In appreciation of rain, stones, and people

I’m writing with my hood up for the first time. The keyboard has a definite chill. I may have to draw the line at gloves.



It’s raining. When I first walked out the rain was very fine. I had the yard light on and I saw it in the one brightly lighted spot, a thousand needles of rain. Each drop looked shiny and sharp, so I put up my hood and hurried through it. When I got to the woods, the leafs were luminous in the dark, wet, light. I smiled, hurried on, unlocked the cabin, turned on the light and the heater, and turned around.

I brought back two cups of coffee this morning. I thought of a thermos, but by the time I get through two cups I’ll need to go in to use the bathroom anyway. Coming out the second time the rain had already changed. It had grown bigger and more ploppy. Who needs a yard light on when you want to enjoy the dark, so I wasn’t so much seeing it as hearing it. Sam came with me. The cats stood at the door but decided against it. They’re not fond of rain.

So I get sat down with my hood still up and I notice right away I feel a lot warmer. I can see my reflection in the dark windows. What a stitch. Hood, glasses, indistinct nose, lips. It’s already warmed up to 52 degrees and the heater blows the air up inside the hood. This is good.

The hood made me think of my nephew, a spoken word artist who wears all the hip rapper clothes, and how I’ve always thought of having an in-depth conversation with him but never have. I’ve had my difficulties with the groups that grow out of resistance to the culture and then all dress alike, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. What’s your uniform if you’re my age? Probably jeans, like mine. I used to think a good-fitting pair of jeans was the most comfortable thing in the world. Now I prefer sweats.

The girls and I went on a rock- and jewelry-buying trip to Arizona once when we still had the shop. There were tons of old ladies in sweats and jewelry – aqua sweat suits and tennis shoes with big strands of turquoise or lapis beads, silver finery. I told my daughters, “That’ll probably be me in a few years.”

“No way! Don’t even think about it.”

I’m sure they thought I’d keep the jewelry and not pick up the sweat suit, but it’s turned out the opposite way. Not that I don’t still have my rocks.

Now Henry knows all the stones: rhodocrosite, carnelian, malachite. I’ve got a box full here and a tin there, and a group in a small fountain that sits on the back of the toilet. Since he’s potty training, he spends a lot of time with those. He even knows that the shiva lingam came from a river in India. Before he knew that he called it a penis. It looks a little like one.

I’ve also taught him that Obama is president. He gets Joe Biden and Joe Mauer (Twins catcher) mixed up sometimes though.

The naming of things has begun. Can’t really do without it. We have a bag of letters I cut out from some blue packing material and we work with those too, but the stones probably interest him the most. It comes partially from them being tucked away and my insistence that they stay where they’re tucked. He knows they’re not toys. I make a big deal out of how not one of them is the same. Shape, color, size: all different. One looks like a whale. Another like a penis. Within the category of agate, how much more variety could you find?

I hope it translates to an appreciation of people. I think it will.