Many a time over the past week, the Sixties classic by the Walker Brothers rang through my mind. Even in the middle of the night, the steady drumbeat of rain against my window woke me up. It disturbed my sweet, peaceful rest, in much the same way that an insistent telephone interrupted Dorothy Parker’s train of thought, leading her to ask, “What fresh hell is this?”I’m not sure which of the following occasions left me the most peeved:
1) Deciding on Friday night to take a long drive to the Shakespeare Festival in New Jersey in Madison, based partly on the prediction that the weekend would be largely clear of rain—only to discover the next day, as I drove back and forth from the production, that I’d have to battle precipitation the whole way.
2) Getting two blocks from work yesterday, then being forced to seek shelter under a canopy and unable to move without getting soaked.
3) Listening to the radio weatherman this morning, saying that we should get no rain—and then the dreaded words—“for the most part.”
In a brief respite from all of this on Sunday, I took some pictures in Overpeck Park in Bergen County, NJ, only a mile or so from where I live. I thought I’d try out a close-up of what I see an awful lot there: puddles. Accompanying this blog is one such image.
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