Raindrops, by Lewis Thompson

·       The following are my favorite images and impressions recalled by the thought of rain—

·       A steady rain beating down on the leaves of a deciduous forest.

·       Rain pattering on the roof of my tent.

·       Hard rain on a tin roof.

·       Catching raindrops with my tongue.

·       The tiny craters made by rain on a smooth, sandy beach.

·       That brief, fleeting moment when I must turn on the car’s wipers or else miss seeing a hazard in the road ahead.

·       That first drop of cold rain as it dashes against my bald head and runs thrillingly down behind my ear.

·       Rain on my eyelashes.

·       Rushing to bring the clothes in off the line before they get soaked.

·       The indescribable thrill of that first clap of thunder.

·       The smell of the air after a gully-washer.

·       Sliding under the bedcovers with the window shade fully up and lightning flashing outside.

·       The way the world looks so freshly scrubbed after a thunderstorm.

·       Carefree lovers kissing in the rain at night.

·       Cats running for shelter.

·       Dogs shaking off the water.

·       Me cleaning up the mess my dog has made in shaking off the water.

·       The sound of water dripping off the eaves after the storm has passed.

·       The first rays of sunlight piercing the clouds after the storm.

·       Catching raindrops in my mouth and complaining when they land in my eye.

·       The eager children who can’t wait to go outside into the freshly washed world.

·       Driving from Winter Park to Empire on U.S. 40 with out-of-state friends and seeing a double rainbow near Berthoud Pass.

·       Standing on our balcony with my beloved Laurin watching a thunderstorm roll in from the west washing across Cheeseman Park.

© 4 Apr 2016 

About the Author 

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Raindrops, by Ricky

I have never liked rain or the drops in which it arrives. I know some will chastise me by pointing out, “But farmers need the rain to grow our food.” I’ve even used that phrase to my children as they grew; another case of like parent, like child. Nonetheless, I don’t like rain.

My dislike began at a very early age. When it rained, my mother would not let me go outside to play. When I did manage to sneak outside, I would end up totally soaked before my mother made me come back inside, followed by being placed in the bath tub to get clean. I always felt that I was already clean, just wet. However, the bath did replace the chill with warmth. Perhaps I deliberately got wet, and thus chilled, just so I could take a warm bath. Somehow, that doesn’t seem probable.

In elementary school, my teachers took over for my mother and forbade going outside when it was raining, thus ruining many a recess. Strangely, in the winter months, we could go out and play in the snow and eventual slushy-snow getting very wet and cold. No warm baths in school. We had to sit in our wet clothes and shiver until a combination of room temperature and body heat dried our clothes enough for us to warm up.

High school brought no relief from the “no outside activities when it was raining” rule. However, I was in complete agreement with staying inside. I had joined the Boy Scouts when I was in 7th grade and personally experienced a couple of campouts where it rained. Being wet and dirty with no chance of a bath or shower and sleeping in a damp sleeping bag, permanently changed my outlook about playing in the rain. From the second such campout and beyond, I HATE being outside and wet. Then came Deborah.

I first met Deborah on December 21st 1968 at the home of my current crush and her best friend. We eventually began dating and on our first date, we visited the Florida Caverns State Park near Mariana on the panhandle of NW Florida. On the day we arrived the sky was mostly overcast and threatened to rain at any time with brief moments of sunshine. We had a two-hour wait before the cavern tour group for which we had tickets would begin. As it was lunch time, we decided to have a cookout and eat before the tour.

We had no matches or lighter and Deborah was nonplussed and began to bemoan the loss of a cookout fire. I was upbeat and not bothered at all by the lack of such fire-making tools. When Deborah asked me why I was still gathering various twigs, sticks, and kindling to lay in the grill, I told her I learned in the scouts how to make a fire without a lighter or matches. She did not believe I could do it and because the wood appeared too damp to burn. Naturally, I felt that she doubted my truthfulness and challenged my ability and skill. I had done this many times in the scouts so I was supremely confident I could do it again. Confidence riding on the back of knowledge.

I was only 2 or 3-years out of my scout troop and in the glove compartment of my car was my homemade flint “stick” and a scout pocket knife. The wood was all arranged and ready. I told Deborah to watch and learn. I drew the knife blade across the flint sending two hot sparks into the tinder. After two-seconds the tinder exploded into flame igniting the kindling and the cookout fire was lit and we ate a hot meal. After that event, she thought I could do anything, like walking in the rain with her.

