Listening to the raindrops beat against the old glass panes brings back my favorite rainy day memories. Who among us didn’t sing along to the ditty, “It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring”? I sang it many rainy days with my childhood friends splashing through mud puddles.
On Dykes Chapel Road where I grew up, just a throne’s throw from the little red brick chapel that bears the same name, between the cow pastures and cow patties, dirt roads and screen porches of my youth, the rainy days stand out as special. I remember wrapping my legs around the posts of Daddy’s barn and climbing all the way to the tin roof where Mama warned us never to go. I stretched my arms wide above the tall pines and pretended to fly, finally taking cover in the dimly lit hay loft listening to the music made by the raindrops banging the barn roof keyboard.
I remember fondly sitting with Mama on her porch swing watching the rain come down around us. It seemed to slow everything down on Dykes Chapel Road, as if it wasn’t slow enough already.
I have also danced in the rain. Not so long ago, I skipped from awning to awning on the sidewalks of Manhattan without an umbrella, and quite by chance found a room with a view overlooking Times Square. The room was a bar. The rain lasted a long time, but that’s another story. I pressed my nose against the glass, staring down at the bright lights of the big city punctuated with umbrellas, raincoats and taxis.
Then there was the summer about 15 years ago when I joined my friends Elaine, Franklin and some drag queens of our newfound acquaintance. We got tipsy on mimosas before meandering through the colorful streets of the French Quarter. Never mind the dark clouds that loomed overhead or the rain that was forecast. We marched, twirled, laughed and sang, quite literally, in the rain. It was marvelous. We got soaked, but the music played on. We did not just attend the parade. We were the parade.
The rain is bathing my pansies in their clay pots on the balcony right now, but all I can think of is the time all those years ago when I dug my toes into the white sands of St. John in the Caribbean before donning giant plastic fins, huge goggles and my bravest face as I swam out into Trunk Bay to snorkel with Chris. I had a pinch-me moment in paradise, and if that wasn’t enough, it started to rain lightly on the turquoise waters. We held hands. Time stood still. To this day, I have never been that close to Heaven on earth.
I have come to the conclusion that country legend Roger Miller was right: Some people walk in the rain; others just get wet. As for me, well …
Contact former Columbus resident David Creel at [email protected].
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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