Rain
We take for granted the gentle fall of rain on the earth … [it is twice blessed … Shakespeare?]. In Western Australia, hereafter known as WA as in the idiom of the locals, rain is welcome.
I came from a climate where rain was not so welcome. The rain fell, the river rose, and sometimes we were threatened with floodwaters. Some parts of the world have too much rain, some too little. Some have too much food and some too little, and in most cases rain and food are conjoined twins … essential to the other.
The sky in WA is blue … a wonderful azure blue, a blue that makes one feel good to be alive. Blue somehow raises one's spirits, whereas gray, and in particular gray skies, depress the soul.
On Friday the blue skies were almost obliterated by pale gray clouds cocooned in a scalloped edged blanket of white fluffy clouds moving sedately across the heavens. The smoothness of their path gave lie to strength of the wind buffeting at ground level, sending swirls of dust aloft. The wind dropped, allowing the trees adorning the middle of the main street a brief respite, before once again struggling to maintain an upright stance.
There was an excitement in the air; birds swooped and dived chattering excitedly; small birds chased Mr Crow flying drunkenly against the elements. Later I learned they were not chasing him away from their nest, but were pecking ticks from his plumage, doing him a favour, and in the process acquiring down for their nests. For several days a small bird has made regular forays into a tiny crevice between the red-dust covered corrugated iron verandah roof and the dark brown unpainted timber eaves of the hotel. Spring! Time for courting, mating and nesting. Time to go forth and multiply.
From my perch on the hotel balcony I had a bird's eye view of the flags on the Shire Office and the Police Station twisting and dancing to the conductor’s baton of an invisible orchestra … the wind. On the outskirts of town the large tattered white windsock billowed and swayed dementedly, caught in the tentacles of the bristling breeze.
It was time for me to go inside, to go to the kitchen, to begin work. The kitchen was a hive of industry. Large joints of meat in the oven roasting to assuage the hearty appetites of the diners, pots of vegetables on the hob, and a chocolate sauce pudding ready to be baked. Suddenly there was a crash of thunder directly overhead. Lights flickered and failed. Momentarily we were plunged into darkness, and although it was only 5.00pm the kitchen was dark. The windows have been painted over in a dark blue paint to keep out the heat, and in the case of power failure, not only is it the heat that is kept out, but also the light. A moment of surprise, then suddenly lights go on, and we breathed a sigh of relief. The hotel was fully booked that night. A power failure was not what we needed.
I heard another sound. Rain on the iron roof. It was loud, and welcome. I asked if perhaps the wildflowers might bloom with this rain. The reply was no, we need more than that.
The evening wore on. We served meals; I washed dishes, tidied up and mopped the floor before stumbling upstairs to bed.
In my room I have a fridge. It is noisy. It has a life of its own. On my first night in this Outback town the whistling of the fridge raised my hackles. It rattled! It goes clunk before settling down to a silent period of about five minutes. That first night, tired and weary from a daylong bus journey, of seeing my new abode in the dim evening light, I wondered if this hotel had a ghost. After an hour a pattern emerged and I knew that the noises emanated from the fridge.
I tumbled into bed this rainy night and a new sound penetrated my consciousness; rain falling on the iron roof. It was a welcome sound before, but now, in the quiet of the night this loud, persistent noise sounded liked a demented Highland Dancer who had forgotten some steps in a wild, crazy, fling. There were no bagpipes to play the tune, instead an unrhythmic beat on a drum attempted to thwart any attempt to sleep. But, as is the case with any persistent noise that is deemed safe, I managed to switch my ears off and sleep. One who begins work at 5.30am needs sleep!
Next morning I go downstairs to be greeted by a puddle under the bench. My day began mopping water up. And the wildflowers have not yet had had moisture to bloom. Today, the skies are once again blue. Maybe the rain will return, and hopefully the wildflowers will add a splash of colour to the red terrain.
I came from a climate where rain was not so welcome. The rain fell, the river rose, and sometimes we were threatened with floodwaters. Some parts of the world have too much rain, some too little. Some have too much food and some too little, and in most cases rain and food are conjoined twins … essential to the other.
The sky in WA is blue … a wonderful azure blue, a blue that makes one feel good to be alive. Blue somehow raises one's spirits, whereas gray, and in particular gray skies, depress the soul.
On Friday the blue skies were almost obliterated by pale gray clouds cocooned in a scalloped edged blanket of white fluffy clouds moving sedately across the heavens. The smoothness of their path gave lie to strength of the wind buffeting at ground level, sending swirls of dust aloft. The wind dropped, allowing the trees adorning the middle of the main street a brief respite, before once again struggling to maintain an upright stance.
There was an excitement in the air; birds swooped and dived chattering excitedly; small birds chased Mr Crow flying drunkenly against the elements. Later I learned they were not chasing him away from their nest, but were pecking ticks from his plumage, doing him a favour, and in the process acquiring down for their nests. For several days a small bird has made regular forays into a tiny crevice between the red-dust covered corrugated iron verandah roof and the dark brown unpainted timber eaves of the hotel. Spring! Time for courting, mating and nesting. Time to go forth and multiply.
From my perch on the hotel balcony I had a bird's eye view of the flags on the Shire Office and the Police Station twisting and dancing to the conductor’s baton of an invisible orchestra … the wind. On the outskirts of town the large tattered white windsock billowed and swayed dementedly, caught in the tentacles of the bristling breeze.
It was time for me to go inside, to go to the kitchen, to begin work. The kitchen was a hive of industry. Large joints of meat in the oven roasting to assuage the hearty appetites of the diners, pots of vegetables on the hob, and a chocolate sauce pudding ready to be baked. Suddenly there was a crash of thunder directly overhead. Lights flickered and failed. Momentarily we were plunged into darkness, and although it was only 5.00pm the kitchen was dark. The windows have been painted over in a dark blue paint to keep out the heat, and in the case of power failure, not only is it the heat that is kept out, but also the light. A moment of surprise, then suddenly lights go on, and we breathed a sigh of relief. The hotel was fully booked that night. A power failure was not what we needed.
I heard another sound. Rain on the iron roof. It was loud, and welcome. I asked if perhaps the wildflowers might bloom with this rain. The reply was no, we need more than that.
The evening wore on. We served meals; I washed dishes, tidied up and mopped the floor before stumbling upstairs to bed.
In my room I have a fridge. It is noisy. It has a life of its own. On my first night in this Outback town the whistling of the fridge raised my hackles. It rattled! It goes clunk before settling down to a silent period of about five minutes. That first night, tired and weary from a daylong bus journey, of seeing my new abode in the dim evening light, I wondered if this hotel had a ghost. After an hour a pattern emerged and I knew that the noises emanated from the fridge.
I tumbled into bed this rainy night and a new sound penetrated my consciousness; rain falling on the iron roof. It was a welcome sound before, but now, in the quiet of the night this loud, persistent noise sounded liked a demented Highland Dancer who had forgotten some steps in a wild, crazy, fling. There were no bagpipes to play the tune, instead an unrhythmic beat on a drum attempted to thwart any attempt to sleep. But, as is the case with any persistent noise that is deemed safe, I managed to switch my ears off and sleep. One who begins work at 5.30am needs sleep!
Next morning I go downstairs to be greeted by a puddle under the bench. My day began mopping water up. And the wildflowers have not yet had had moisture to bloom. Today, the skies are once again blue. Maybe the rain will return, and hopefully the wildflowers will add a splash of colour to the red terrain.
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