Written by Michael Landolfi – I love rain, probably inherited it from my mother. She grew up in the Deep South where rain, within reason, meant money. Her father and his father were poor, uneducated dirt farmers whose fortunes were directly tied to the weather, rain was their lifeblood.

In fact, I view rain as the lifeblood of the Earth, crucial, non-negotiable. Without rain our planet would simply be a chunk of rock spinning through infinity, lifeless as Mars, without appreciation, without us.

Now, I love a sunny day. Don’t get me wrong. Sunshine is like a mother’s love, warm and nurturing. The Sun is essential for life as well, without it our solar system wouldn’t exist, our orbiting stone wouldn’t circle and whatever there might be would be frozen and blind. But as mighty as the Sun is, life as we know it requires water and not only in pools vast or small. We need it to drop from the sky, dispersed throughout the lands.

This morning I sat on the porch before dawn listening to the rain. The system marched up from the Gulf, the drizzle gentle, warm and steady. I could almost taste salt as the oak leaves danced with the breeze and mist crept across the yard. Moisture caressed my skin, a vaporous cleansing by Mother Earth’s love.

As dawn broke, I watched sparrows dodge the drops, flitting here and there across the neighborhood, alighting under parasols of leaves momentarily before darting off to some other refuge. Their antics seemed playful.

I thought about my mother romping about as a child in the Alabama rain, bare footed, slippery clay between her toes, grinning at the sky, merrily singing childish tunes with warm drops dotting her face and trickling down her neck as she spun round like Maria in the opening scene from “Sound of Music.”

And I remembered her father at the supper table telling stories about his crops and backbreaking toil. So often the rains were cruel and either washed away his dreams or refused to fall. He died of a heat stroke in a scorched bean field that hadn’t seen moisture for a month.

The sun rode higher, vision improved and the shapeless gray gauze that blanketed the horizon began to take form. The rain ceased, the cloudbank cracked apart and Sol’s rays fell through the gaps. As the clouds churned in the breeze, one beam raced across the neighborhood and briefly sojourned directly overhead. The image snatched my favorite memory from twenty years ago and replayed it in my mind.

I’d met Kelly only days before and now sat beside her on Pompano Beach, on a blanket facing the waves, holding hands, searching each other’s eyes for signs of a future together. She was (and still is) a raven haired beauty with a Hollywood smile and infectious laugh. Her slender fingers were laced into mine and occasionally gripped tighter as she made some point or wished to convey romantic interest. We spoke of our dreams and hopes for the future. We sat on the doorstep of true love.

The day was brilliant. Warm sun caressed us as white cotton clouds slipped by rarely casting us in shadow. Beach goers sat or swam. Others combed the sands in search of anything interesting. Folks played Frisbee, flew kites and chased errant children through shallow waves. We simply sat entranced with each other. I’ll never forget how my heart pounded when she agreed to our first date and how it felt to sit beside her on that beach, a miracle.

In the early afternoon, the southern horizon grew dark, lightning flashed not a mile away. A thick gray curtain of rain fell from an ominous dark cloud and most of the beach-folk packed up and left. We stayed put, taking our chances, not wanting our pleasure to end. The rain and thunder advanced up the beach and soon began to rinse the salt water off our bodies. Warm, fat drops showered us and we laughed. I put my arm around her. We leaned together and watched sunbeams cut through the clouds to light the ocean in patches of blue and emerald.

The gentle rain turned mean for a few minutes then, drizzled and retreated. The storm cloud raced toward Africa, the sun returned to dry us. We sat on our soaked blanket and now alone. We’d survived our first storm; it seemed a good omen. As if on cue our lips met, our first kiss. It lasted forever and wasn’t long enough.

That memory melted into another favorite rain related recollection.

In late spring, Kelly and I moved to Alaska where we shared more rain showers, kisses, thrills, tribulations and an apartment. The thrills and tribulations became part of our adventures together that have welded us to one another. We became best friends, inseparable and our destinies one. Those adventures will have to be told some other time. After Alaska we moved around the country: the mountains of Tennessee, Colorado, Arizona, Montana and finally North Carolina, where I grew up. Because of jobs we sometimes had to live apart, but we were always faithful and true to each other.

My most favorite memory took place on the rocky spine of the high altitude grassy bald, Black Balsam Knob. We had hiked the Art Loeb trail to its pinnacle where a brass plaque declares the mountain’s name and altitude, 6,214ft. The morning had been perfect and we picnicked near the plaque. As often happens on this prominence, a rain squall blew in from the west. The light cool rain refreshed us and we laughed about the many times we’d gotten wet during our courtship. It wasn’t long before the rains gave way to blue skies, summer warmth and the most brilliant double rainbow I’d ever seen. It was an omen. We held hands tightly and remarked at our good fortune when Kelly turned to me, took my other hand in hers’ and said, “I want to marry you.”

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Asheville native, Michael Landolfi survived Catholic school, the 70s and the Marine Corps. He lives an untamed life in Bent Creek, is on the trails daily and writes wild stories for those with short attention spans. His tales will tickle your funny bone, pinch your heart and twist your gut. Imagination run wild. Find out for yourself. His new book, 5-Minute Short Stories: A Bathroom Book, containing 35, 5 minute stories, is available on Amazon.