Today is a cool and damp morning in the Berkshires: this weekend
may be filled with bright sunshine, but the morning skies adorning this day are
quiet and gray. Apparently there was a massive storm last night that proceeded
to knock-out the power for 20,000+ people north of us, but I slept through it
all. How like me to miss something so significant?
Toward evening, as the light failed
and the pear tree at my
window darkened,
I put down my book and
stood at the open door,
the first raindrops
gusting in the eaves,
a smell of wet clay in
the wind.
Sixty years ago, lying
beside my father,
half asleep, on a bed of
pine boughs as rain
drummed against our tent,
I heard
for the first time a
loon’s sudden wail
drifting across that
remote lake—
a loneliness like no
other,
though what I heard as
inconsolable
may have been only the
sound of something
untamed and nameless
singing itself to the
wilderness around it
and to us until we slept.
And thinking of my father
and of good companions
gone
into oblivion, I heard
the steady sound of rain
and the soft lapping of
water, and did not know
whether it was grief or
joy or something other
that surged against my
heart
and held me listening
there so long and late.
("Rain" by
Peter Everwine)
This weekend our small
family - at least parts of it - will gather for a late afternoon
blessing ritual for our grandson. There will be prayers and water with feasting
to follow. There will laughter and tears, too. We will use a basin to catch the
holy water that has been in my family for generations. It was, in fact, a part
of our youngest daughter’s baptism thirty some years ago. Now that my father is closing up his home and
moving in with my sister, this basin has traveled from Maryland to Massachusetts
and one generation to another.
For some reason melancholia
saturates this hour: maybe it comes from my awareness that as one beloved baby
boy ripens in beauty and promise, another old man’s life is in retreat. It
could have something to do with the complexity of family gatherings. Or maybe I
just don’t want to clean the house right now – but must. I know things always
feel better after I dust, but still…
This odd poem by James
Witcomb Riley makes me smile and reminds me of Ecclesiastes in the Bible. It is a good word for a quiet, gray morning.
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's
jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y
rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents—
Although
they're apt to grumble some—
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And
takes things as they come—
That
is, the commonality
Of
men that's lived as long as me
Has
watched the world enugh to learn
They're
not the boss of this concern.
With some, of course, it's different—
I've
saw young men that
knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On
this terrestchul ball;—
But
all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained
jest as hard on picnic day;
Er,
when they railly wanted it,
It
mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existunce, dry and wet
Will
overtake the best of men—
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The
sun off now and then.—
And
mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've
fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And want it—out'll pop the sun,
And
you'll be glad you hain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too—
They's
too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before
the plowin' 's done:
And
mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest
as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will
ketch the storm—and jest about
The
time the corn's a-jintin' out.
These-here cy-clones a-foolin' round—
And
back'ard crops!—and wind and rain!—
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May
elbow up again!—
They
hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer
mortuls, sech as us, to be
A-faultin'
Natchur's wise intents,
And
lockin' horns with Providence!
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's
jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y,
rain's my choice.
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