We are having a drought in California. I am not a summer guy, and I am not a dry-weather guy. In my longing for rain, I am reposting this rambling bit from June 25, 2013:
The Smell Of Green
When it rained there
The drops had water in them;
Magnified by drips from the trees
The water gurgling in the gully,
Rivulets patterning the driveway
Sheeting rain, the air white-grey,
But not hiding the mountain waterfall.
© George Beckman 12/19/93
This poem is about my childhood home, in “The Canyon.” Ruth and I always said we fell in love in the rain. In La Verne, in Southern California, when it rained, it rained. “The drops had water in them.”
We were in the library at La Verne College, now the University of La Verne, and decided to go for a drive. We got into my black ’50 Chevy, and she was impressed because the heater put out heat so soon. I didn’t tell her that it had only been parked there for about an hour, and the “Stove Bolt Chevy” engine had not had time to cool off. We drove that afternoon, with rain hitting the windshield while the old vacuum wipers struggled to swish back and forth. I don’t remember where we went; West, I think, and probably up the canyon. The canyon where I grew up was spectacular in the rain. If we did go up the canyon, the drops from the huge oaks along the narrow road up to the dam made extra loud plops on the roof. Because driving is the perfect time to talk, we talked, I suppose, about our histories, our lives. It was a great afternoon. We fell in love.
In New Mexico, when it rained, it rained. New Mexico, summer afternoon rains made La Verne storms seem like a drizzle. There, at 5,000 feet, it could be getting warm—85. The clouds would begin to build over the Jemez Mountains and the Sangre De Cristo Mountains. Then it would rain… hard. The temperature would drop 20 degrees in 15 minutes, and lightning would repeat its forked trip to the ground three times. We fell in love in the rain.
In Madera, it rarely rained hard. Father always said, “A Madera rain just keeps ahead of drying out.” Occasionally it would really rain. We loved to look into the pasture when the air was grey-white. We loved to hear it on the trees outside our bedroom window. We fell in love in the rain.
The first time we saw Graestone, it had been raining. We looked for two and a half hours and stood in the front yard—Bobby, Rachel, Lizzy, Ruth, Linda, our realtor, and me holding hands in a circle. We said a prayer and signed the papers on the back of Linda’s little SUV. We had fallen in love with this place, because of the rain.
We were so excited and were dying to see the place again. Linda arranged for us to bring our friends Randy and Margie and Margie’s father Ed to see the place in February. We drove up, and it was raining. We wandered around in the rain, looking at both barns, and then, carefully wiping our feet, went through the house. We fell in love with the place again, in the rain.
In May, it was time for the home inspection. Our friend Lee had given us the name of a local Win Home Inspections expert, and Linda arranged for us to be there. Her husband, Jeff, came to look over the diesel furnace—serial number 22. The furnace fired up, and the inspector said things were OK. We were still in love with the place and each other, in the rain.
We finally got the keys on June second. It was raining and cold in Colfax. The blower switch on the furnace was faulty, so I rigged an extension cord to hotwire the blower. The furnace rumbled to life, the house began to warm up and feel cozy. Rachel was here to help us lug some things we had brought. It was a great day, and it was raining. We fell in love in the rain.
This morning it is raining. We went to bed in the rain, woke up to rain, and at 10:00 AM, it is still raining. We ate at our red table in the breakfast nook and sang our morning song Margie taught us:
“God has created a new day,
Silver and green and gold…
Live that the sunset will find you
Worthy His gifts to hold.”
Ruth tagged in, “and gold and wet,” and we smiled.
It is almost July. We are in the living room with the pellet stove going. We have a wood-beamed ceiling, and it is “green on green” outside. We are talking about walking down to the mailbox—in the rain.
It is raining, with an inch and a half in the gauge! We are in love.
So, there you have it. Just a fool in love, dreaming of rain.
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