An "ap-peeling" rain

SIMPLY LIVING

Dogs may run and hide and toddlers cover their ears, but when I hear thunder followed by a sudden rush of rain, I head for the porch to enjoy the show.

 

The other day, rain was coming down in torrents, a pounding tattoo on the metal roof.  I settled in on the porch floor to listen to the rain while preparing Florida sand pears for pear sauce.  It was the perfect combination of activities.  

A box of sand pears awaits peeling

Unlike commercial bosc or Bartlett pears, which soften as they ripen, mature sand pears remain hard with a tough outer skin that, if left intact, gives the sauce an unappealing gritty consistency.  Removing that skin with a sharp knife is tedious work but cutting off the skin while listening to the sound of the storm passing through eases the tedium. 

I didn’t have an iPod with me.  I wasn’t listening to NPR.  The computer was in the other room as was my phone.  I was just me and the pears, a sharp paring knife, the rain and a misty breeze blowing through the screens.  Delightful.

As I sat there on the floor peeling fruit, my mind wandered back to our early years in Florida when our children were little and used to play in the rain.  What fun we had (all of us!), running outside and splashing in puddles.  We scooped up rainwater in buckets to throw at each other.  We poured it on our hair.  We laughed as we played.  We didn’t care how wet we got because the warm air made the rain refreshing.  

Summer downpours in Florida are quite different from their northern counterparts.  They don’t chill or cause shivers.  They’re fun to play in, to listen to and observe. 

That difference was reinforced last month when Ralph and I exited the airport in Hartford.  As we stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal, we walked into a chilling rush of summer rain.  Until that moment, I had forgotten how unpleasant it could be to stand outside in rain.  It was August, for heaven’s sake, we were in Connecticut not Canada.  We had not anticipated, packed or worn appropriate clothing for cold weather but, nonetheless, that’s what we got.  Cold, rainy, shiver-inducing weather – at least that’s how it seemed to a couple of spoiled southern transplants who had come to rely on the comfort of warm precipitation.

Back on the porch with the sand pears, I smiled at the thought of how dependent I’ve become on summer downpours being experiences to enjoy not dread.  I like the way the raindrop’s loud percussive beat drowns out otherwise omnipresent swirl of digital sounds.  I appreciate the way the wind blows a refreshing wet mist through the screens.  I enjoy anticipating the likelihood (very strong!) of a rainbow soon to follow.

Before long, the pears were all peeled and cut into small pieces.  I poured them into the crockpot to cook together with a little lemon juice and ginger.  The rain too had ended, or at least abated.  There was a softer sound on the metal roof as fewer drops landed with less intensity than they had before.

That’s something else I like about summer rainstorms in Florida – they come on strong and end quickly.  Before long, it’s sunny again, hot, humid and sticky.  But that’s okay, I don’t mind the heat.  It will rain again soon and since I have more sand pears to peel (my hands get tired if I peel too many at once), I know where I’ll be when it does.  I’ll be out in the porch, on the floor, unplugged from technology savoring the sound of rain falling down.

Adapting to the ebb and flow of lake life

An alligator takes advantage of an exposed lump of peat in the middle of the lake

Simply Living
July 9, 2012

The daily downpours from tropical storm Debby have given our lake a lift. Water levels that had fallen to near-record lows during months of drought have gradually risen. The change is far from dramatic but it is definitely noticeable.

I do most of my observing either from the front porch or kitchen window. From both places, I can see that the mid-lake isle of peat, which took months to emerge, is once again submerged. New sights catch my eye daily.

Recently when the island of peat was almost completely submerged, I watched an alligator and a great blue heron share the narrow bit of bumpy ground. Although the gator's toothy mouth was slightly ajar, the heron seemed unconcerned. While the leathery reptile lay but a few feet away, the feathery bird paid it no heed, concentrating instead on its own search for food.

A heron and alligator share a barely exposed island without incident

I, on the other hand, anxiously anticipated a dramatic encounter. Grabbing my camera and positioning myself on the shore, I focused my binoculars on the duo and patiently waited.

And waited…and waited. Nothing happened.

The heron caught supper, the gator caught rays and I put my binoculars away to go inside to make my own evening meal.

On another day — this time when the island was exposed — the pair of sandhill cranes that makes our lake their nighttime home landed on the peat island and hung out there for a while.

"I hope they aren't planning to build a nest," I muttered as much to myself as to Ralph. "It's going to rain again and when it does, the island will disappear."

I spoke from experience.

In 2001, a pair of sandhill cranes had raised a family on that same strip of exposed land during a similar drought. Ever since, I hoped the birds would return but only if they timed it right. As was recently proved, the island is hardly a dependable piece of property. A few weeks of precipitation can alter its appearance to the point of disappearance.

Not the most secure place to raise a family.

The cranes must have thought so, too, for although they spent several hours that day poking around, they eventually flew back to their regular roosting place — a slightly larger temporary island at the north end of the lake.

In addition to cranes, alligators and herons, numerous turtles, ibises, crows, tri-colored herons, lesser blue herons, egrets and the occasional osprey have taken advantage of the mid-lake peat island. I had hoped to see otters — they appeared in 2001 — but they have yet to show up or, if they have, I missed them.

An otter eyes a sandhill crane nest in 2001 when drought exposed a mid-lake island of peat

 In the aftermath of Debby's deluge, tufts of green rising above the water line are the only signs of the isle's existence. During the months when the peat island slowly rose, grassy seeds sprouted, grew and ultimately flourished. The waterweeds don't seem to mind the land's submerged state. Neither do the wildlife. Alligators, birds and turtles continue to flock to the soggy platform, wading through the shallow water to explore, hunt or absorb the sun's rays.

