In a scene from my childhood, I watched through our living room window as kids my age played in a rainstorm. They were laughing and having a wonderful time getting soaked. The streets and gutters were awash. One boy sat down in a flooded gutter as the water pushed against him and splashed hard around his body. I felt envy. Not because they were having fun without me, but because they were playing in the rain. I was home with my mother, and she told me that I couldn’t go out because I would get soaked and catch my “death-of-cold.” I have since learned and admit more about myself, and about colds.
The word ‘pluvial’ refers to rain or something characterized by abundant rain. The suffix ‘phile’ denotes fondness. Consequently, a pluviophile is one who finds joy and peace of mind on rainy days. I was taught that rainy days were sad, as in the Carpenters song lyric; “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.” I was to believe nice days were sunny, cloudless, and warm. I’ve never felt that way. Sunny and pleasant days have their place, but few are enough. Later in life, I admitted to liking cloudy, rainy days. I now identify as a pluviophile. These days, I’m often asked why, after more than twenty years in California, Texas, and Florida; I recently moved to the Pacific Northwest. I ask, “Do you know what a pluviophile is?” Like it should be news to me, I’ve repeatedly been told “it rains a lot there.” I reply with a smile, “Yes, it does.”
“Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.” ~ John Updike, Self-Consciousness: Memoirs
My involvement with rain changes with its many forms. Scientific names apply based on how it comes about. But, I am talking about how the rain itself varies from torrential downpour to a gentle drizzle. Duration, wind, thunder, lightning, air temperature, and other factors contribute to our experiencing rain. There are times of rain just falling, and times with thunder and lightning. There is morning rain, afternoon rain, and rain at night. Each is emotionally and physically encountered differently. It can be seen and heard while keeping dry, thus precluding feeling the rain. Only outdoors can we dance in the rain. If I don’t perceive rain with senses—I just get wet. Our world changes when it rains. We need it, just as we do sunshine. To me life smells, feels, looks, and sounds more alive in the rain. In the city, rural areas, and in the forest, everything improves. When I am with the rain, I heal and recover. It’s a spiritual exposure difficult to explain. I’m not especially spiritual, but in rain I sense life — nature.
I recently delayed my daily walk when rain was forecast. After waiting for the rain to start, I donned shorts and tee. I was off in good spirits, expecting to be, and was, soaked. After an hour, I was back home. I sat on a dry and covered bench, removed my soaked shoes and socks, slapped water from my dripping baseball cap, and chuckled. I was thinking how others might consider me deranged. But, this is why I’m here.
Nighttime rain is different—good, but different. There’s more drama on rainy nights. When I have a challenging day, I like to experience night rain by imagining the character of Mike Hammer from a Mickey Spillane crime novel. I picture me on a dark, moonless night; standing under a lamp post illuminating my silhouette. With muffled, distant thunder following flashes of light, rain sparkles from the beams of the light post. I wear the characteristic trench coat with raised collar and a gray fedora,
tilted forward and cocked right. The front brim bent slightly downward with water flowing off. The sound of falling rain is all around. I hear it splash into puddles and onto sidewalks. With water moving everywhere, I forget the day’s problems and the annoying people. But mystery is afoot. Like it or not, Mike Hammer is involved. And of course, there is a woman. As Hammer, in the writing of Spillane, I mumble, “In the flora and fauna of the Bowery, she was a lot of flora and quite a bit of fauna. She looked like she belonged in a field of Wyoming wildflowers instead of wandering through the human backwash of the avenue.” In the night rain, I can do this. Rain brings magic and drama.
I’ve passed through forest after a rain. My senses were filled with sights, sounds, and the aroma of nature. There I can see and feel it because everything is wet. For me, awareness of water is experiencing the essence of living.
Let’s take life, rain or shine, one day at a time. It’s about how we feel. We’re not alone in our emotional response to rain. In the Pacific Northwest, we love the outdoors, rain or shine. Too much shine and we miss the rain. After some rain, we’re ready to let a little sunshine in. “In every life a little rain must fall….” Of course, and why not?
