Raindance

The geese were the first to leave.

Rising as one, on powerful, silent wings, I watched them from the front room window. They headed south, through a wet, slate-gray sky as the day reluctantly cast aside its shroud of darkness.

As usual, the old man was up early, and, with coffee in hand, joined me at the window.

“Gonna be a wet one today. We’d best get the place ready for it,” he said. The steam, rising from his mug, danced on invisible currents created by the changing weather and the leaky house.

The house had withstood every environmental challenge for nearly three-quarters of a century. Careful planning and foresight by those buried behind the church had created the safe but drafty refuge we shared today.

The Columbus Day storm of ’63 had uprooted several nearby oaks, tossing them about like the Tinker Toys which had long ago decorated the living room floor. Three feet of heavy, wet winter snow had quilted the landscape in ’68. Both the house and barn had staggered under the frosty, sodden weight, but remained standing while others fell.

Winds blew, rains fell, and storms howled, but the old house held its ground with dignity, and persevered. Those folks, all those years ago, certainly understood the makings of a house.

“Looks like we could stand a few more sticks of wood.” The old man’s words cast the die which would define the balance of the day. “I expect we’ll be getting pretty wet by noon,” he predicted with a smile, “unless we’re done with what needs done.”

A winter’s morning chores gave way to retrieving the summer’s wood. The fire wood began its final eighty foot journey as the last of the geese staggered south. The once proud, enormous oaks had been fallen, split, transported and stacked into the woodshed during some of the hottest days of August. Their final trip, from the wood shed to the old stove, exposed them one final time to the life-giving rain which had financed their growth.

At 10 o’clock, we watched the ducks rise off the rain-dimpled pond, as if commanded by an unheard voice.

Their flight pivoted them completely around the pond three times before they headed south. They flew silently, and with purpose. “They ain’t foolin’ around none with no small talk,” the old man intoned. “They know something big is headed this way.”

The sky bore him out. An unbroken front of dark, rain-laden clouds seemed to be holding, gathering strength, just beyond the range peaks, less than ten miles away. “Can’t be too long now,” he said, “nothing can hold them clouds back.

I watched him shuffle through a dance he’d learned from his grandfather.

Lock the gates—tie them with a short piece of cord—move every piece of small equipment under some sort of cover—open the barn doors to allow the cattle a shelter from the fury of the impending deluge—break out new straw for the barn stock—wire the mailbox door shut—once again prepare for the arrival of a windy, crashing visitor.

“What about the cats?” I asked. “They went under the house long ago,” he said, “they’re not nearly dumb as we are.”

I moved the old farm truck into the barn, and then walked uphill, back towards the house, bending into the stinging rain. I marveled at how cleanly the freshening wind had scrubbed the land. There wasn’t a leaf, twig or branch to be seen. I stopped and stood, facing into the rain. I wasn’t going to get any wetter or colder by surveying the place for a couple minutes.

Not an animal in sight. Trees were beginning to move more powerfully to the tempo of the increasing wind. Rain drops exploded in loud, hollow thumps onto the tree next to me.

As the angry clouds closed in on me, I began walking again. The entire horizon was blurred by sheets of cold, thick rain. The image was a water color portrait of black and gray—a soft-focus photograph into the soul of a storm.

I quickened my pace and rounded the corner of the porch to find the old man standing again at the front room window. He was staring out over the fields, just as he’d done thousands of times.

“Looks like it got you,” he said with a chuckle. I struggled to get out of my water soaked jacket. The puddle at my feet grew as I worked myself free of the wet denim.

“Yep, it got me.”

He moved towards the kitchen. I followed, hanging my jacket by the stove. My glasses steamed as we entered the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee gurgled. The warm, rich aroma filled the room.

He stood, looking out the window over the sink.

“Your Mother loved this weather,” he reflected. “She loved the smell of the rain and fresh-brewed coffee—she loved the sound of the rain running off the roof—the feel of a warm, dry room on a cold, wet day.”

His voice grew softer.

“That’s why I brew a fresh pot when it storms,” he said, staring out over the duckless, gooseless fields, from a womanless house.

“In a way, it helps me keep her near."

thank you, Gigi