The past winter was dry. Each day dawned bright and sunny, the sky unmarred by a single cloud. The confused cherry blossoms bloomed too early. The usually rainy holidays were bone dry and passionate skiers walked around sulking. I noted the absence of snowboarding casualties, easily recognized by the men and women staggering into the gym on crutches, one leg sticking out stiffly as if an offering to appease the snowboarding gods. So after a somewhat wet spell  early this year, when it got dry again, the weatherman’s announcement that we might have another “weak but wet” front got me excited, because I was driving up to Sonoma County to stay at a bed and breakfast in the Russian River area in the town of Guerneville. As I left the city and drove north, the sky grew darker and more subdued and the hills of Marin County were startlingly emerald, undulating for miles—the gnarled California oaks making darker patches of moss green and burnt sienna. As I drove on the twisting River Road from Santa Rosa to Guerneville, it grew prematurely dark under the dark canopy of trees. I could hardly wait to walk out into the back streets nestled among the groves of redwoods and breathe in the clean air and feel mist on my upturned face, teasing me like millions of pin pricks.

Through the tangled phone lines I could see the fog shrouding the mountains. I went to bed feeling cozy and dry in the light of leaping flames of my fireplace. I opened the door the next morning with a cup of coffee in my hand and walked out onto the street under Mediterranean blue skies blazing with sunshine. I let go of my lingering regret of a dry winter. It was time to embrace summer.