“The richness of the rain made me feel safe and protected; I have always considered the rain to be healing—a blanket—the comfort of a friend. Without at least some rain in any given day, or at least a cloud or two on the horizon, I feel overwhelmed by the information of sunlight and yearn for the vital, muffling gift of falling water.” ~ Douglas Coupland, Life After God
Yolonda, my wife of 50 years (we married at age 2), is a native Texan and has her ‘druthers.’
Billy on right, (w/Phish bassist Mike Gordon), our oldest child is in his mid-40s, a very nice, loving, big-man. He’s always been an avid reader, a talented writer, a movie aficionado, and a hard-core Phish-head. Add bicyclist, father, hubby, friend, musician, and deep-thinker.
Steven is our middle-child, now in his early 40s. He’s another good guy. An avid sports fanatic (Spurs and Cowboys) and mountain biker. Add hubby, step-father extraordinaire, house music DJ (Steve Balance), friend, and all-around cool-dude (maybe pragmatic and analytical). He initially said that he had no fav quotes, but when he and his sista’ got to texting, there they were.
Our beautiful ‘baby’ is Julie. She can recite every line from the movie Grease (oddly did not quote it), is an artist, a thirty-something, 21st Century hippie, a mom and step-mother. I think she is a wonderful writer and, like her mom, a Grammar-Nazi. She lives in the middle of nowhere with her hubby, son, occasionally a step-son, or two lovely elves, too many cats, horses, and sometimes (because he likes to chase the horses) a dog.
Soon, he’d wake up, but he would not remember. He’d not recall where he’d been, what he’d done, how he got home, or anything that happened. He felt fear—the familiar fear of the blackout. He should know. He’d been there only a few hours earlier. Everyone else would know. Hell yes! They’d remember. When he blacked out like this, he couldn’t recall events from the night before. Even when people would tell him and show him proof, he could recall none of it. He woke up sick – partly due to the effects of the alcohol, but mostly because of the fear, the inevitable embarrassment, and the disgust he felt toward himself. It happened many times before. Slowly, as his eyes opened, he turned his head to see if she was there in the bed. She was not. He would face that guilt soon enough.
No one wants to look that bad. Sam was disheveled, pale, red-eyed, much older than his 43 years, and generally unhealthy. He also smelled awful. He reeked of stale alcohol, smoke, urine, and vomit—the scene was sad and disgusting. This was a miserable couple. After years of marriage, the only things these two people now-shared were an old love, a constant desperation, and the children. Their mutual love was hidden deep, possibly buried, maybe dead. They both wondered how this was going to end. For Mary, it wouldn’t be soon enough. She forced herself to look at him. He saw that she’d been crying a long time. Tears were still on her face; new ones arising. He poured coffee and tried to look straight at her, like everything was fine.
“I am so sorry, Mary. I promise it’ll not happen again. All I have to do is not drink. I can do it. I will start back with AA again. It’ll be ok.” She looked at him for a few seconds and then put her face into her folded arms on the table. After a few minutes, she looked up again and said, “Look, you obviously can’t stop. If you could, you would’ve. You can’t or you won’t. Either way, the outcome’s the same. You’re gunna die, or go to prison, or to some institution. You’ve been to rehab. Sam, you’re an embarrassment to your family, to me, to your kids…shit! How you keep getting jobs after being fired so often—I have no idea, but this can’t go on. Sam, you need to move out of the house and stay out.”
After about an hour he picked up the phone and called his mother. He knew by her tone that it was she who Mary had been talking with when he woke up. He asked to talk with his father, but that relationship had become so strained that his father would no longer speak to him.