After we finished eating and cleaning up the trash, it began to lightly rain. We were under trees so it did not get to us in quantity but it did begin to run off the leaves and cause drops of water to drip down. As it turned out, I learned that day that Deborah loves to walk in the rain as long as it isn’t too much. She learned that I HATE to get wet outside. The result: I walked with her in the rain and ultimately enjoyed the time and conversation. The rain did stop and the sun came out so, we were dry by the time we entered the caverns with our tour group. We had a great time, but I still HATE getting wet outside. I wish the laws of Camelot prevailed here so, “The rain may never fall ‘till after sundown…”.

© 3 Apr 2016

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Raindrops, by Gillian

How can it be that any time I hear the word rain, I am immediately transported back to my youthful years in Britain    I must say, though, that in my memories of rain there and then, raindrops are not writ large. In my memories, rain does not arrive in gentle, single, drops.  It comes in more or less solid sheets which saw and slap disdainfully at any exposed skin and soak all clothing in mere seconds. But that is the essence of raindrops, is it not? Like oh so many things, they are relatively unnoticed in ones and twos but when they gather together - watch out!

Where I lived, at least, umbrellas were rarely seen. They serve little purpose against slashing, driving rain which comes from a different direction instantly and often. And anyway, in a farming community, who has hands free to handle flailing umbrellas? Might as well expect to see firemen and soldiers huddled beneath the things.

Much more practical to 'bundle up' against the weather the best you can; a rain hat of some variety, a completely waterproof plastic or oilskin coat over your other clothes providing layers for warmth as well as dryness, and a pair of sturdy rubber boots up to your knees. And all that might be effective against mere raindrops, but against those horizontal waves of water it stands no chance. A few moments of exposure and the water is pouring down inside collar and boots, the only difference being that your clothes are getting soaked from the inside out rather than from the outside in.

But, other than cricket and tennis, I rarely recall anything being cancelled because of rain. Well, you'd never get to do anything, would you? I remember county shows with apparently obliviously-contented sheep and cattle steaming in the pouring rain, while critical farmers proclaimed their opinions and puffed hopelessly on pipes which sizzled sullenly, all hint of flame long extinguished. Meanwhile we kids slipped and slid and frolicked and rolled in the wonderful sticky, stinky, mud, and would have felt quite cheated should the sun have had the temerity to drive away the rain.

It is a truly rare thing to hear a Brit complain about the rain.

'Grand drop of rain, this,' they'll say, appreciatively, and the completely serious response will be, 'Ay. Good for the garden.'

Has nobody noticed that it's been absolutely bucketing down for a week now and every garden is awash? I actually believe it's some kind of national collective denial over how bad the weather in Britain actually is. A wit once remarked that the difference between summer and winter there is that the rain isn't quite as cold in the summer. I truly do enjoy rain, but then I live in Colorado where a 'grand drop of rain' really can be a rare and beautiful thing.

I usually trawl the internet for quotes, when we have a topic such as this one. One of many rather gooey sickly-sweet ones I came across, was; life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain. Which, I guess, makes the Brits the best dancers in the world.

  

© 16 Apr 2016 

About the Author 

  

 I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.

Raindrops, by Ray S

Splat, splat, splat—

The sky is almost black, the wind is howling, and that is the sound of the rain drops hitting my window panes like raindrops morphed into water-born missiles. 

Splat, splat, splat—

And as I gaze out on the almost blank glass immersed in an angry sheet of water, a ghostly vision emerges from my deepest memories.

Splat, splat, splat—

A radiant bride dressed in a white lace wedding gown comes down the stairway to meet her father waiting to escort her to her betrothed. That day it rained too.

Splat, splat, splat—

The vision fades into an aspen grove golden in the September sun. There’s a rushing mountain creek, there is a gathering of family and friends. The ashes are silently scattered. That bride has found her way home.

Splat, splat, splat—

Another vision momentarily fades into view. The raindrops scream as they pound the windows’ glass. There is a bed now with only one grieving man restlessly tossing and turning. Aloneness is the only bed partner.

Splat, splat, splat—

The torrential tide begins to recede and in the faint new light a wonderful phantom moves out of the ether, and I can sense the warmth of strong arms embracing me. I am no longer alone; there is a new love next to me in OUR bed.

Splat, splat, splat has transformed into a symphony of raindrops.

© 4 April 2016

About the Author