WHIMSICAL RAIN CAN BRIGHTEN OR SADDEN DAYS

To those who are now in the flood area, it may seem audacious of me to write a paean of praise for summer rain. Nevertheless, to sit under a roofed open porch and watch the sweet summer rain come down the hill, cross the creek, and arrive at the back steps is a pleasant occasion, especially if the preceding hours have been hot and muggy.

Such a rain doesn't pop in like unexpected company. First I notice the dappled shadows of the yard trees come and go more frequently until they disappear altogether. Scanning the skies for the reason, I note that the big billowy clouds along the southwestern horizon have covered the whole blue bowl of the sky while I was watching the mother robins feeding their young or splashing in the bird bath.

You can hear and smell the rain before it actually arrives. I guess the rain itself doesn't smell, but the leaves and grass and dust it falls upon creates an inimitable, refreshing odor that is so welcome after long hot days.

I hear the rain on distant trees, then on nearer roofs and streets. A big splattering drop on the nearby metal awning is its announcement that it has arrived. Other loud drops soon follow on the sidewalks and porch roof. The bird bath gives off a watery sound where the raindrops fall. I'm sure the angle and thickness of every tree leaf creates a different sound for each raindrop, but altogether the sound can simply be called Summer Rain.

Soon enough rain has accumulated on the porch roof to start running off in little rivulets. Being forewarned, I set two buckets under the main channels to catch the water. Such water is better for potted plants than faucet water.

For years I've thought about placing a rain barrel at a garage down spout which I can have sawed off. Mosquito breeding ground? I think the martins would thank me. Where can I get an old fashioned, metal-banded rain barrel?

I sit on the porch, looking and listening to the rain and for the final hush of the birds as they seek some shelter. A stout breeze comes and I inch my seat over to the north, keep inching until I'm slap-dab up against the begonia stand. My hair frizzes but I don't care. My T-shirt begins to stick, but I don't care. No one's coming, I tell myself.

Soon a little blue patch, about the size of a man's hand, appears in the western sky. It grows bigger and bigger. A patch of sunlight comes down the hill, stops, starts again. It reaches neighbor No. 4, No. 3, No. 2 and then reaches my yard, setting afire the raindrops that hand suspended from the grass blades and tree leaves.

Bumblebees (wherever did they go?) come back to the hollyhocks and load up their leg bags with the yellow pollen. The blossoms bow to the rain, thus keeping their pollen dry.

Birds start singing again, tentatively. The wrens usually give the signal. Soon the whole chorus is going as if the rain has raised the curtain of a new act in which they have main parts.

Its unexplainable how the birds gather around the bird bath after the rain as if they've just discovered it. They bicker and snap over whose turn it is to get in first. Is it the rainwater they like so well? Sometimes it ends up with three or four birds of different kind in the bird tub at once. With all the happy fluttering the water is soon gone. I look questioningly at the water I have caught. Should I give them one more rainwater frolic or save it for the red begonias I almost smashed. I pursue my rain barrel thought.

My pumpkin seeds (3) are up and healthy looking. Late, I know, but, maturing in 120 days, they'll just be ready for the first frost. I don't know how I'm going to keep the vine (I think I'll pare it down to one) out of harm's way. Maybe I'll train the vine up my latticed garden seat and build even more little shelves for the pumpkins (Or pumpkin, I think I'll go for just one) to sit on, if any blossoms should be so kind as to appear at convenient places. More sweet summer rains will come and I won't have to carry water for the pumpkin-to-be (wishful thinking).

This isn't just a poetic thought. Thomza once had a pumpkin to grow so that it sat on a bench. Why, through squinted eyes, I can just see a live pumpkin resting out there on the garden seat where the plastic rabbit now sits, his head just above the zinnias. Or, is that a real rabbit I see?

REJOICE!