I consider myself a realist. Don’t we all? I recall a comment someone made to me a number of years ago. She considered herself to be a spiritually positive person. She read and followed all the right spiritual gurus, in her option. As we were talking, I used the word reality. She told me that was negative. Really? I haven’t quite figured out why I saw conflict between her negative view of reality; and her positive, optimistic thinking, but she didn’t see an inconsistency at all. I didn’t understand then and don’t now. In fact, if she considers herself to be a positive person, but sees reality as negative, I must conclude that she’s not only a pessimist, but she is in denial about it. She may have been Pollyannaish. Believing in a positive outcome and things will work out for the best in the end is fine. But even being absurdly optimistic is not the same as seeing reality as negative.
I like to think of myself as a realistic-optimist. (If a presidential candidate can be a democratic-socialist, then there is precedent for my claim.) But I have interesting discussions with people who would say that I am negative or pessimistic because I foresee less than desirable outcomes if reality is not respected. Most of us seem to have good days and bad. Assuming that they will all be good henceforth is denial of reality. We will continue to have natural and man-made disasters. That is reality. Making preparations for emergencies so that we can have the best possible outcome is optimism. Doing nothing is denial that often leads to further disaster.
I believe that a balanced outlook is the key to a healthy life and a healthy world. We need not assume the worst, but blocking out, or ignoring, the inevitable is not being optimistic. It is being foolish.
My wife doesn’t like one (or more) of my favorite songs: Night Moves by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. I thought it was our differing tastes in music (she’s country, I’m rock and roll), but one day our son pointed out why. It’s a ‘guy’ song. I also realized that we each look back in time with different memories. Never mind that she really does not enjoy the raspy-voiced shouting of old Bob. The song, written and recorded by Seger in 1976, is a coming of age tale about adolescent love and an adult memory of it. It strikes memories of my times in the early sixties.
During the 1970s I graduated from college (many thought impossible), I re-entered the Air Force as an officer, I completed flight training, all my children were born, and I turned thirty (I thought that impossible and I sadly became untrustworthy— relates to the famous “don’t trust anyone over 30” adage of Jack Weinberg, activist of the 1960s, now 76). I usually listen to the music of the 70s. While I enjoy those songs for their own value, the music also often brings with it memories and feelings that can only be called nostalgia. Sometimes, it makes me feel profoundly sad. I’m not sure why, but I suppose it has to do with something that will never be again.
It was the decade of great music, great movies, and great TV. The politics were interesting. How often do we get to see a president resign? I am working on a historical-fiction novel, set in the 1970s. We had Star Wars, ABBA, and the Beatles break-up. Elvis died. Everything was either brown or orange including the shag pile carpeting (ok, add yucky gold). We had platform shoes, Charlies Angels, Mork and Mindy, metal drinking cups, portable hair dryers, Holly Hobbie, Lava Lamps, and the most outlandish fashions ever for America and England. Who could ask for more? We typed on typewriters, went to Tupperware parties, and air conditioning was a welcome luxury. And who did not have an 8-track?
I claim a few basic beliefs. I believe in love, perseverance, and personal strength through relationships. I believe in memories and in karma. I believe in music, compassion, and empathy. But mostly I believe in the power and value of laughter; the more painful and debilitating the laugh, the better. Striking sadness, awe, loss, illness, and awareness of world misery affect me too. Sign me up for the clichés of humor: to die laughing, having the last laugh, laughter is the best medicine, and a side-splitting belly laugh. If you are infected with the acute illness of laughing for no apparent reason, I want to be infected too. I love to laugh. When I hear a good joke, it’s hard for me to retell it because I laugh so hard in the process. I want to be embarrassed and need to leave because I’m overcome by laughter. I want to laugh at everything. When seeing and hearing the laughter of others, especially children, I want to laugh without knowing why.
A question I like to ask is, “What do you want?” Answers vary, but mine is, “I want happiness.” Looking back on life, it is difficult to recall happy times with no laughter. It makes me feel good. Laughter is a natural high like no other. It’s free. We can’t over-dose. I thank all kinds of humor for making me laugh. Many things are funny, some are not. But I laugh anyway.
