A summer rain ~ July 2, 1987

David Heiller

 Rain fell Sunday afternoon. It splashed off our garden beds at first, raising a dust storm for the bees and ants. Then it settled the dust and ran off the beds and finally soaked in.

Malika, always moving to the next adventure.

I stood in the doorway with my two children. They had been lobbying during the past hour for a trip to the park. I had been urging a compromise walk down the road. Their expressions as they looked at the rain fall outside the screen door reflected the overcast sky.

“Now we can go to the park after the rain?” Noah asked.

“Pahk atta rain?” Malika echoed.

“Well, it’s pretty wet there,” I said uneasily. “Maybe we should stay home, then go tomorrow when it’s done raining.” I knew tomorrow would be better, what with their grandmother here for a visit.

Malika pushed past Noah as I opened the door to breath in the late afternoon air. The rain was letting up, after just an hour. We needed more, the garden and hayfields needed more, the Askov and Finlayson water towers needed more.

Drops of water fell from the roof, landing on Malika’s head as she peered up at the clouds. She moved barefoot onto the porch, then ran on tip toes under the maple tree. The water sprayed her like a gentle sprinkler. She didn’t care about the park. This was much better.

Noah, bike and boots...

Noah used his four-year-old common sense as he watched his sister test the water. “Mollie doesn’t have shoes on,” he said as he pulled on a pair of rubber boots. He wears those boots on the hottest days of the summer as well as the coldest winter days. Today he was lucky it was raining, so it made sense, and he could afford to remind me in a righteous voice, “Daddy, Mollie doesn’t have shoes on.”

“That’s fine,” I answered absently. The sun broke through the western rim of the storm. Suddenly the air was cool and clear, washed by the rain. The garden glistened, the plants crisp, the soil dark.

Birds circled over the rows, a platoon of tree swallows that wove and spun as they snatch invisible mosquitoes. A cat bird called from the windbreak of white spruce, a loud and angry call like a tomcat with a sore throat. Our cat, Miss Emma, sauntered from the trees toward the house, followed by those angry cat calls. I looked for a bird drooping from her jaw, but she just smiled. Not even a feather in sight.

A male bluebird swept in to its house on the clothes line pole. The sun caught its bright blue feathers, its orange breast ruffled slightly as it hurried to feed the young peepers inside the house.

The afternoon settled into evening. We took our walk, Malika sitting in her wagon, Noah riding ahead on his 12-inch bicycle with training wheels. Then it was home to see Mom and Grandma, baths for the kids, a Sesame Street story, and up to bed.

Darkness crept over the yard, Cindy’s mother stood at the kitchen window, looking at the apple tree. “There’s a deer there eating apples,” she said. Sure enough, a deer moved easily under the tree, grazing the newly watered grass, picking up tiny apples that the kids had knocked down. It had two spikes for antlers, covered with fuzz.

“Is Noah awake?” I asked.

“No, he’s sleeping,” Grandma answered. She had gone to check the minute she spotted the deer.

Finally the deer moved slowly down our driveway and north up the county road, toward some new supper, or perhaps a bed for the night.

Malika and Binti

^‘I stepped outside. Our dog, Binti, lay under the apple tree, in full sight of the deer. She wagged her tail slightly, but didn’t move except to raise her eyebrows as she glanced at me. “Pretty nice, huh?” she seemed to say.

Pretty nice, I agreed.