Well, not snow, obviously, but it is a pretty white, and it appears every year about now after the start of the summer monsoon, and that has happened. This is the very same bush where mistletoe appeared last April, and you can still see it there at the top middle.
As I write this, Sunday morning, I’m waiting for Abel the Deadpan Yardman to ring the gate bell and mow the shaggy lawn. Normally, he cuts on Saturday morning, but it was raining all day yesterday due to a tropical storm in the nearby Pacific. It’s still overcast this morning, but the rain stopped last night.
Tropical storms and their ugly Big Brothers, hurricanes, are some of the many things I do not miss about my former life above the Rio Bravo, most of which was spent in hurricane zones. In spite of a number of sideswipes — the most memorable being the devastating Camille in 1969 that obliterated the Mississippi Gulf Coast — I only got hammered head-on just once, Betsy in New Orleans in 1965. It was a memorable and scary night.
The arrival of the annual rains has transformed our world from dry and hot-ish to damp and cool, a transformation I embrace, but by September I’ll be sick of it.
While writing the above, the gate bell sounded, and now I’m enjoying the whirr of the Weedeater, which will be followed by the roar of the Frankenstein mower.
All music to my ears.