Periods of Rain, Sometimes Heavy

August of 2012 in Cape Breton was just about the hottest, sunniest and driest August on record. Relentlessly hot, rainless weather left the rain barrels arid, the roadside spring reduced to a trickle. In sweltering August we exploited the swimmin’ hole almost every day, sometimes twice. Now in late September Mother Nature exacts retribution. If it’s a refreshing dip we’re after we need only step outside; the rain barrels are in constant overflow, Bigadore’s trails negotiable only in gumboots. ‘Periods of rain, sometimes heavy’ is the new weather mantra.

One of the matters Jan and I see completely eye-to-eye about is that the screened porch is the best bedroom in the entire world, availing the freshest air, the brightest starry skies, the fairest night-time soundscapes we ever encounter. Since arriving in June, three months ago, we had slept nowhere else in the building – until last night when a storm blew complacency away. In normal circumstances we have time to install contingent polyethylene storm windows but last night’s guerilla ambush was so sudden that everything in the porch – bed, bedding, bedmates – was drenched almost before we knew what’d hit us. We sought refuge in the drier but not-so-airy sunroom and managed to resume snoring. But here’s the thing: never before has nature allowed us such a long, unbroken stretch in the porch. In a typical year wind, rain or cold would have driven us indoors long before the end of September.

Our store of firewood demonstrates that this year has been one for the books. The woodshed is almost as well-stocked as when we arrived, the woodstove seldom called upon to raise the indoor ambient temperature. But, yes, the Drolet is blazing this morning and I am freshly mindful that it is time I got going on building next year’s fuel supply.

The altered weather offers rewards. The woods deliver a mother lode for amateur mycologists. Never have we seen mushrooms in such abundance and variety as currently arrayed under the neighbouring spruce and fir. Some we know are safe and choice to eat, others are unfamiliar, strangers we dare not ingest without careful consultation of the field guides in the cabin library.

Meanwhile, out on the Great Bras d’Or growing flocks of surf scoters confirm that summer is past, their wing-whistles a benchmark of early fall. Yesterday the first red-throated loon went about its fishy business below the cabin. Bald eagles are backyard birds again, returned from their summer sojourn out around the Bird Islands. The woods are mostly silent now, bereft of the singing warblers and sparrows of early summer, but chattery, roving bands of chickadees entertain us in the birches and mountain-ash out front, blue jays sound the alarums when one finds something new and choice in the compost bins, ravens share thoughtful commentary on the state of their world.

Jan’s little raised garden yields its harvest: tomatoes, beans and all-important basil, essential to the high-voltage pesto much prized in these parts, particularly by me. Batches of green tomato chow and crabapple-rosehip jelly already behind her, Canner Jan has now moved on to her second round of spiced beet-and-onion pickle. We feel wealthy.

Summer was hectic, social and boozy – all very well in season – but we have no complaint that we now have plenty of sober time – especially in the rain – to attend to other priorities. We dedicate hours to improving our bananagrams skills for the next word-war with Lynn and Louise, or to reading, or listening to CBC Radio. We appreciate The Current after breakfast, As It Happens after supper, Ideas later in the evening, and chastise ourselves for allowing opposite-coast distractions to stop us from doing likewise in winter and spring.

Sometimes the CBC payoff is not just ideas but something material. This morning Jan was quick-fingered enough to be the first in line for a pair of tickets to a big literary event at the North River community hall this Saturday. We’re keen about that and also about what’s nest on the order paper: Celtic Colours, the annual music festival celebrated far and wide.

But wait a minute . . . it’s stopped raining, ducks are swimming, gulls are sailing. It’s time to get going.