At precisely this time of year, every year I become just a bit melancholy. I suppose it must be the jumble of memories combined with the barren expanse of the unknown we call tomorrow; maybe it is nothing more than allergies, whatever the cause I have come to expect this strangely sweet sadness. I have posted this quote here before but it is one of my favorites from Charles Kuralt and I think, worthy of repeating, “There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass”. If I were going to be buried, I would have that quote put on my headstone. Strangely, when this melancholy mood strikes, the best cure I have found is walking in the rain. It has been that way for as long as I can remember when I am troubled just the thought of walking in the rain helps to ease the stress.
I can recall the first time I (along with one of my brothers) made a conscious decision to take a walk in the rain. I do not remember exactly when it was but I suppose I must have been about seven or eight and he six or seven; it had to be some time in late October or early November because all the leaves had fallen but it was not cold enough to deter our enthusiasm for building our own wigwam with fallen sticks and old rags (if memory serves, we may have used a couple of things that were not rags). We were in kid heaven sitting in that colorful, cozy hideaway. We were happily making plans to sleep in our glorious new home when it started to rain. Shock of shocks, our wigwam started to leak! Well, what was there to do but what a real Indian would do inside his wigwam; we built a fire. (Oh, hush now; really just calm down and relax, I am here writing this, and my brother grew into a fine man.) It was only a wee fire and I am pretty sure my mother started screaming before the thought of building a fire actually translated into the act of striking a match. At this point I will only say that we were no longer cold or wet when she finished with us, in fact our behinds were smoking.
Feeling mad and sad, dejected and misunderstood as well as too sore to sit down, we decided to runaway. “But, Bobby,” said I (ever the voice of reason). “It’s raining and we will be in worse trouble if we get sick.”
“Oh no we won’t,” said Bobby (the bravest person I have ever known) “they won’t find us. If we head down the hollow and then back up the creek we can stay in that cave down by the rock, it’ll be okay.”
And off we went, down the hollow and up the creek and then down to the rock. We stopped just shy of the cave and though I cannot tell you what Bobby was thinking I would lay Jacks to Jill that I was thinking about bears and skunks, and the mountain lion Bobby had fought with his bare hands last summer. We stood there, the rain washing away the hurt and sadness, for a long time and then Bobby said, “Awe come on. She’ll be worried about us if we don’t get back by dark”. (Bobby is also one of the wisest men I have ever known.)
Walking back home I clearly remember thinking that I sure hoped it would rain the next time I got my bottom tanned.
There is always hope.
Betty
No comments:
Post a Comment