Glitter More Precious Than Diamonds

 

Glitter More Precious Than Diamonds

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With the turning of May into June, came the rains, slowly at first, testing the ground, daily, even if a mere smattering.

My friends think me obsessed with weather. I think I’m normal, for someone raised on a farm, one with many years in drought country. I know the meaning of water. Blame my Dad.

One memory I revisit often is standing out on the ditch bank with my Dad. We are kitted out in irrigation boots. Dad has a shovel in hand, not leaning it, holding it in place. A shovel, to my Dad, was a tool, not a prop.

It is June.  My Dad scans the big blue sky, pristine in emptiness. Both our necks swivel from horizon to horizon, hoping for a puff of white promise, to no avail. My Dad glances at me, smiles his little half-smile and shakes his head. At our hope? At our foolishness to even look for what we know is not there?

My Dad never wasted words. One of my gripes was that he didn’t talk to me. He would explain what he wanted done and how to do it, once only, and expect me to do it correctly. It was oh-so-many-years before I understood that Dad trusted me.

Dad, dependent on irrigation for crops, knew the value of water. Without a word spoken, my Dad transferred that knowledge to me.

Last night, early evening, five days into the month, the sky opened in a cloud burst for an hour, moderated into heavy rain for several hours, ending with light rain to close the night.

This morning, on my walk with Lola, I noticed the earth felt heavy with the weight of the all the water. A good heaviness, scented with green.

When the sun emerged from the smear of leftover clouds, every leaf, every blade of grass glittered, a gift better than diamonds.

Dad would have liked this new country of mine.

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