Rainy Days and the Lust for Sunshine

What is it about rainy days in springtime that brings out the writer in us all?

I guess it’s because the mist rolling in, the farm fields disappearing at its touch, and the grey endless mass stretching across the heavens just scream, “Sit down and tell us a tale. Tell us your hearts delight. Let those keys sing. Let us into your…mind. Share your fairy tales, or better yet—your scary tales.”

I remember it well—

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   Twas  in a past year of our Lord, somewhere near the mid-century mark, somewhere in a hamlet in the center of farm country. It was a day much like today—one we would never forget.

   The threat of a surprise cloud burst, and an occasional lightning flash in the distance, kept my nine-years-younger, little brother and me inside that day.

   At 13 though, my Red Rider BB gun, and my brighter red, Western Flyer bicycle, called to me. My bike urged me to travel, to protect our town—no matter what the weather. And I was agreeable to the task.

   “Old Blue” was ready, too. She was loaded with a full pack of perfectly round, bright shiny, little brass trouble starters. She was uncocked though, for safety reasons at home, and because of an unfortunate incident with a weakly made light bulb in my bedroom.

   But I needed to be out there, riding the range, guarding streets, shooting boxes in the alley, making sure no bad guys were behind them—lurking around.

   Like every cowpoke and western sheriff, I knew to keep a keen eye out for danger, whether natural made, like storms; or woman made, like moms. Unfortunately, mine refused to even let me just slip outside, that day. I would have stayed right by the house. I just wanted to sit on my bike for a while, up against the garage door, under the overhang of the roof, where no rain couldn’t get to me. I wanted to sit there and reminisce about the good old days.

   Could I help it, if the last time I sat on my bike, pre-storm, the brake broke loose and ran me down the driveway after it? Its recklessness caused it to wobble and turn into the path of an oncoming car, but I saved the day, jumped on it, and took control of it in all its latent pedal power.

   However, by that time, I was facing the wrong direction. To ensure an easy, and safe, return to the house, and be a good steward of the neighborhood, and a courteous person, I had ridden it around the block, just once, to straighten out my approach to the driveway. I knew it was important to conform to the legal conventions of the road, like of driving on the right side of the street, and that was my only way to accomplish the task. Surely, anyone, even a mom could have seen that.

   Besides, had the man not stopped to share his story of my bravery and quick thinking, with my mom, everything would have been alright. It was amazing to me, listening from a slightly open door between the garage and the kitchen, how an adult could mangle a story. His inability to retell a simple incident correctly, showed me he totally misread of the situation.

   I never understood how a grown adult could stretch simple happenings into whole scary scenario, and make kids look bad, right in front of their mothers. I had to admit it though, his arm waving and gesturing even had me fooled for a minute. I assumed he was probably an actor, or something, and just naturally carried on and on. His heart grab at the end was the best though; it even made me shudder.

   As a result of the pending storm, my little brother and I shared the afternoon watching westerns on TV and eating hand fulls of dark, Charles Chips potato chips—until my dad got home.

   Suppertime was always a tenuous situation in our house. If things had gone well at work, Dad would regale us with funny stories of his old, but golden, days.

   If mom was very quiet, or someone in the house had been threatened with an unkind phrase like, “Just wait till your dad gets home, mister,” trouble was brewing. The best thing to do was stuff your mouth full of food, so you could never properly respond, or be understood if you did need to speak. And never look up from your plate, no matter what the conversation, or who was the recipient of mom’s rantings.

Mom and I shared the same house for many hours, every day, as I grew up, and yet she never seemed to experience the same things I did.