I think that I will never see, something lovely as a tree ... house

Heavenly night. An hour and 15 minutes from the time I leave the New Orleans CBD (which abuts the French Quarter), I arrive back at the treehouse, where it smells divine. After 114 degree heat advisory, the rain has come. Not the torrential variety like we had last night, which created a plethora of lakes around the treehouse and makes me run to unplug everything that could possibly fry from lightning, but the steady, gentle, comforting kind that makes the air smell achingly sweet and fresh, and nourishes the staggering pines that surround me.

Several people asked me in New Orleans over the weekend when/if I was moving back to the south shore. They still don't understand that I'm bitten.

Bitten by all things small and wonderful. Like alighting from my car to see kids learn the basics of baseball on the green expanse out back. Like neighbors sitting on porches greeting me by name as I walk from my trusty Rocinante to the mailbox where a letter from my mother awaits. I know who's retired, who's working and where, and who's nuts. They, in turn, know me as the lady whose piano they hear while taking their dogs out for their nightly constitutionals. They like it, they say. So professional sounding, they say. Where could I find critics this generous in the city?

The thunder begins to rumble from a distance. The air conditioner hums contentedly. It's time to drain the pasta, have a glass of table wine, and curl up with a book from the library of children's literature at the top of the stairs. No ballet teaching tonight -- the children are enjoying a 4th of July holiday from the school all week.

A treehouse is a wonderful thing on a rainy evening in late June in Mandeville.