Tag Archives: rain

Hide-and-Go-Seek

 

Hide-and-Go-Seek

My attempts at active leisure are challenged by the rain,
so it’s possible that I will go back to bed again.
Raindrops slash and pummel. Rain soaks my shoes and hair.
I wouldn’t mind it half so much if I were wash and wear,
but, alas, I crumple up. I languish in the cold.
I’ve a propensity for colds and coughs. My shoes develop mold.
And so with no more ceremony, I’ll remain inside.
When rain seeks my company, I choose to spare my hide.

 

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/rdp-tuesday-rain/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/12/04/fowc-with-fandango-leisure/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/pummel/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/your-daily-word-prompt-ceremony-December-4-2018/

Coping with the Rainy Season

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Coping with the Rainy Season

No kudos to the darkness.
No kudos to the rain.
No kudos to departed sun
until it comes again.
Kudos to my blankets
and kudos to my pillows.
So long as rain drips steadily
from eaves troughs and from willows,
I may never stir again. Bring me tea in bed.
No eggs, but English muffins, buttered, in their stead.
I want to stay all snuggled ’til rain has gone away.
Follow these same instructions on every rainy day!

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/06/27/cope/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/06/27/fowc-with-fandango-kudos/
The Ragtag prompt today is indulgence.

Rude Visitor

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This year the rains came early, starting the day after the men came to begin stripping and resurfacing my roofs. The day after they were supposed to remove the skylight, hurricane-force winds and torrential rains made me glad for once, that they had been no-shows. A month later, the repairs are over and we’ve settled into the daily or nightly showers. I am snug in my house and the mountains behind me are covered with a vivid green. Soon water will be shooting in rivers down the arroyos and cobblestone roads that lead down to the lake from my house and every teja will serve as its own channel for individual rios streaming down from my roof into waterfalls that will arc down to the terrace tiles below.

The rainy season
breaks its usual habit.
A rude early guest.

For dVerse Poets.

Rain, Fog, Cloud, Snow and Sol: Cee’s Black and White Weather Challenge

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

For Cee’s B&W Challenge: Weather.

The Day Cracked Open Like an Egg

The Day Cracked Open Like an Egg

The rain falls
fresh as cucumbers
on cobblestones and tiles,
the dust of summer
washed from crevasses
and curves of stone and clay.

The air is cleansed
of the scent of primavera,
jacaranda
and flamboyan trees
and the whole world
breathes easily again.

Clouds dried up
by sunlight,
the silent birds
are flushed
from their covering leaves
and open in chorus

to the booming crack
of cohetes, splitting the air
in celebration
of Saint John the Baptist
who has baptized all
this day.

 

Primavera and jacaranda are the names of colorful flowering Mexican trees. Flamboyan is the Spanish name for a royal poinciana tree.  Cohetes are very noisy aerial fireworks of the caliber of cherry bombs. This is a rewrite of a poem written two and a half years ago. The prompt today is egg.

Temporary Rivers

Patty in mud 001-001

This is my sister Patti, college age, walking barefoot out to her last big adventure in the ditches of Murdo, South Dakota after a July rain. Not quite the gusher depicted in my childhood vignette below, but nonetheless, Patti’s final puddle adventure. She had taken my visiting niece out. The next day the neighborhood kids rang our doorbell and asked my mom if Patti could come back outside to play again! Ha.

Temporary Rivers

When the rains came in hot summer, wheat farmers cursed their harvest luck, for grain soaked by rain just days before cutting was not a good thing; but we children, freed from the worry of our own maintenance (not to mention taxes, next year’s seed fees and the long caravans of combines already making their slow crawl from Kansas in our direction) ran into the streets to glory in it.

We were children of the dry prairie who swam in rivers once or twice a year at church picnics or school picnics and otherwise would swing in playground swings, wedging our heels in the dry dust to push us higher. Snow was the form of precipitation we were most accustomed to––waddling as we tried to negotiate the Fox and Geese track we had shuffled into the snow bundled into two pairs of socks and rubber boots snapped tighter at the top around our thick padded snowsuits, our identities almost obscured under hoods and scarves tied bandit-like over our lower faces.

But in hot July, we streamed unfettered out into the rain. Bare-footed, bare-legged, we raised naked arms up to greet rivers pouring down like a waterfall from the sky. Rain soaked into the gravel of the small prairie town streets, down to the rich black gumbo that filtered out to be washed down the gutters and through the culverts under roads, rushing with such force that it rose back into the air in a liquid rainbow with pressure enough to wash the black from beneath our toes.

We lay under this rainbow as it arced over us, stood at its end like pots of gold ourselves, made more valuable by this precipitation that precipitated in us schemes of trumpet vine boats with soda straw and leaf sails, races and boat near-fatalities as they wedged in too-low culvert underpasses. Boats “disappeared” for minutes finally gushed out sideways on the other side of the road to rejoin the race down to its finale at that point beyond which we could not follow: Highway 16––that major two-lane route east to west and the southernmost boundary of our free-roaming playground of the entire town.

