Oh, No,
Don’t Let The Rain Come Down
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The lyrics, “Ah, ha, oh, no, don’t
let the rain come down, my roof’s got a hole in it and I might drown!” woke me
as once more waters pounded my roof and the lake of run-off lapped against the
west side of my casita. Early 60’s, voice of Ronnie Hilton crooned into my ear,
silly lyrics to a slightly calypso beat.
Every night, every single night,
sometimes sooner, sometimes later, count on it—the rain falls freely.
“So, you who have lived here your whole life, how long will
this rainy season last?” “From June into September. Sometimes October.” I
smile, weakly.
Don’t get me wrong; Etzatlan is
nothing like Seattle where unrelenting gray skies and drizzle prevail nine
months of the year, where summer never arrives before July 17, where seasonal
depression is a way of life.
Yes, it has rained every night, so
far, since early June. Mornings are delightfully cool. Clouds burn off around
11:00 and sunshine rules the afternoon, hotly, until evening storm clouds roll
down off the mountains to drop another night’s precipitation. Except for the
leaking roof, my life is idyllic.
“They” told me: Lani, Ariel, Josue,
Erika, Leo, and weather.com. They all told me the warmest months are April and
May. Rain falls June through September. I must be hard-headed. It didn’t make
sense. Now I’m a believer. Now I’m living it.
I’m patient. I’m not climbing up to
patch my roof in the rain. I don’t
expect that of someone else. I pushed furniture out of the way and threw down
towels and placed a bucket under what seems to be the prominent waterfall.
And I’m angry. I’m not angry at the
rain. Or the delays in repair. Or even that my roof has a hole in it. I’m angry
at Joe.
In the beginning I didn’t recognize
my anger. It built up slowly, in bits and pieces as I moved in and learned the
breath and bones of my new home.
I moved into a filthy house. “It
will be cleaned,” Joe had told me. A small irritation. I bought it with all
possessions but then walked into a house that had been stripped. No matter. I
have my own junk. I threw away what little remained. Toilet leaked. Faucets
didn’t work. The shower dribbled. Cupboards crumbled and were unusable.
I recognized a masked blessing. I
could build exactly what worked best for me, fix cupboards exactly to my exacting
specifications. Exactly! (Not outright anger, yet, slightly miffied.)
The pressure tank hadn’t worked in
years. No matter. I’m used to gravity flow. Parts for the rotisserie in the
outdoor kitchen had gone walkabout. Shrug. Water heater on its last gasp—I all
but worship my spanking new solar water heater.
Spray tank for bug
spray is broken. Etzatlan has good hardware stores. The gun for silicon sealant
is rusted into immobility. Tools? A joke. I laughed and thumbed my nose.
The trail of broken promises is
long. No matter. I love my place. My pleasure has been to renew, refurbish, to
recreate it in my own image. Not for a moment have I regretted my purchase. Do
you hear the shadow of “however”?
I’m used to full disclosure in real
estate deals. I’m used to honesty and integrity. I’m not completely naïve. And,
yes, I’ve bought snake oil from snake oil salesmen and clunkers from used-car
salesmen. But not everybody waters down the snake oil.
Joe, all I wanted was honesty. Sell
me the house filthy dirty and completely empty. Tell me nothing works. Tell me
you hadn’t bothered to fix anything in years, Joe, knowing you were going to
move.
Most of all, Joe, tell me the roof has a hole in it so I can
fix it before the monsoons. Judging by the previously puzzling stains on the
wall and floor, the leak is at least two years old. I’m angry. My anger hurts only
me. I’ll get over it. But most of all I lost respect for someone I had liked.
My crooked little house with the
crooked little door with the crooked little latch will one day be fixed. My
crooked little roof will have a crooked little patch. Who knows, I might even
have a crooked little cat and a crooked little mouse to keep me company.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
July 14,
2016
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