Rainy Days and Mondays

Rainy Days and Mondays: A lyrical litany

Weather has a strange power over us.

Steven and I took a short walk in the rain. When we headed back to the car, I wondered what all my hurrying was about. 

What ever happened to the notion of the purposeful, romantic walk in the rain, one where people actually get wet? Is this an exclusive rite of very young, fools in love or  lovers in a Nicolas Sparks novel?

Perhaps it is true that rainy days (and Monday) always get us down.  But how can I claim I made it through the rain, if I don’ ever soak it in? Sure, I prefer sunshine on my shoulders, but there is something healing and humbling, and exhilarating about standing in the rain. All little kids know that.

I am not advising you rush out into an open field during a tornado, or stand under the tallest tree in a thunder and lightning storm or casually disregard a local hurricane emergency evacuation, but baby, the rain must fall.  So don't just stare out the window, get out there, let the rain fall over you sometime, and not just to see if there really is something, somewhere over the rainbow.

The sun will come out, tomorrow.  Enjoy the rain today, it washes the planet clean, and fills our lakes and streams and grows our food. It is one of the most powerful and paradoxically, most gentle sources of life.  

And always after the rain, here comes the sun.

NO, YOU CAN'T THROW ROCKS AT THAT OLD WOMAN

photo courtesy of
Abigail P. Gage

Several Saturdays back, Steven and I were strolling down the main roadway of Latimer Lakes Park, in Horn Lake, Mississippi. A sweet family walked past: a father and two daughters. The father exchanged greeting with us and we smiled at the little girls, who looked to be about 6 and 8 years-old. We were barely out of earshot when I heard one sister admonish the other, "No, you can't throw rocks at that old woman."

I howled.

That moment is certain to be a permanent addition to all the memories we have collected in public parks over the last three decades.

You could say that our "official" life together began in a state park. May 11, 1984, Steven, who had graduated the semester before, telephoned my dorm room from his apartment in Delaware (This was in the age before ubiquitous cell phones) and told me to be up at 5:30 AM. In the still darkness, he drove us out to Round Valley State Park in Lebanon, New Jersey.  When the sun came over the horizon, he asked me to marry him (I had a hunch that was what this was all about and could hardly contain myself through his speech about something-or-another-undying-love. Steven would say that I didn't contain myself).

Limestone Rock
Shades State Park. IN

Thus began our life-long love affair with national, state and local parks. In Shades State Park (Indiana), Steven picks up other people's trash; I identify wildflowers. We stop at over looks (Hawk Mountain) or on beach fronts (Galveston) and take in the view. In every state we find something somewhere to illicit a sense of gratitude for this beautiful planet.

photo by Moon Rhythm

Lums Pond, DE

Talking about this recently, we discovered we hadn't been to any of the big boys together: the Grand Canyon or Yosemite or Yellowstone or Mount Rushmore. We seem to prefer exploring nature close by wherever we call home.

I suppose we'll eventually get to the big ones, but for now we're content to watch the mighty Mississippi roll pass, and hope the kids don't throw rocks at this old woman.


Oh, a little shout out to daughter Abigail who took me on an outdoor site-seeing expedition all over the big island of Hawaii.  She's an ace at planning trips here in the US and abroad, including our fall family trip to the Great Smokies.  I love you!

Great Smokie Mountains