Summer Rain

One of our assignments in class last week was to write a short fictional story about anything. I sat down to write and this is what came out:

 Summer rain always caught me off guard. The mornin’s started out with an ugly heat, sweat billowin’ down the back of our necks onto the straw pilluhs Pa had made for us. Me and Luella would toss and turn, hidin’ our eyes from the bright streak of orange peering in through the cracked windows and fightin’ off the cruel fingers of sleeplessness against heavy eyelids. Gettin’ up was no better. The second our feet hit the floor Ma was yellin’. Her string of orders came at us faster than the rush of the river in April, “Wash yuh face… eat yuh breakfast… help yuh brother… This damn heat!” We all hated that heat, and no one was ever any good at forgettin’ about it. Ma complained all day, right through puttin’ the soup on the table for dinnuh. Us kids just got huffy with each other, always blamin’ and fightin’ and kickin’. Pa was different though. He never said a word, although every now and then we caught his hard eyes squintin’ to hold back the sting of sweat rollin’ in.

            The worst part was puttin’ on our boots. Air thick around us, skin sticky and wet, we sucked in our last breath of freedom before wiggly, airy toes were tucked away into the suffocatin’ stench of last week’s hard work. And we were out the door with a kick in the rear – bare-faced, bravin’ that dazzlin’, unforgivin’ sun. The fields offered no protection but distraction, so we put our hands to work and spent the days playin’ peek-a-boo around Pa’s plow. And we was never alone, never without the sun snickerin’ at our red-hot faces and shirts stickin’ to our backs.

But then came the rain – every afternoon, almost without fail, at the absolute hottest part of the day. Pa was back in the house, lost in his whiskey by that time, but me and Luella was still hard at work in the field, diggin’, plowin’, and cuttin’. The first sprinkle would come, drippin’ on my arm, and swirlin’ with the thick sweat and mud. It wasn’t long before the clouds rolled in, quicker than we was ever ready for, knockin’ the sun behind their menacin’ darkness and bringin’ with them the inevitable downpour. We had nothin’ to do but run, snatchin’ up the clothes we had shed and pummelin’ through the endless rows of the field. Our only hope was cover. Luella always beat me to the house, leavin’ me slippin’ and slidin’ in her mud trail as I dashed home. I could hear Ma goin’ off about boots and mud before I even got into the house, and most of the time I didn’t even make it halfway in before Luella came squealin’ back through the door, draggin’ me out to dry off under the front porch where Ma wouldn’t get mad.

That’s where I got lost. Luella was always yappin’ about somethin’, goin’ on about what a nuisance the rain was, always bootin’ us outta the field and takin’ away from our workin’ hours. But I never heard her. I just stood with my toes at the very tip of the deck, head just barely covered by the tin roof above. Rain would splash my cheeks as the downpour went on and on. The air was still thick, but it was fresh. That stale heat had been swallowed up in the refreshin’ gray mist. Cool winds blew across the plains, makin’ the fields gleam from the shiftin’ pillars of rain tumblin’ upon ‘em. Only a few more minutes and the sun would be back out, robbin’ us of our rain treasure and sendin’ us right back to work. But even in the face of its brevity, I loved those moments. Eventually Luella would dry off and go back inside with Ma. But I always stayed right there, standing on that ledge, soakin’ up and breathin’ in all I could get of that cool summer rain.