May 31, 2005

Here comes the rain again

There's only a few things I miss about my old trailer.

One of them is that it took about an hour to utterly scour it front to back. I miss my yard, because I had 13 years to work on it, and I had gotten it to where I rather liked it, and could cut the entire thing in about an hour and a half. But the one thing I miss most is the rain.

Not specifically rain, because we get rain here in the brick house too. I miss the SOUND of rain. And yes, our rain makes sounds here too, just like it does everywhere, even if there's no-one for it to fall on. What I miss is the sheet metal roof of my old trailer, because when it rained, you knew it.

The lightest rain or the heaviest frog-strangler had it's own particular music on that old metal roof. And being a trailer, it had the absolute minimum of insulation, so you could feel the cool inside as soon as the temperature dropped outside, and the dampness and sometimes even that sweet smell of fresh water falling was likely to intrude, usually through a hole somewhere. But that wonderful rain music. There were rainshowers that made me want to turn off everything in the house and just listen. There were heavy morning fogs that would make the water condense on the walls and the roof and it would all drip-drip-drip off the corners in a quiet counterpoint to my heartbeat. There were storms that would lash and scream and howl, and make the very walls vibrate like a bass drum, and there were hailstorms that would make even shouts hard to hear. And there were showers that would come and go like the touch of a loved one, just long enough for you to realise it was there, and catching your breath in anticipation it would be gone, back to wherever it had sprung from.

But you could hear them. All of them.

I do so miss that. I miss turning off the air conditioner just so I could fall asleep (faster) to the sounds of an evening shower. I miss hearing the quiet pale-blue roar as the rain came across the fields and the first tap-tap-taps as the forefront of the rain began dropping tentatively on the rooftop. Even the heavy crash of a downpour was interesting to listen to, because you could hear the wind whip the rain into waves that would ebb and flow like some demented vertical tide, back and forth as the wind whipped it into sheets and eddies.

Unfortunately (depending on how you look at it, I guess) I now have a brand new asphalt shingle roof and a lot of air space between that and the ceiling, and insulation, and bricks. It's a damn fine house, and I wouldn't give it up for much of anything, but there are times, like this afternoon when I stood in the kitchen and watched, surprised, as the utterly silent gentle drizzle fell, when I wish I could hear the rain again.

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