Long before I ever entertained the idea that I might want to write 
things that people don’t pay me for (as in my old day job), I read a biography about J.R.R. Tolkien. It impressed me that he and his writer group (the Inklings), which included C.S. Lewis, would gather at a pub (The Eagle and Child) to discuss writing and literature. They would read what they had written to each other and critique each other’s work. I want to be there to watch, to listen, to learn, and to discover. Can you imagine? This happened in the 1930s, 40s and 50s. Lewis and Tolkien were alive and writing during my lifetime.
Ironically, unlike the Inklings who were exclusively male, most ‘members’ of the kaffeeklatch group are women. The group was started by one of them (Hi Caz). We drink coffee (or your choice of morning beverage), eat, and talk. Some in attendance have even confessed to getting some writing done. I wouldn’t miss it. If you’re looking for me between nine and noon on Friday mornings, check the Black Dog in Snoqualmie. I am the one with short gray hair, wearing a cap, mostly listening, frequently laughing, and totally confused. Who is to say that the next Tolkien or Lewis is not sitting there, telling me how I need to work on my plot?
Jekyll and Hyde (The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde [1886] by Robert Louis Stevenson)
This classic was written 130 years ago. It is available free on Amazon and you can add an audio version for about a dollar. Even in the book, the age old struggle of people to understand and to deal with the dual nature of mankind is acknowledged.
Third, when Dr. Hastie Lanyon is faced with the reality of the dark side, he is so overcome with the news (provided as proof when he witnesses Hyde’s transformation to Jekyll) that evil lurks in the embodiment of all men that he dies. He even says he will die, and why. This is in spite of the fact that Jekyll explains it all to him. Why did Lanyon die? Because he too had a dark side, but he never believed that he did. He never accepted his true and complete nature. Essentially, his own sin of pride killed him.
I do strongly favor the concept of living in the moment, my own version of Carpe Diem works for me. I did notice that in his final confession, when Jekyll is referring to the nature of Hyde (which is supposed to be Jekyll’s own dark nature), he says “…his circumscription to the moment…” in such a way as to condemn it. Embrace it, Harry. It really is all that we have: right here, right now.
Do you think you are an impostor? Are you what you claim to be? Or do you think that you just have the rest of us fooled? There have been many real impostors throughout history, and many are still running around today. The whole identity theft problem has people pretending to be who they are not at its core. But my topic isn’t about them. Those people forge credentials and know exactly what they are doing. The impostor syndrome, ironically, uses their hoax to identify a problem many successful people deal with. It is also something I think I see in a lot people who do things such as art and writing. I may suffer a bit from it.
I have been certified to teach high school social studies since I graduated from college back in the dark ages. I have never taught as faculty for even one day. Am I a teacher? I am certified, but to me, unless I actually teach, I am not a teacher. So why is it that the people who do the art, take the classes, make things that are art, will not want to say, “I am an artist.”? I also know people who have not produced a piece of art in years, but will not hesitate to call themselves artists. I have no issue with that. If I can, but chose not to, should I call myself? I think the answer is yes, but it’s up to you.
Unless there is an identifiable standard or required credential, we should feel free to identify ourselves by what we do, if we so desire. If we are novices or students, we are not disqualified. We’re learning. I understand being humble. But there is a difference in doing art and saying you are not an artist, and doing art and saying it the best art there ever was (but why not?). And certainly, if you are naturally good at something, and you do it, then we do not consider you an imposter.
I know that we are all fallible. We all make mistakes if we make or do anything. Usually, it’s our parents who provide the first clue. Somehow, we are often gifted as teenagers with the wisdom and insight to identify each and every flaw of our parents and anyone else who we consider an authority. Somehow, we overlook the foibles of our friends. And of course we have none, or too many, or we must hide, or we are perfect, and will never make that mistake, depending upon the day of the week, if anything. Confusing? You bet. Human? Absolutely.
And that is the point. Do we judge the content of books by the mistakes in it? Do we judge others based on their circumstances, be it through their own fault or not? What do we expect from our fellow human beings? What do we want from them? Why are we this way?
Our Literary Journey 