This morning was one of bright sunlight, cool air, and blue sky. The leaves on our tall backyard trees cast dark green splotches of shadow on the grass, shadow that dissipated after a few hours as the sun moved higher in the sky and the day warmed up. In the afternoon Gary and I picked strawberries at Critzer Family Farm, in Nelson County, a pleasant early summer sort of activity.
Most of yesterday, in contrast, was cool and grey, damp and drizzling in the early morning, with a lowering sky until late in the afternoon. The ground was wet, the grass was wet. The air was holding
onto moisture, unwilling to let it go.
Three days ago, on Wednesday afternoon, I sat on our screened in porch, knitting and listening to low, comfortable trills of thunder, rolling west to east, from the Blue Ridge towards the hilly ridge of
the Southwest Mountains that our road is nestled under. I saw no lightning, but the clouds released a brief shower of warm rain, crisp and fresh and clean, dampening the bright green foliage of trees and bushes, grass and garden. The air was fragrant with growing things. Shortly the sun came back out,
its rays making the greenness glisten.
Thursday afternoon, sitting and knitting once again on the porch, a more pronounced storm came up. Thunder began to roll in from the west in deep waves, circling east and then back again. One clap of
thunder made me jump, it was so near. And the rain began to pour out of the sky so heavily that I had to abandon the porch for several hours, to avoid getting drenched. The cats came in too.
What is it about summer rain that is so evocative? Something about Wednesday’s soft,
fresh showers got me thinking about this, and the stronger, and then greyer,
atmospheres of Thursday and Friday have added layers of associations to my musings.
My earliest clear recollection of rain traces back to an afternoon walk with Mom and my brother Bob. I must have been three at best, and Bob was a year and a half younger. Here is a photo of us in the rain, decked out in boots and slickers. Mom wears a plastic raincoat and scarf. I like to think this photo pictures the actual walk in the rain I recall. In my memory I can smell the rainy air, hear the splash of the puddles we walk through, admire the bright colors of our rain gear.
Most of yesterday, in contrast, was cool and grey, damp and drizzling in the early morning, with a lowering sky until late in the afternoon. The ground was wet, the grass was wet. The air was holding
onto moisture, unwilling to let it go.
Three days ago, on Wednesday afternoon, I sat on our screened in porch, knitting and listening to low, comfortable trills of thunder, rolling west to east, from the Blue Ridge towards the hilly ridge of
the Southwest Mountains that our road is nestled under. I saw no lightning, but the clouds released a brief shower of warm rain, crisp and fresh and clean, dampening the bright green foliage of trees and bushes, grass and garden. The air was fragrant with growing things. Shortly the sun came back out,
its rays making the greenness glisten.
Thursday afternoon, sitting and knitting once again on the porch, a more pronounced storm came up. Thunder began to roll in from the west in deep waves, circling east and then back again. One clap of
thunder made me jump, it was so near. And the rain began to pour out of the sky so heavily that I had to abandon the porch for several hours, to avoid getting drenched. The cats came in too.
What is it about summer rain that is so evocative? Something about Wednesday’s soft,
fresh showers got me thinking about this, and the stronger, and then greyer,
atmospheres of Thursday and Friday have added layers of associations to my musings.
My earliest clear recollection of rain traces back to an afternoon walk with Mom and my brother Bob. I must have been three at best, and Bob was a year and a half younger. Here is a photo of us in the rain, decked out in boots and slickers. Mom wears a plastic raincoat and scarf. I like to think this photo pictures the actual walk in the rain I recall. In my memory I can smell the rainy air, hear the splash of the puddles we walk through, admire the bright colors of our rain gear.
Another rain memory, walking down Park Street in Charlottesville after school, again with Bob, heading to the children’s section of the old McIntire Library, across from Lee Park. We would have been maybe nine and ten – it was a time when schoolchildren could freely walk downtown, ride their bicycles, without accompaniment. I remember the smell of the rain-splashed sidewalks, the glistening leaves, the wet red brick of the building itself.
Here’s a later summer memory, dating 43 years from this coming Wednesday. After our wedding in the Church of the Incarnation Chapel, and reception in the church hall, we left in a heavy deluge of rain, lightning, thunder. It rained for the next several hours, until we caught a Trailways bus for our
honeymoon in Nags Head, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Here’s the closest I have to a photo of that rainstorm. We are running through a shower of rice in the hall toward the deluge beyond the door.
