Granny's Rain Water
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Raining on the Havard Farm in Huffman, Texas
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Few if any of you reading this will know about or remember
the rain barrel sitting under the valley of Grandma Ida Havard's tin
roof in Huffman Texas.
How I used to enjoy the rain out on the farm! I can see myself
sitting in the living room where grandpa had his rocker with the rawhide
leather seat. The rain would start its menacing tattoo on the tin roof
and it resounded throughout the house. I do not remember a normal
drop-ceiling in the house, but I can't imagine why there would not be
one to keep out the frigid air of the occasional November "Blue
Norther". From the sound of the rain on the roof, it seemed to me
that the tin was sitting right above my head. And I was amazed that I
somehow never got wet sitting just under that tin roof, the rain was
that ominous.
Before long the rain bore down thunderously on the corrugated tin,
spewing torrents onto the thirsty earth, and especially into that rain
barrel. |
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The Rain Barrel
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I clearly remember going out to look at the barrel after
the summer rain stopped. I reached my finger into it and watched the
little ringlet waves ripple across the surface, and then I bravely
brought my finger to my lips to sample a drop. I was surprised that it
tasted soft and sweet, not like the squeaky-clean well-water we drew out
by hand from the cast-iron pump.
I thought then how brave I was to reach into that barrel because I
was not tall enough to see into its depths, and God only knew what
creatures lurked there. I had once seen a big bullfrog poking its eyes
and nose out of the water and could not imagine why Grandma allowed him
in there. The frog liked it, so it must have been a pretty good hangout
for living things.
And, there was, after all, that perpetual green slimy algae around
the rim, and the water was touching it. I felt brave to risk tasting
whatever poison might have leeched into the water from that slime, and
later I thought several times about when or whether I would get creepy
stomach sickness from it. But that never happened, so I guess the water
was okay. And I also remember envying that frog and how at home he must
have felt with the velveteen green algae made by God just to grace the
entrance to his domain, and the soft rainwater depths to seek when a
danger like Grandma came around.
I never knew what happened to the big green bullfrog, but I thought
about his slippery green bigness sometimes when I was alone in the
darkness of my bed at home in Houston, and how Grandma probably never
knew he was lurking in there out of her reach at the bottom of the rain
barrel. He might still be there if Grandpa hadn't died, and if Grandma
hadn't sold the farm and left to live with my aunts and uncles, and if
the old farmhouse hadn't been torn down and its roof carted off to some
junk heap in the pine and oak forest around the farm. What good was a
rain barrel without the valley of a tin roof to keep it full from the
summer rain? |
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Grandma Washing Her Silver Hair
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But before all that, luck was with me on the day I watched
grandma dip her porcelain pitcher into the barrel, carry a slog of that
dangerously delicious rain water over to the gallery (the porch), and
pour it into a wash basin. She sloshed some onto her hair and built up a
lather with pure soap she had made herself, and scrubbed her long gray
hair silky clean. I can picture her stooped forward, gathering her hair
over her head as though it were a rope, and pulling her hands down that
silver rope to squeeze all the suds out of it and onto the ground in
front of her. I can see her pick up the pitcher and gasp slightly as she
poured the cold rain barrel water onto her hair to flood the remaining
suds away.
I was a little in awe of her silver hair, and it even seemed magical
to me. Grandma was, in fact VERY magical in the kitchen, making the most
delicious food. And she had always been gentle with me. I thought that I
would like to pour that rinse water on her head myself, and feel the
wetness of her silver hair with my own hands, and maybe somehow become
imbued her magic. But I was not bold enough to approach her with the
question.
I remember seeing her reach for a towel and roughing her hair up a
little as she dried it, then swack the screen door as she went back
inside to fetch her comb. When she returned, I watched in fascination as
she ran the comb through that sliver, and letting it dry in the sun as
she did so. After half an hour of that ritual, her hair shone with a
radiance in the sunshine that really did make me think it might be made
of some special kind of silver. I remember her picking me up and hugging
me so that my face was buried in her hair right at her shoulder, and oh,
that smell! Clear, clean, full, and sumptuous it was, and made me want
to take hold of it. But I didn't dare. |
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Rewarding Memory for Being Alive
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She put me down and wound her hair into some kind of bun,
then pinned it in place on the back of her head. I felt lucky and
special to have seen Grandma's hair, freshly washed in rain water, dried
in the hot Texas sun, and kissed to an earthy fragrance by a gentle
summer breeze on that Huffman farm 30 miles north of Houston. I only
witnessed it one time, and the years gone by have muddled my
recollection some. But the feeling of it was unforgettable, and a reward
in and of itself for my being alive. |
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