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It's storming!
Jan. 18th, 2006 08:01 amI love hearing the rain splat in big, fast drops. The wind for short bursts, pushing it sideways. It's best enjoyed sitting in the warm office, looking out. There's a very delicate "tink, tink, tink" sound from the kitchen when the rain hits the metal on the roof and the sound vibrates down and is amplified by the exhaust hood over the stove. I adore rain, even when I have to be out in it - exasperatingly wet, but still appreciated.
Sometimes I take a few minutes to sit in the car when it's raining, listening. It takes me back to my midwest youth and all the rainy days I'd go sit in the hayloft. Rhythmic tip tapping on the galvanized tin roof just above my head. Sometimes, when the loft was almost full of hay, I would lay down and the tin would be less than a foot away from my face. It was too dark to read. I'd lay there, thinking the deep thoughts of the young, often slipping into a light sleep. Sometimes,instead of hay there was alfalfa, so sweet smelling. I don't remember sneezing very often. Today I'm sure I'd have a full blown allergy attack.
These were Illinois summer rains, when we spent time on the farm. The kind of rain you can sit outside in and not get a chill. The kind of rain you hoped for so you could watch the field of corn or wheat almost grow an inch over night. The kind of rain when I didn't feel sorry for the cows out in the field. The kind of rain that inspired my mom to take a break from cooking, cleaning and laundry just to sit with me on the back porch, sipping something cold, watching the rain and talking. These were the story rains. If I couldn't be out running around, I'd be bored. I missed my friends in the city, where we lived during the school year. We only had a small tv that picked up 3 stations on a good day. I often ran out of books or old Readers Digest's to read.
These were the times I heard her childhood stories. Stories I must write down. Stories of growing up during the depression, her father dead and her mother speaking very, very limited English. These are the stories that come to me on a rainy day.
Sometimes I take a few minutes to sit in the car when it's raining, listening. It takes me back to my midwest youth and all the rainy days I'd go sit in the hayloft. Rhythmic tip tapping on the galvanized tin roof just above my head. Sometimes, when the loft was almost full of hay, I would lay down and the tin would be less than a foot away from my face. It was too dark to read. I'd lay there, thinking the deep thoughts of the young, often slipping into a light sleep. Sometimes,instead of hay there was alfalfa, so sweet smelling. I don't remember sneezing very often. Today I'm sure I'd have a full blown allergy attack.
These were Illinois summer rains, when we spent time on the farm. The kind of rain you can sit outside in and not get a chill. The kind of rain you hoped for so you could watch the field of corn or wheat almost grow an inch over night. The kind of rain when I didn't feel sorry for the cows out in the field. The kind of rain that inspired my mom to take a break from cooking, cleaning and laundry just to sit with me on the back porch, sipping something cold, watching the rain and talking. These were the story rains. If I couldn't be out running around, I'd be bored. I missed my friends in the city, where we lived during the school year. We only had a small tv that picked up 3 stations on a good day. I often ran out of books or old Readers Digest's to read.
These were the times I heard her childhood stories. Stories I must write down. Stories of growing up during the depression, her father dead and her mother speaking very, very limited English. These are the stories that come to me on a rainy day.
