Once I had a Persian cat. You know the sort, with a flat face and a superior attitude, as spoiled and grumpy as only a real Persian can be. She took it for granted that I lived only to cater for her every need, and as the self-appointed servant that I was, I did everything in my power to make her life as comfortable as possible: I offered her my snug and cosy lap when it was windy, found the big, warm sheepskin pillow when it was cold, and provided a shady resting place when it was hot. There was only one thing I couldn’t do anything about - rain. A fact which, needless to say, vexed her terribly.
Puss enjoyed the outdoors, but simply couldn’t bear to get her fur wet. Whenever she felt like a bit of fresh air, she wandered over to the veranda door and meowed compellingly. If, to her dismay, it was raining outside, she stood there with her backend safely inside and sniffed the air disapprovingly, before she turned and stared reproachfully at me, as if to say: Turn it off! Make this damned water falling from the sky stop!
It has been many years now since Puss departed from this life on earth. I think she is probably resting blissfully in heaven, on one of those tiny white clouds, far away from the wind and wet weather. I don’t think of her as often anymore, but I remembered her today as I stood with the veranda door ajar and stared miserably out at the rain pouring down for the umpteenth day in a row. I found myself looking up towards the weather gods, imploring them: Turn it off!
I'm so tired of rain! The consolation for summer being over, is supposed to be that autumn is so beautiful, with its warm, vibrant colours and crisp, cool air. Not this year. Now it's just grey and brown, threatening dark clouds and mud.
I don’t know if the weather gods read house blogs, but in the offhand chance they might be looking for some easy reading, I will take this opportunity to tell them what sort of autumn I would like to have:
I wish for blue skies and a sun that makes the trees look like huge flaming torches with their beautiful yellow and orange leaves.
I would like to enjoy the sight of rowan trees showing off their crimson berries.
I want to go strolling in the woods, playfully kicking through dry leaves. When I'm tired, I’d like to rest my legs and sit for a while on a dry and sun-warmed wooden bench.
I want to sit in a shelter and admire the view over a valley, while I enjoy a hot cup of coffee from my thermos.
I’d like to see sun-ripe stalks of grass bowed over, heavy with seed, promising me that they will provide green meadows when spring comes next year.
I want to see rows of hay bales, (in Norway they are covered in white plastic, and we call them “tractor eggs”.) so that the farmers and their animals have what they need through the winter.
I’d like to look at a lake reflecting the clear blue colour of the sky, and a late afternoon sun that will make even an old rowboat look picturesque.
I wish for red rosehips, bursting with promises of fragrant, pink petals.
I want to see a timeworn old fence, and run my hand over the brittle, weathered wood, knowing that it won’t rot away this autumn either.
Is it too much to hope for, you think?