Petrograd and Me

I have been waiting for it to rain since the Fourth.  I drove home that night with Merlot stains flashing in the clouds ahead of me and I could smell it, man--water was falling somewhere.  All was calm from the car to the front door, but as I let the dog out the back a wind had picked up, blowing dirt in my face and thrashing the trees around the fence.  It was so sudden and strong, I'm afraid Joplin sprung to mind.  But then it was gone.  No damage & not a drop.  Nothing since.
Today I woke up to clouds (and my mental jukebox stuck on REM's "Bittersweet Me").  I waited all morning to hear a rumble.  When I finally ventured out to hunt down some bubble tea that I had oddly generated a craving for, the sky was a Summer diorama--swimming pool blue with shredded cotton balls gummed with paste.  Disappointing.  But I've noticed I have no problem not using the AC in the car.  My shirt gets all wet, but for as hot as it has supposedly been, it hasn't been miserable.  I've also noticed more people with their windows down, as well.
My bubble tea search took me across the river into North Lawrence with it's tiny streets named after trees, streets that are broken by train tracks, streets that end in grain silos and fields.  I believe the place I was looking for has moved downtown, but I did see a Mexican cafe I need to check out & now I know what happened to the Blue Heron.  I ended up pulling into a park I'd never seen before, bordered by a thriving community garden, and having a conversation with my friend Hot Tamale.  As we talked about Europe & cats, Wes Anderson & "failures to communicate", Porter Ricks throbbed in my speakers, a guy in a Jayhawk shirt carried his yard waste to the curb and the wind picked up.  A train hooted somewhere.
HT successfully planted an Italian bug in the dinner part of my brain, so I went to Checkers and bought stuff for bruschetta (or "bdrrrroos-kyettuh", as a certain toothy Food Network star says in my head every time I think about it).  Sadly, my garden has so far produced one cherry tomato that squirted all over my shirt.  So I love that my closest grocery store has locally-grown tomatoes and basil.  And, apparently, the stockers can be as tattooed as they want.  Now then, as I was leaving the produce section--was that a new recording for the automated vegetable spritzer or was it...thunder?  Have you ever seen a ripple go through a crowd?  Have you ever had the woman next to you yell, "Baby, just grab the small bag!  It's gonna rain!"?
And it did.  It wasn't a raging downpour but it was nice.  I love the smell of hot, wet parking lots.  I love when rain sprinkles into the car because I can't bring myself to roll the window all the way up.  I love the sound of tires on wet streets.  Swsssshhh...  At home, as I put the groceries away, Petersburg was looking at me so desperately I felt like we were living the opposite of "All Summer in a Day", so we grabbed a beer and went outside.  Ok, for me, it was Dark Side Vanilla Porter, while he munched on the fuzzy leaves of a volunteer Elm twigling.  I don't see any sign that my trashy bird bath is being utilized, but the cuttings my mom gave me from some house plants are going wild.  The grass is crunchy, the poke is droopy, the plant I thought might be a wild carrot is some kind of stick-tight.  Thunder mumbled continuously in a far-away avalanche.
This morning I was looking at a photo of Oliver's Wharf in Wapping, London, and I felt something in me twist a little.  The slant of the sun on the bricks, October outside my Ridgway windows, facing North Joplin, circa 1998.  Nodding off at the kitchen table, reading Ulysses.  Where's the doorway to that place?