Memories in the Rain

August 10, 2009

I wish I had pictures.

I thought of taking some. I had my camera with me, tucked safely into my purse. But my hands were full, and I didn't want to take a chance on dropping the camera or getting it wet.

So the only images I have are remembered ones, filed away in my brain, where only words can let them out.

The small town of Milford, Michigan, holds a festival every year called Milford Memories, including Civil War re-enactments--the cannon fire just about made me pee my pants--live music, lots of food, and an art fair. Our friends Amy and Ashley asked us to join them for the art fair on Saturday. Daniel and I enjoy stuff like that, so we agreed.

Awakening Saturday morning to an orchestra of thunder and downpour, I called Amy and asked what the plan would be. Milford Memories, she told me, goes on, rain or shine. And so did we.

Rain fell all day. Steady rain, the kind that makes most people want to curl up someplace warm and dry and read a book, sip hot chocolate. Not me. I've never been one to sit out a good, soaking rain. Rain is for walking, playing, splashing. It rained all the way to our friends' home, all the way to the site of the event, all the way through, all the way back. A couple of times the rain lightened a bit, but it kept falling.

I walked with my husband and our friend through the downpour. We all carried umbrellas, which kept the rain from falling on our heads, except when Ashley's and Amy's umbrellas collapsed from the weight of the water, or mine leaked a little when the rain got heaviest. Our arms and legs were soaked. Our feet were waterlogged. Twice we went into stores along the main Milford road, to shop, not to get out of the rain. Most of the vendor booths were closed, and those that were open were bathed in falling rain.

We walked and walked, encountering other sturdy folks who braved the rain. Daniel and I bought roasted corn to eat under our umbrellas. Amy and Ashley shared fries under a tent, where Daniel went to finish his corn dog.

The longer we were out there, the chillier I became. Our friends had plans for the afternoon. Daniel and I wound up at an Irish pub called Callaghans in nearby Brighton. Coffee warmed me, and the potato leek soup even more, but I still needed hot cocoa on the way back to our house, and I spent the evening reclining under the blanket Daniel crocheted for me, my body still remembering the chill of the falling rain, soaking through the denim jacket I wore (in August!) and all the clothing underneath.

In and out of my nap, I heard the still steady drumbeat of the falling rain.