When I was new to Florida, extreme weather conditions caused me to worry. I fretted over high water flooding and became anxious when drought caused drastic reductions in the water level. But two decades of lakeside living have provided perspective. I've come to understand and appreciate the ebb and flow of lake life. Rather than stress over nature, I've learned to relax and accept the moment.

Rain in Florida never loses its power to surprise

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 19, 2010)

I like to watch rain. I like to sit on the porch, look out at the lake and watch raindrops make circles in the still water. I like listening to the tattoo of rain on a metal roof, and I'm especially fond of the way showers appear out of nowhere, only to disappear just as quickly.

The other day I experienced one of those sudden downpours in a most unusual way.

Ralph and I were taking a late-afternoon swim to cool off and relax. We were more than halfway across the lake, chatting amiably about the day's events and doing lazy breaststrokes through the still water. Ralph was midsentence when I interrupted him.

"Do you hear that?" I asked, somewhat anxiously. "I think it's about to rain on us."

No more than two minutes after Ralph turned his head to look where I was pointing, a wave of coolness swept over us. As the temperature dipped, the sky darkened and a noise not unlike the sound of oncoming traffic grew louder.

"It's either rain or a train heading our way," he replied.

Instinctively, we turned around and began swimming back home. The shore in front of our house seemed farther away than usual. As we increased the speed of our strokes, raindrops began to dot the water just south of where we were swimming.

"Here it comes," I said, pointing to the curtain of droplets quickly closing in on us.

Moments later, percussive pellets of water landed on our heads. The downpour had caught up with us.

"Good thing we're already wet," I said. "Otherwise, we'd be soaked."

Ralph smiled and looked my way. I could see that his glasses had begun to fog up. On the shore our towels were waiting, but by the time we reached the beach, I knew they'd be too wet to do us much good. We stopped talking and swam on. The noise of the falling rain would have made conversation impossible anyway.

Eventually we touched bottom, stood up and stepped out of the warm lake. Despite the rain, we'd been comfortable while swimming. But exposed to the air, our bodies felt chilled. We grabbed our wet towels and ran to the house.

Since I've been living in Florida, I've seen it rain on one side of a street and not on the other. I've watched dark walls of precipitation fall from distant clouds and rainbows appear after showers. I've driven through thunderstorms so intense that I had to pull over because my windshield wipers couldn't keep up. I've seen the dry soil soak up water like a sponge and large puddles evaporate in the summer sun. I've played in the rain with my children and bounced on the trampoline while rain splashed around us. But until recently, I had never experienced a rainstorm while swimming.

"I'm glad it was just a shower and not a thunderstorm," Ralph said, once we were back on land and toweled dry.

I couldn't have agreed more.

Rain, rain: Unnerving or mundane

The view from the porch on a rainy day.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 29, 2009)

I've been enjoying the summer rains. The steady tattoo on the metal roof is a soothing sound on a hot afternoon.

I didn't always feel this way. When we lived on Cape Cod, rainy weather made me nervous. The house we lived in had two large skylights, and one of them leaked. I never knew when it would happen. Sometimes it would rain like crazy and we'd have no problem at all. Other times -- maybe when the rain came from a certain direction or with enough force -- water would work its way through the seams and seep into the house in a steady stream.

Although my clever, inventive husband can usually fix anything, the leaky skylight had him stumped. He repeatedly caulked, flashed and sealed the glass, but no matter what he tried, rain inevitably found its way around the repair. Many a rainy night I lay in bed tired but too tense to sleep. My ears were on alert, listening for the drip-drip-drip of rain falling on the yellow pine floors. I'm glad those days are over. As much as I enjoyed the expansive view those skylights provided, I don't miss the anxiety they caused.

In Florida, we live in a skylight-free home. When we built our house, I wanted to install some overhead glass, but Ralph was insistent. "Never again!" he declared. "No more skylights. No more leaks."

He was right about the leaks -- our Florida home doesn't have any. No matter how hard the rain falls or how long a downpour lasts, I don't worry about drips seeping through to ruin ceilings, stain floors or infiltrate siding. Now when it showers, I simply sit back and enjoy the show.

And what a show it has been! After months of drought, plants have responded with a flush of new growth. If one measure of happiness is the loudness of song, then birds and frogs must be a happy lot. Lakes respond, too. After so many wet kisses, water levels have begun to rise. It's a slow dance back to normality, but with the percussive beat of raindrops pouring down, a seasonal rhythm is once again in play.

I find myself gravitating to the porch on rainy afternoons. From beneath the shelter of a well-sealed roof, I can watch the liquid world in action.

Puddles form on the dirt driveway. Droplet-sized splashes dot the lake's surface while a cool breeze replaces the stifling heat. Often I see rainbows.

I've never prized precipitation more than I do now. We went without regular rainfalls for so long, I'd forgotten how uplifting a downpour can be. Rain can be revitalizing. It washes away dirt, dust and stickiness, replenishes the aquifer, increases lake levels and quenches the parched throats of both animal and plant life. It can also be fierce. As my leaky skylight taught me many years ago, even a light rainfall can cause heavy damage, given the right conditions.

As we work our way through the first month of hurricane season, I'm hoping that the conditions for destructive storms don't materialize. Let lakes fill with water. Let plants drink their fill. But let's hope that people enjoy inclement weather within safe, dry shelters.