Rain, glorious rain

Storms never last

The rumbling sound of distant thunder heralded the impending arrival of the storm.  The skies took on a darkened broodiness and the birds fluttered from tree to tree seeking shelter.  Their frantic bird song sounded as if they were warning each other or calling their children home.

The fragrance and heaviness of rain clung to the air in droplets invisible. The coming storm was inevitable.

Soon the sound of raindrops could be heard as well as felt.  They fell lightly at first like a sweet baby’s kiss, then heavier they fell, larger in number and pelting my exposed skin, driving me to shelter.

The thunder was closer and a crack of lightening split the sky.  All the birds were now silent in their places of refuge.  The trees and shrubs were bending and swaying with the wind, the tender flowers taking a beating.

The sound of rain was all around, pelting the windows, falling on the rooftops, splashing into puddles, rushing down the gutters and spilling to the ground, a melodious symphony.

Rain, glorious rain, falling, falling down, refreshing the earth.

Retro rainy day

Vintage lady bug radio

Vintage lady bug radio

A symphony of rain cascades down from skies that were blue only moments ago.  It’s as if there is a drummer at each window and one on the roof above, each playing from a different set of music, yet somehow blending into a most worthy concert.

As the rain falls, I sit, pen in hand, drowsy gaze resting on my 2 day old pink pedicure.  I smile, suddenly catching a glimpse (in my memory’s eye) of my mom brushing the last stroke of her favorite mauve shade on her toenails.  She looks up at me and says, “How’s the book?”  “It’s great, hard to put down”, I say as I back away, the heavy scent of nail polish assailing my sensitive nostrils.  Mom and I shared a great love for reading, so she understood my brevity.

I step inside the room I share with my younger sister, adjust the Holly Hobbie curtains to let some more light in, and resume my devouring of “The Hobbit”.

Across the hall , a towheaded little boy sporting a coon skin cap bought on vacation in the Great Smoky Mountains, and a red-headed little girl, lie on their stomachs on the “groovy gold” shag carpeting. They are surrounded by an army of “Best of the West” figures, set complete with Johnny West, Geronimo and General Custer.

Soon I hear the sound of dishes as mom begins dinner preparations and I turn on my little am radio, which is sitting on the Holly Hobbie table between our twin, Holly Hobbie spread laden beds.  The radio was a lady bug and the wings opened when I turned it on.  It was one of my most prized possessions at the time.

Music playing and all was right and peaceful in my pubescent world, not a care on my mind.  Reading while the rain fell outside was one of my favorite things.  The hard thing would be leaving my book when Dad arrived and dinner was on the table.

As I snap back to the present, the rain has ceased.  I’m thankful for a few wonderful moments caught up in seemingly austere, but precious childhood memories.

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