The Seasons of Rain

Lilacs in rain

We are in the midst of a lovely spring rain this evening. Not a storm, but the sort of rain that is recorded for stress relieving CDs; environmental sounds.

Off in the very far distance, I can hear, barely, rumbling thunder, so a storm is on its way. But for now, I am being lulled into a relaxed state by the gentle splattering of water on everything in my back yard. After a week of cold, unending wet weather, today cleared off around noon and was warm. The forests of grass dried off by late afternoon. I should have taken the mower to it, but I was running errands I had put off taking care of earlier in the week because I didn't want to be out in the cold and wet. Maybe tomorrow will bring another dry, warm, yard-working day. (Not saying the grass will get cut, mind, just that the opportunity might present itself.)

When the aroma of the rain made its way through the screen door, I noticed how different it smells, compared to rains from other times of the year. Tonight, I detect the faint perfume of lilacs and hyacinths; daffodils, and the odor of chestnut and oak leaf buds, all sticky and green, sharp to the nose.

Later, in late spring-early summer, the neighbor's roses will scent the rains, along with dust from the streets. If anyone in the neighborhood has recently cut grass, that aroma will add to the melange, tricking my nose into thinking it smells watermelon and cucumbers, mixed with parsley.

In late summer, the rain smells hot and smokey, from lingering cook-out odors. Hot tar sizzles in the rain, giving the rain a hint of the oil refineries we used to pass in Baton Rouge, on our way to Uncle Howard's.

Come fall and the rains take on the aromas of fallen leaves, gardens and flower beds in various stages of harvest, and a hint of apples, cornstalks and pumpkins.

In November, smoke from burnt piles of leaves, acrid and nostalgia-inducing, colors the rain. There is a dry coldness that accompanies the rain, not like the damp of this cold spring. That will arrive after the trees are bare, and before the snows come.

In December through the end of February, any rain that doesn't freeze into ice, or become crystallized into snowflakes, smells just plain cold. And clean! As if the air has been rinsed of all the perfumes and scents of the previous year, getting ready for spring again and the renewal of the cycles - the seasons - of rain.

Before the storm arrives (if it does - might simply skirt our town and drift north), I'm going to take a cup of hot tea and sit on the back steps, in the dark - surrounded by the melodies of rain on tree limbs, on wind chimes, on rooftops - and let my cares rise with the steam from my cup, becoming one with the rain.