Rain Barrells on the Roof, 1915

It’s raining and I’m glad. Not from any concerns about ‘needing’ it, although we probably do. I’m pleased about it for the same reason I would be pleased to see a good friend after an extended absence. I hadn’t even realized how much I’d been missing the gray skies and gentle pitter-patter these past few months.

I’ve been trying to think when it was that it last had rain. Real rain, I mean – the kind that settles in for a day or two and envelops us like a big, wet blanket. Not the kind that comes on a blue sky day when a heavy cloud decides to rid itself of its burden right on top of us. No, not that kind. And not the sideways kind that comes in with tree-tearing winds and makes it hard for our chickens to stay rooted in their run. Nope. I’m talking plain old rain – somewhere between drizzle and downpour.

On Sunday at the Poetry Reading here, Bob Pyle mentioned being in our very library a few years back for a Willapa Hills concert. “I was sitting right here,” he said, “and I was watching the tears course down Ray Räihälä’s face as the Willapa Hills sang his song, ‘Rain.’ It was an extraordinary experience.”

I remember that concert and, of course, know the song. And Ray. But I wasn’t sitting in a place that I could see his response to the Willapa Hills’ great rendition of ‘Rain’. When I walked through the wet to feed the chickens this morning I thought about Bob’s remarks and about Ray’s wonderful song and about the Willapa Hills. And then I thought about all the connections and memories and music and laughter that are associated with rain. No wonder I’ve been missing it!

But… just now I went outside for a moment to say “goodbye” to our friend Linda who had been here helping us out for a day or two. And guess what. The rain has stopped. Damn!