We’ll take the rain no matter what it smells like

“Petrichor” is one of those five-dollar words that you might fling at someone you are trying to impress, or put off, at a church picnic. It describes the earthy, pleasant smell when rain dampens dry soil. This morning on the way to the coop to feed our six chickens, the latest addition to the ranch, I smelled what I thought was petrichor, albeit mixed with a whiff of manure from the ranch abutting ours. Make it petrichor-lite, but certainly our very own spring-like aroma.

I also almost stepped on a bright-orange flower, no more than an inch high, that had demurely popped out of the otherwise barren ground around it. Damn if when I went back to take a picture of it a couple of hours later it had either disappeared or I couldn’t remember where I saw it. But I took its ephemeral appearance as a sure sign our version of spring is finally percolating.

In reality, I’m not sure our climate around here is very amenable to something as subtle as a gentle rain leading to petrichor. At the beginning of May we were in the middle of our intense but brief version of summer, when temperatures crept up into the 90s with nary a breeze or hint of rain to soften the blow. Meanwhile, up in the northern climes spring was well on its way, temperatures had turned milder several weeks before and regular showers had prompted trees to bud and bulbs to pop. It sounds downright civilized compared to our bumpier seasonal transitions.

Instead, by February we are in the middle of the dry season. By then there hasn’t been a drop of rain for three or four months, and all we can do is wistfully glance at the sky for any sign of plump gray clouds promising some respite, even if we well know that won’t happen until late May. I vote those few months in the middle of the dry season as the most unpleasant of our otherwise even-tempered climate. Natives of Chicago, New York or Paris, will quickly note that their interminably gray and clammy days of February are not anyone’s idea of a perfect climate either, but at least they won’t have to wait for spring as long as we do.

Rain returns around here abruptly, almost monsoon-like by the end of May, without a gentle, petrichor-inducing transition. During the past two days we’ve had more than three inches of rain cascading amid an overnight sound and light spectacle. Fortunately, the rains begin punctually around three- or four o’clock, gathering strength overnight. Then the following morning, around nine or ten o’clock, the soupy morning fog dissipates to let the sun come out and provide a five- or six-hour pause to give water-starved plants a chance to absorb the sudden moisture. This almost clockwork cycle also works perfectly to recharge the batteries of our solar electricity system.

Despite how disjointed our weather cycles may seem, spring does come eventually, even early in the case of some trees. About six weeks ago, our orchid tree by the back terrace burst with a fireworks-like display of mauve flowers, and a magnolia next to it put on its own timid display of floppy white flowers shortly afterward. The orchid tree is finished blooming but looks like the victim of a ten-peso special at a Mexican barber shop, thanks to an overly enthusiastic pruning job by Félix. Out in front of the house, a lone aloe is in the middle of a private show of orange flowers, well ahead of of it companions around it.

Another sign of spring, barely starting, is an outbreak of zinnia seedlings popping up seemingly everywhere, by the hundreds, maybe thousands, the result of Félix’ devotion to collecting all zinnia seeds at the end of the season and saving them in ziploc bags. We received our first seed packet of some rampant species of zinnias from the U.S. about three years ago, and as a result of Félix’ seed collection and the realities of geometric multiplication, this year we are going to have zinnias everywhere, even by the fence on the front of the ranch. Maybe we should rename the place Rancho Zinnialinda.

But so okay, maybe our torrential rains, muddy ground and the smell of cowshit from our neighbor’s ranch don’t quite add up to anything as delicate an aroma of “petrichor.” But after seven-month long dry season, we’ll take all the rain we can get no matter what it smells like. And petrichor or no, eight tomato plants, along with peas, cucumbers and other vegetables are quietly doing their own rite of spring under the cover of our two raised beds.

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Closer to the ground