even if it was raining, it wasn't the wet kind of rain, I nodded, but I did not comprehend.
( I live in Boston now. )
