Summer Showers
I remember childhood summers on Polo Drive, a quiet neighborhood in St. Louis, Missouri, where I grew up in the 60s. Ferocious heat was the norm. Still, we kids usually played outside barefoot. I have no logical explanation for this habit. Maybe the few minutes needed to find and put on a pair of socks, then double-knot a bow on our tennis shoes, took longer than we wished to spend before leaving our stuffy houses to join friends outside.
One August day, when I was nine, while whiling away hot hours outside, my friends and I scanned the sky above, hoping for rain clouds. Rain in summer offered brief relief from the devastating heat. A quietness settled just before the rain began. The chatter of the birds died down, and the insects paused their buzzing. Nature’s creatures, like us kids, hunkered down to wait out the storm. A gentle summer shower is sweet. Not threatening like a thunder and lightning storm, which delivers angry winds along with pounding rain, bolts of electricity, and rumbling booms.
As we gazed skyward, our wished-for gentle summer shower blew in. Slow raindrops began to fall, and steam rose from the scorched streets. I stood alongside my buddies, our sweaty faces looking upward, our thirsty mouths open wide as we let the drops land on our tongues. We delighted in the drip-drip sound of rain, blinking away drops on our eyelids. We hooted happily as more rain splattered the sidewalk and tapped lightly on metal trash can lids, plucking the edges of petals and leaves before adding themselves to muddy puddles below.
One weekend, near the end of summer, storm clouds darkened the afternoon sky and a distant clap of thunder sounded a warning. I dashed inside, aware of what all kids knew, that lightning could strike trees and, rarely, but sometimes, could even strike a child, so we all beelined for the safety of our houses. I made my way to the screened-in porch built on the east side of our house. As I entered the cozy porch, via the slender French door entry from our living room, I knew I’d likely find my dad there. He and I shared a love of watching storms through the protective screens. Almost like being outside, but dry and safe.
There he sat, as I darted in. The ceiling fan turned slowly, cooling the air somewhat, and wind rustled through the tree branches outside. The flashes of lightning weren’t as scary as they would have been if Dad hadn’t been sitting in his reading chair, slippered feet on his ottoman. We didn’t say much, preferring to watch and listen quietly to the storm.
After the storm passed, I hopped up from my spot on the sofa cushion, and Dad reached for his recent detective novel from where he’d set it on the table beside his chair. We smiled at each other, our smiles saying, “That was fun. I’ll meet you here for the next summer shower.”
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Sally
