grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

what the dogs smell (let it rain)

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My walks with Lucy and Annabelle consist more of stopping and starting than walking. We play a sniffing game, especially after a rain or snowstorm. For just one day, I’d love to be able to smell what the dogs smell. To be that alert and aware, so alert they nearly pull my arm out of socket when a scent hits their noses and yanks me in a completely different direction.

What’s in the rain?

what the dogs smell

Does the water revitalize the scent of the soil, the tracks of the squirrel, the mark of another dog? Or is there more to it?

The same rain has fallen since the beginning of time.

Rain.

Evaporation.

Rain.

Evaporation.

And with the process, a world of smells travels from the ground, into the rivers and lakes and oceans and into the clouds overhead. The smells of yesterday. History. Animals, extinct and present. People, here and long gone. Every smell that ever existed has been soaked into those rain droplets and snowflakes.

That’s what I like to imagine anyway.

The history in the smell of rain is responsible for our less than smooth strolls. It’s not just dog pee.

what the dogs smell

I love the smell of rain—that distinct earthy aroma that’s difficult to describe yet immediately noticed. A smell that always grabs my attention and makes me pause and inhale long and deep. What do the dogs smell? The explosion of a Civil War musket? Tracks left behind by the Cherokee who settled in this area? The smell of a wolf pack, their ancestors?

Or is it merely the squirrel sitting on the branch above their heads?

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

[tweetthis]I’d like to smell what the dogs smell. #historyintherain[/tweetthis]

Musical Pairing:

Eric Clapton, Let It Rain

“Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away.”

― Helen Keller

 

the dark side of writing

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A few days ago, I threw myself an old-fashioned pity party.  Just me and my faithful schnauzers.

And potato chips. 

What began as a morning of productive writing spiraled into an afternoon filled with thoughts of what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life and what-makes-me-think-I-can-write-anything-worthwhile? 
writer's block grace grits and gardening

It was ugly. 
And it all started because I let someone get under my skin. 
A simple comment brought back a flood of insecurities and second guesses. Add to this a lingering sore throat and ear ache plus another 100+ degree day, and I became a crazed and disheartened shut-in wallowing on the couch.

Writing can be lonely and dark on the best of days. Staring at a blank sheet of paper, seeing self-doubt instead of words.

I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.

creative writing

And then it began to rain.
In Dallas.
In August.
A steady soaking rain.
From the porch swing I watched fat drops splatter on my tired ferns. The trees took notice as a breeze moved through, dropping the temperature instantly. The entire neighborhood exhaled.
I grabbed my journal and wrote about the rain. Its smell and feel and the way the steam rose from the sidewalk. A few houses down, kids laughed and splashed, delighting in the rareness.
And I remembered why I write.
talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.


Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow. -Margaret Atwood 

“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon
The Sky is Crying, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!