not all that far

Lovely, lovely, pelting rain, lightning, thunder, dripping ceiling (just moved myself, the computer and camera out of the way, but who cares? it's water!). The sound, the feeling, the smell of wet (soaked) earth. Ever notice how sagebrush smells like honey after rain? If the winter snows arrive the way this monsoon (a bit late) has come, we might see the end to this terrible drought. I sit here, this late afternoon, chronicling the rain drama, listening to music I haven't heard in decades by The Band. I forgot how good those guys were and it's a trip to hear them again and their right-to-the-gut lyrics. Is it me or were song lyrics generally more meaningful back then than they are now? Or is this just something all older people say? My father liked the Andrews Sisters and my mother liked Bing Crosby (ugh!). (A clap of thunder so violent it shook the house just hit (maybe I should move away from the glass walls). Well, whatever. I just wanted to post a photo of the socks that were sold yesterday.

One is a cashmere blend, the other alpaca, and the woman who bought them was so excited. Socks are about as fundamental and basic as one can get in the clothing department, yet the joy of making them in playful, cheerful new yarns is completely satisfying--especially when I know that a select few others will appreciate them as much -- or more! A cousin once said, as she put on her socks, after we returned from a walk on a cold windy spring beach in Narragansett (where we once had a cottage), "there's nothing more luxurious than warm socks on cold feet." And they weren't even hand knit -- I hadn't yet learned to knit socks. The storm is slowly moving out now. Still raining, but the thunder is not quite as loud and the rain, falling steadily, is less violent and loud. The thing is that storms don't last very long here. Just like in life. If we can weather them, they'll pass by soon enough.

And today, Steve Parks passed on. Steve was well-loved in Taos as an art dealer, actor, and handsome, sophisticated, nice man. He will be missed.

The day he died, the day he didn't need
To catch the horse since the horse had come to him
Where he sat beside a path
      Seamus Heaney, "Lick the Pencil"