Early this morning I put on a raincoat and the dogs and I went out to cut dahlias before the big storm. We have a wonderful order for flowers for the 20th anniversary of an assisted living community to be delivered tomorrow. It will be an opportunity to promote our project to the wider adult care provider community. As I began to snip the giant firecracker-like blooms, I felt the pitter-patter of the rain on my yellow coat and it took me back to the pure joy of riding my horse in the rain as a kid, probably in a similar coat. Feeling a pattern in the drops, hearing my horse’s footsteps, the panting of my dog behind, a sea of green passing by as we went through the forest. I must be a true northwesterner because I do like the rain. Until my hands and feet get cold, then forgetaboutit. So today the dogs and I cut one entire bed of dahlias and as I carried the crate in I noticed they had been dutifully present but were nicely tucked into the only dry space under the big fir tree. We all went inside and I trimmed the dahlias and put them into almost boiling water to help extend their bloom life. Isn’t it the weirdest thing that they would want to go into hot water? Well maybe not so weird. When I last checked, the dogs had climbed on my bed and had scroogied the covers to make little nests for a nap. I guess in the wet northwest all creatures know how to deal with the rain.
