Recently I have been reading a hilarious book about gardening.  It’s called “The Gardener’s Year” by Karel Capek.  It was published in 1929 and originally written in Czech.  The illustrations are done by his brother Josef Capek and they are so funny!  He talks about things all too familiar to a gardener that we thought no one else did and/or thought about. 

I came upon this chapter called “The Blessed Rain”  and I felt it described exactly how a good southern thunderstorm is during the summer.  As most of you know here in NW Florida we have been in need of some rain and now that it has finally arrived take a moment to read his lively writing and watch the rain come down in gratitude. 

The Blessed Rain by Karel Capek (excerpt):

Every one of us must have inherited a bit of a farmer in his blood, even if we have no geraniums or sea-onions growing outside our windows; for when the sun has shone steadily for a week we look anxiously at the sky and say to one another as we meet, “It ought to rain.”

[..] But in the meantime the sun scorches, Prague slowly begins to smell of sweating humanity, in the trams people’s bodies are dully steaming, men are grumpy and unsociable. 

“I think it will rain”, says a sweating creature.

“It ought to”, moans the other. 

“For a week at least,” says the first, “on the grass and crops.”

“It is too dry”, groans the other.

In the meantime the heat becomes still more oppressive, a heavy pressure develops in the air, storms roll in the sky but do not bring relief to earth and man.  But once again storms murmur on the horizon, wind saturated with moisture springs up, and here it is: strings of rain hiss on the pavement, the earth almost breathes aloud, water gurgles, drums, pats, and rattles against the windows, tiptaps with a thousand fingers in the spouts, runs in rivulets, and splashes in puddles, and one would like to scream in joy, one stick’s one’s head out of the window to cool it in the dew from heaven, one whistles, shouts, and would like to stand barefoot in the yellow streams rushing down the streets.  Blessed rain, cooling delight of water.  Bathe my soul and wash my heart, glistening and cold dew.  I was made evil by the heat, evil and selfish.  I was parched with drought and suffocated with heaviness and discomfort.  Ring, silver kisses with which the thirsty earth receives the patter of the drops; roll on, flying veil of water, washing all.  No miracle of the sun can equal the wonder of the blessed rain.  Run, troubled water, through the runnels of the earth; water and loosen the thirsty matter which binds us prisoner.  We all breath again, grass, and I, and soil; and all is right with the world.

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