The Colour of American Summers in the 1950s

I read Sylvia Plath's journals a number of years ago now. I remember one entry where she had submitted a poem to the publisher entitled 'Rain'. The publisher rejected the poem saying that whenever America had had rain, they were inundated (floundering you might say) in poems called 'Rain'.
I must be remembering this incorrectly.
Surely all of America would not have had the same weather conditions at the same time, enough to provoke a deluge of submissions of poems to publishers? Same rain, different time-zones... I would go back to double check this, but the collected journals are hundreds of pages along and I like the idea of America having one uniform weather...
Raining today obviously, a slow, thick rain, greasily coating the pavements with an oil-like sheen. A coldness to the water too, this is the rain of drowning, not poems. A slow motion shower, a doom metal drizzle, a grey celebration of the depths of English winters. No drama, just a gloomy headache-y comfort.
I dreamt once of Sylvia Plath. The television set came replaying a short video of her, sat underneath a tree at a picnic in the 1950s. I did not know where the transmission was coming from and concluded that it was some kind of signal from the past. The picture was fuzzy and kept jumping. Some colours over saturated, while others were pale and bleached out. The sunlight was the colour of old wallpaper, bright and wrong and feverish. I have always thought of that colour, since the dream, as that of American summers in the 1950s. No details could be seen, only Plath's oddly predatory smile as she poured tea into tea cups that were dark as shadows.