To Walk Between Raindrops

ProetryPlace Blog 77:  To Walk Between Raindrops

storm clouds roil and rage

stepping out into the rain

Mother’s voice descends

     Five-year-old Richard wonders, “But what if it rains?”

     Mom replies, “Just walk between the raindrops.”

     As a young child, I took my mother’s advice quite literally and, on occasion, did try to dodge the raindrops while wondering about the impossibility of it all. Why would she tell me that?

     As a young man, I loved to walk in a gentle summer rain, especially in the dark.  The night rain afforded quiet solitude and pleasure and never failed to bring Mom’s sage words to mind. I can hear her still, but now know that her meaning was to make the most of any situation and not let adversity overcome you.

     Others have put it this way, “Don’t wait for the storm to pass, learn to dance in the rain>”

     Dolly and I spent the past week at a rustic resort in the North Georgia mountains. The Chattahoochee River churns its way past the resort and winds its rocky way through the adjacent, quaint  “Bavarian” town of Helen. We have spent the same week here for the past 18 years, a week that often comprises Halloween and the last few days of Oktoberfest celebrations. We know which shops and restaurants we like to visit and which to avoid, but we try something new every year—perhaps visiting one of the scenic waterfalls in the area or sampling the vintage at a new winery.

     The Fest Halle is always a must. We sit at one of the long tables with strangers who crowd into the hall to enjoy the continental music, the special German dishes, the imported German beer (by the mug or by the pitcher) and the simple Gemutlichkeit. For years we danced the polkas and the chicken dance and participated in the long, patriotic conga lines that snaked around the hall as a highlight of the evening. These days, we are observers of such musical festivities. We reminisce. We leave a little early.

     The crisp, cool autumn weather during these weeks often demands a sweater or jacket at night. The days are comfortable under brilliant blue skies that backdrop the gorgeous fall foliage displayed on the hills and ridges surrounding the town. Daytime hours, when not shopping or eating out, are filled with reading some new volume of fiction or poetry unless the quiet, peaceful environment inspires me to add my own contributions to the literary world.

     This year, it rained.  It rained during the day. It rained at night. The Chattahoochee and Chestatee Rivers ran fast and high. The beautiful colors where masked by rain and fog and rendered dismal and dull. It rained on Saturday. It rained on Sunday. On Monday it rained, and again on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. It rained as we packed the car on Friday to return home in the rain.

     Last fall, Dolly could walk but could not climb the stairs into our upper condo unit. This year, with Dolly confined to a wheelchair, we occupied a lower unit for easier accessibility. Our annual pilgrimage has become much more difficult. Possibly this past week is the last visit we can make to our autumn sanctuary. Hence I felt a special poignancy that might have turned to depression in the constant rain.

     But there were sources of brightness that shined through the rain. Our daughter, Jennie, who we seldom see because she lives in Colorado, spent the entire week with us, plus a few days at home. Besides the simple pleasure of having her with us, she provided constant care-giving assistance for her mom. It is doubtful that I could have managed more than a day or two on my own without her help.

     Additionally, our son, Dan, and his family stayed at the resort for a part of the week to provide more help and hours of family togetherness away from home.

     So, somehow, we managed to stay our allotted time. Our week in the mountains, while soggy and dark was once again fulfilling, refreshing and enjoyable, enabled by the love of family. We had dodged the raindrops.

                                                  

     Now we are home again, alone together, missing our kids and grandkids. And it is still raining.

Richard Allen Anderson     ProetryPlace Blog 77     9 November 2015