Dancing in the Rain
The many-colored little blooms (ones now approved by management) in my flower bed are brightening up my corner of the community. Thanks to those sweet girls who planted them, and to my daughter who added the golden Primroses.
To maintain their beauty they need a lot of water and that means hauling it out in my wheelchair- two gallon jugs at a time.
It is very hot here, and dry. We could sure use some gentle showers.
I remember the sudden summer showers in upstate New York where I had my first farm, Singing Meadows. We had a shallow,
hand-dug well and that first summer was a really dry one. Between watering animals and the large garden, that well was
very low by August. Rain, even a good thunderstorm, was most welcome. When a black cloud appeared slipping around the mountain top, the children and I would grab soap and shampoo.
The rain fell, soft and warm, and my pretty daughters soaped their long hair with with rainbow bubbles. They always hoped the shower would last long enough to get their hair well rinsed.
Then we would all dance about the lawn, wet grass between our toes, faces and bodies kissed by nature's shower. No modern indoor shower, with all the choices of power level, can imitate the sensation of being washed clean. Nor can it mimic the joy of dancing in the rain, washing more than the body.
Our hens ran for the cover of the coop. Not fans of rain. I have heard that hens can drown in the rain if they look up. I have had hens many years and never had one drown in the rain. Maybe only because they felt it coming and half ran, half flew in haste to hide from it.
The cats were not fans of bathing either as they sat on the porch
fascinated by the water dripping from the eaves.
The foolish angle worms popped from the safety of the earth to
lie helpless on the grass. They could not dance. The Robins did
dance, black and red bodies glistening, as they gobbled up the
feast the rain had delivered.
The trees danced, swaying with the breeze, the Poplars with their leaves turned bottom up to better drink the moisture.
The flowers danced, their beauty shining even more brilliantly,
magnified by mirror brightness of raindrops.
My children are grown. The farm is gone.
I am told that I am old. I miss dancing in the rain. My soul feels a bit dry. Perhaps when the next shower comes, I will
slip through the door in this wheelchair and dance in the rain
once more.
To maintain their beauty they need a lot of water and that means hauling it out in my wheelchair- two gallon jugs at a time.
It is very hot here, and dry. We could sure use some gentle showers.
I remember the sudden summer showers in upstate New York where I had my first farm, Singing Meadows. We had a shallow,
hand-dug well and that first summer was a really dry one. Between watering animals and the large garden, that well was
very low by August. Rain, even a good thunderstorm, was most welcome. When a black cloud appeared slipping around the mountain top, the children and I would grab soap and shampoo.
The rain fell, soft and warm, and my pretty daughters soaped their long hair with with rainbow bubbles. They always hoped the shower would last long enough to get their hair well rinsed.
Then we would all dance about the lawn, wet grass between our toes, faces and bodies kissed by nature's shower. No modern indoor shower, with all the choices of power level, can imitate the sensation of being washed clean. Nor can it mimic the joy of dancing in the rain, washing more than the body.
Our hens ran for the cover of the coop. Not fans of rain. I have heard that hens can drown in the rain if they look up. I have had hens many years and never had one drown in the rain. Maybe only because they felt it coming and half ran, half flew in haste to hide from it.
The cats were not fans of bathing either as they sat on the porch
fascinated by the water dripping from the eaves.
The foolish angle worms popped from the safety of the earth to
lie helpless on the grass. They could not dance. The Robins did
dance, black and red bodies glistening, as they gobbled up the
feast the rain had delivered.
The trees danced, swaying with the breeze, the Poplars with their leaves turned bottom up to better drink the moisture.
The flowers danced, their beauty shining even more brilliantly,
magnified by mirror brightness of raindrops.
My children are grown. The farm is gone.
I am told that I am old. I miss dancing in the rain. My soul feels a bit dry. Perhaps when the next shower comes, I will
slip through the door in this wheelchair and dance in the rain
once more.
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