Forbidden to venture onto this one danger in our otherwise carefree lives, we imagined our boats plummeting out on the other side, arcing high in the plume of water as it dropped to the lower field below the highway. It must have been a graveyard of vine pod boats, stripped of sails or lying sideways, pinned by them, imaginary sailors crawling out of them and ascending from the barrow pits along the road to venture back to us through the dangers of the wheels of trucks and cars. Hiding out in mid-track and on the yellow lines, running with great bursts of speed before the next car came, our imaginary heroes made their ways back to our minds where tomorrow they would play cowboys or supermen or bandits or thieves.

But we were also our own heroes. Thick black South Dakota gumbo squished between our toes as we waded down ditches in water that flowed mid-calf. Kicking and wiggling, splashing, we craved more immersion in this all-too-rare miracle of summer rain. We sat down, working our way down ditch rivers on our bottoms, our progress unimpeded by rocks. We lived on the stoneless western side of the Missouri River, sixty miles away. The glacier somehow having been contained to the eastern side of the river, the western side of the state was relatively free of stones–which made for excellent farm land, easy on the plow.

Gravel, however, was a dear commodity. Fortunes had been made when veins of it were found–a crop more valuable than wheat or corn or oats or alfalfa. The college educations of my sisters and me we were probably paid for by the discovery of a vast supply of it on my father’s land and the fact that its discovery coincided with the decision to build first Highway 16 and then Interstate 90. Trucks of that gravel were hauled to build first the old road and then the new Interstate that, built further south of town, would remove some of the dangers of Highway 16, which would be transformed into just a local road–the only paved one in town except for the much older former highway that had cut through the town three blocks to the north.

So it was that future generations of children, perhaps, could follow their dreams to their end. Find their shattered boats. Carry their shipwrecked heroes back home with them. Which perhaps led to less hardy heroes with fewer tests or children who divided themselves from rain, sitting on couches watching television as the rain merely rivered their windows and puddled under the cracks of front doors, trying to get to them and failing.

But in those years before television and interstates and all the things that would have kept us from rain and adventures fueled only by our our imaginations, oh, the richness of gumbo between our toes and the fast rushing wet adventure of rain!

 

This is a rewrite of a story from three years ago. The prompt today was ascend.

Water and Rocks

Water and Rocks

When I arrived back in Mexico two nights ago,img_7021
as I was leaving the airport in the backseat of a taxi, two events happened.

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One was the eruption of Colima Volcano, 50 miles away from my house.

The other was a waterspout that took water from the lake and dumped it on the mountains above my house. That event, added to massive rain on that night and this morning, led to the culverts becoming swift-running streams and the cobblestone streets next to my house being littered by stones brought down the arroyos, which all happen to empty into streets which become part of the drainage system.

After the rain finally ended today and the skies cleared, I decided to venture out to see what condition the world around me was in. I could hear the rushing sound that told me that water was still rushing down from the mountain. img_7036img_7038

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Although the street that ran to the side of my house was littered with stones, the gardener across the street had gathered up all the stones on the street that ran horizontally across the hill, and put them in small piles, so it was passable. Luckily, no boulders had been brought down this time, for in the past boulders as large as small cars had rolled down, completely tearing up the roads.img_7042

At the end of my street, the culvert had turned into a small stream, and as usually happens after a  series of big rains, children and their parents were treating the culverts like spas––wading and sometimes immersing their entire bodies.

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At every street corner they could be seen cavorting like seals and having a wonderful time, as were this grandmother, daughter and baby boy at the end of my street.

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I couldn’t resist going to talk to them. The baby was just objecting to the cold water when I arrived, and the mother had set him up on a rock and was gathering stones for him to hold.

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He hoarded them in each hand.

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“Does he know how to throw rocks?” I asked, and when the mother shook her head no, I set about teaching him how.

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After an initial reluctance to let go of the rocks,
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He was a fast learner!
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And soon we had trouble keeping him supplied with enough pebbles.

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Meanwhile, the little stream rushed on, tumbling some of the small stones down the hill towards the Raquet club img_7059
to round the corner

img_7066and rush on down to the village and into the lake.
img_7069Those trees out in the lake were once on dry land and the chains of water hyacinths I could make out even at this distance gave testimony to the fact that in addition to the rainfall, extra water was being let out of the spillways of dams further upstream on the Lerma river. I decided it was time to drive down to the lake to take Frida for a walk to investigate further.

To Be Continued

If you are interested in seeing what happens when a tromba (super-saturated cloud or waterspout) empties out over the mountain above me after days of very hard rain, look HERE. You won’t believe this many rocks could  come down in a 15 minute period! It took a year to repair the damage.

Today’s prompt is “breakthrough,” and if these aren”t two examples of types of breakthroughs, I don’t know what is! I guess I anticipated the prompt.