Rain in the South
One summer in high school, I worked at a golf course running a weed whacker. That’s all I did – no mowing, no planting, no seeding. I ran a weed whacker for 50 hours per week.
And it was fine for me at the time. Most of the time, I was too hung over and partially drunk to do much else. The boss, my best friend’s father, didn’t seem to care when his son and I came staggering in 15 to 20 minutes late carrying giant thermal mugs of black coffee. I never missed a day. I always did a really good job.
The thing that got me was the rain. Nothing was worse in Western New York than the rain. You know the place got more rain than Seattle that year. It’s hard to whack weeds and smoke cheap cigars in the rain.
So we’d all head back to the shop. Surrounded by mowers and weed whackers and chain saws and tractors and golf carts with dump truck beds. Some would smoke cigarettes. I didn’t because I didn’t want my best friend’s dad to tell my mom.
Ten years later, I’m in the South. I’ve lived here for a while. I’m in love here. I’m going to stay here, as my daughter was born here and my love is from Georgia. It doesn’t make much sense to move to a place like Rochester or Buffalo. It rains like Seattle in those places.
But here, it’s a violent Presbyterian. The rain, that is. That stuff will approach from the hills when no one’s looking, fire warning shots for 10s of minutes before unleashing a fury I never saw in Western New York. My wind chimes look like Salem witches in the minutes before it rains. I feel bad for the sons of bitches.
But the rain keeps pouring down. Hell hath no fury like words that are meant to sound dramatic, such as “hath.” That’s such a stupid word. No one really uses it anymore. Why am I even using it? The drops of rain are like bullets fired from a thousand guns in Heaven. That’s much better than “Hell hath no fury.”
SPEAKING OF MY LADY from Georgia, it is true that I’ve fallen in love with her. She takes the qualifications I’ve lain forth for a lady, wadded them into a ball of paper and thrown them into a trash can that has overflowed for years. She doesn’t like Frank Sinatra. She doesn’t like Billy Joel. She is like no woman I’ve ever experienced, for how can any woman I’ve loved not like Sinatra or Joel? How can any woman I’ve loved not like the Buffalo Bills?
I wish I knew. No, I don’t. I just know it happened. She applied her honestly. Her humbleness. Her strength, humility and integrity and contributed it to my life. She shared what she had with her young son and it caught my eye. Then I saw her. Her. The timeless beauty. The person folks admired when she hadn’t attempted to make herself admirable. “People believe you’re pretty because you are a natural. Your face tells a story you’ve endured with grace, dignity and gentleness.”
I wrote that last night. I’m glad you guys liked it. But it was about my darling. She is the most beautiful lady I’ve ever met. She is articulate, motherly and bold. She is confident, honest and loving. And she loves football. I know it’s college, but there will come a day when she loves the Buffalo Bills. How can’t she? Everyone loves the Bills!
I wish I could go on and on without seeming pathetic, bit it’s likely I’m going to seem pathetic despite going on and on. She’s outstanding. When the meaning of words end, she begins. She fills in where fragments leave off. She is the wind that blows when everyone thought the storm was done.
I’m smitten, quite honestly. She is the love for which I have waited. She is my lady.