I’m sitting on the porch listening to KKFI’s women’s blues show in the rain. Nothing unusual except the word and reality of rain. I can’t remember the last time it rained for more than an inkling over the last three months of one of the Midwest’s worst droughts ever.
While I experienced rain in travels to Lake Superior and the Green Mountains of Vermont, there’s noting like rain at home when home is dying (literally) for it. In the last months, I’ve seen horizons full of dying or dead corn, the browning leaves of trees along the road, and little splashes of burnt grass along I-70 from where one person’s tossed cigarette became a big field’s death rattle. The green of the fields around the house was parched away sometime in early July, and even Cottonwood Mel started dropping his leaves months early.
So in celebration of the rain, I plan to hang out with it as much as I can today, admiring how it just took years off my car, let the dog make giant paw prints throughout the house, and washed away the dust in my mind.
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