Petrichor, a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather. I love the smell of rain just like my mother before me and her mother before her. My mother, in fact, was so enamored with the entire advent of rain that she insisted we put an empty pail outside near her bedroom window in order that she could hear the sound of the rain drops cascading off the tin pail. Rain made my mom superbly happy. Good for her I thought. Simple. Easy. Gratifying. If we even sensed the possibility of rain, her children, all four of us, fanned out sprinting about, each wanting to be the one who put out that tin pail and put a smile on momma's face. It had to be the right pail too. Not too big, not too small. Not too thick, not too thin. That pail needed to be able to make music. It had to be able to lull and sooth my momma's tired eyes to somber sleep. Its sound had to reverberate with a cadence of potpourri ecstasy. Not just any ole pail was good enough for our momma.
Momma did not sleep much. She worked two sometimes three jobs to keep us all fed. She stood on tired swollen feet and served us with tired callous hands. There are two positions I most remember my mother in as a child, working or asleep. She worked til she could sleep and she slept until she had to go to work, seven days a week. I could not help her work but I could help her sleep. So when it rained, by God I prayed it poured!
Momma did not sleep much. She worked two sometimes three jobs to keep us all fed. She stood on tired swollen feet and served us with tired callous hands. There are two positions I most remember my mother in as a child, working or asleep. She worked til she could sleep and she slept until she had to go to work, seven days a week. I could not help her work but I could help her sleep. So when it rained, by God I prayed it poured!
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