Here’s a later summer memory, dating 43 years from this coming Wednesday. After our wedding in the Church of the Incarnation Chapel, and reception in the church hall, we left in a heavy deluge of rain, lightning, thunder. It rained for the next several hours, until we caught a Trailways bus for our
honeymoon in Nags Head, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Here’s the closest I have to a photo of that rainstorm. We are running through a shower of rice in the hall toward the deluge beyond the door.
A memory from several years later. It is dark, it is thundering loudly, maybe raining, and Gary is working. I am sitting in our rocking chair, in baby Alex’s room, holding him and rocking him, and soothing both himself and me. The storm on this occasion seemed something quite elemental.
And another baby Alex memory, walking with him in the rain around the Copley Hill married student
housing neighborhood we lived in then, first with umbrella in one arm and baby in the other, then taking down the umbrella as the rain stopped and a brightly colored rainbow arched over the trees on the horizon.
Here’s a picture of 6 and ½ week old Alex, with me, rocking.
And another baby Alex memory, walking with him in the rain around the Copley Hill married student
housing neighborhood we lived in then, first with umbrella in one arm and baby in the other, then taking down the umbrella as the rain stopped and a brightly colored rainbow arched over the trees on the horizon.
Here’s a picture of 6 and ½ week old Alex, with me, rocking.
Some years later, a family beach trip to the Outer Banks, a reunion of sorts with all of us siblings and our then young children. We were heading to a favorite restaurant down the coast, on the causeway joining Nags Head to Manteo, when a heavy squally rain began, quickly filling the beach
road with water up to the floorboards of our several vehicles. A dramatic summer rain, which when we arrived at the restaurant we ran through to settle at a long table and watch its remaining act through one of the large picture windows overlooking the sound.
road with water up to the floorboards of our several vehicles. A dramatic summer rain, which when we arrived at the restaurant we ran through to settle at a long table and watch its remaining act through one of the large picture windows overlooking the sound.
Another rain memory, from just a few years back. Gary and I standing in front of our large picture window in the living room as a serious summer storm moved in. The wind was fierce and high, the sky got very dark, and a heavy rain started blowing sideways against the glass. Summer storms can be fascinating, and we basically stood there watching, transfixed. As things began to ease up, it occurred to us that instead of watching through the living room window, we should have temporarily adjourned to the basement.
And a memory from last summer. Playing putt-putt with Alex and our grandson (below, pre-rainstorm), on a warm summer afternoon. The sky darkening quickly, thunder and lightning picking up, running to the car to get out of the storm, and a heavy deluge all the way back.
And a memory from last summer. Playing putt-putt with Alex and our grandson (below, pre-rainstorm), on a warm summer afternoon. The sky darkening quickly, thunder and lightning picking up, running to the car to get out of the storm, and a heavy deluge all the way back.
Still musing on summer rain, two of our children’s old picture books came to mind. Peter Spiers’ “Rain”
(1982) is a wonderful story without words about two children enjoying a summer rainstorm.
(1982) is a wonderful story without words about two children enjoying a summer rainstorm.
And “The Storm Book” (1952), by Charlotte Zolotow, illustrated by Margaret Bloy Graham, moves from a summer storm breaking over a young boy and his mother in their country house, to city, ocean and beyond, before coming back to the young boy and the rainbow he sees in the sky after the storm
passes.
passes.
Finally, a musical association. Judy Collins’ rendition of “Sky Fell” (click song title for link) on her 1967 album “Wildflowers,” an album I played many times all those years ago:
The rain is falling down
Along with the sky
The colors and remembered suns
Are pouring by
What will I do with the sky
When it is empty?
Come to the window
Put your arms around me again
If you don't hold me
I will wash away with the rain
What will I do with my arms
When they are empty?
. . . .
Along with the sky
The colors and remembered suns
Are pouring by
What will I do with the sky
When it is empty?
Come to the window
Put your arms around me again
If you don't hold me
I will wash away with the rain
What will I do with my arms
When they are empty?
. . . .
A nostalgic note to wrap up my reminiscences of summer rain.