Jul. 18, 2003 - 23:19 MDT

THE WONDERING JEW

It Rained

I can barely remember the first time that Dad and I, me perched on something, watched and listened to a big thunderstorm. Of course there was water - a bunch of it.

Our windows had screen held on with slats on the outside of the jamb and windows opening inside which left enough room for me to lean on my elbows at the open window and watch the lightning streak across the sky and listen to the rumble and crack of thunder while the rain fell in floods. Some raindrops striking the screen and spattering a bit of moisture on me and the smell of rain wet earth coming in from the outside. All that drama was a better show than going to the theater.

Along with that action, in the periodic quiet spells where only the rain could be heard I would ask those boyish questions one often asks of a Dad. "How much rain is that Dad ?" "What makes the thunder ?" What makes the lightning ?" "Where is it coming from ?" Seems as if I must have asked him those questions innumberable times, but there was a mystique about the storm thing with me. Lights, action, THUNdddderrrr ! ! ! and the roar of rain. It helped that some of those times happened around bedtime and let me stay up a little past my regular bedtime.

A peaceful, restful sleep - often with the sound of rain softly falling and the smell of wet coming in our windows leading to an awakening to look out the window in the morning and see a bright, sparkling new world or so it seemed to me then.

But by morning there were no puddles left for me to stomp through, how sad that was to me.

Then, late in the year as it grew colder and it snowed a bit, then melted leaving puddles which would freeze at night leaving a thin skin of ice. I would arrive at school with wet shoes because at every one I encountered an unholy urge to stomp through the ice took over and voila - new or old my shoes got wet, sopping if there were enough puddles frozen over.

There was no viewing of the snow falling from our windows in the winter as they usually were wearing their wet coats and were foggy. But once in a while the circumstances were such that snow would fall overnight and before Dad freshened the fire and the windows got steamed over, I could see the fresh snow in the yard, untracked as yet. Our dog Peggy would be whining to get out, I would let her out and she would run with her nose to the ground leaving a mounded trail of snow like a gopher does in the earth sometimes. After while she would come to the door, shake the wet off and scratch to come in, being let in the smell of wet dog fur would permeate the kitchen. I enjoyed watching her more than I would have liked to be doing it.

When I was young, every day was a treat to my senses one way or another or several treats for the day.

Now being old and frayed I watch and listen to the TV and after while when Heather comes in the room I make a calm statement to her, "It rained" . . . . . . . . . . . .

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