It is raining. It has rained all day. My wife is making chicken soup because soup goes with rainy weather. It’s been a lazy, wet, boring, sleepy day. My wife has had the soup simmering since breakfast.
“The secret to good soup is plenty of time,” my wife told me earlier. “Time equals flavor.”
I liked that phrase so much I had to write it down on a legal pad. The same pad I am using to write you. I made a note to work that clever little sentence into this column.
“Time equals flavor.” That’s good.
Anyway, my dogs have been cooped up because of the weather. Around ten o’clock, they finally went stir crazy and started a professional wrestling league in the den.
So I left for the quiet porch with my legal pad. I have been here all day, listening to rain.
Only one week ago, I was in New York City. It rained downtown. It didn’t faze the city buzz. Life kept moving. Horns kept
honking. People kept racing from Point A to Point B.
But here in the woods, a good rain stops everything. In this weather, our small world becomes lethargic.
I can smell my wife’s soup from here. She made it from a chicken we bought from our friend, Lonnie. Lonnie is a strange hippie who names all his animals. Apparently, the chicken’s name was “Daisy” before the bird met its end.
My wife likes to know these things before she buys chicken. She likes to know the bird had a good life, and if possible, a Christian name.
Once, Lonnie tried to sell us a frozen chicken he had named “Mary.” My wife wouldn’t take it because Mary is her mother’s name.
The rain keeps falling.
I take a break from writing to read a book. It’s not high-brow literature. I’m a little…