My granddaughter stood at the door to our home, looking at the birds that were fluttering around the food sources we have hanging in front of our porch. She pointed toward the “cheets” that she saw, and signaled to me that she wanted to go onto the porch to see them. A sudden flash of lightning startled her, and the following boom of thunder made her scream and run into my arms. I picked her up, and as she cried, she gripped me with her arms and legs. I patted and rubbed her back, making soothing sounds and telling her, “It’s OK.”
Myah is two years old, and she dislikes unexpected noises. As her weekday caretaker, I try to provide her with a comfort zone, to turn the unusual into amusing and interesting. Her eyes grow big when the TV brapps and buzzes with the sound of the “required weekly test” of the automated emergency alert, but she is calmed in my lap. She has to go airborne when the tornado siren wails — off the floor and into my arms — but I reassure her that the siren’s song is sung to help her. Her response is, “Don’t talk Cool Papa; just hold me.” In this stormy and rainy and lightning-flash moment, I held her at the door and told her to look at the rain pouring down, cascading from the downspouts. I asked her if she wanted to touch the rain, and she nodded her head, said “Yes,” and so, we did. I held her and we leaned out so that she could stretch out to touch the rain that overwhelmed the gutters; I watched delight form in her face as she interrupted the waterfall. And then, we had fun.
Once the “gully washer” downpour calmed down to mere rain, I took Myah outside, into the street. Her mother has inculcated her with the desire to get wet: Tub, pool and rain. She has a bright pair of “Wellies” that she dons to splash through puddles, but on this day, we eschewed the typical raingear and just went into the street. The neighbors were probably muttering something about “that crazy CJ and his poor granddaughter” as we pursued all of the puddles formed on street and sidewalk. Myah would point to a puddle and I would take her there, and we would jump into it, splashing water onto our pants and shirts and laughing at the wet mess we were making of ourselves.
When I lived in my loft at Bolton and Julian streets, a wet snow fell. Despite my distaste for winter — I do not like the snow and cold, I do not like it, ‘cause I’m old — I walked through the slush toward the gas station where I would purchase a daily paper. As I passed my neighbor near the corner of Bolton and Washington, I waved to her, and while stomping through snow and kicking gray slush, sang to her: “I’m singing in the snow…!” She laughed, and I was made happy.
Children should be able to explore the possibilities of joy inherent in the days of our lives. When it snows, there are snowballs, sledding and Frosty, the snowperson. For Myah, when there is rain, she can leap into and out of puddles on the streets and sidewalks, the ground oozes worms, and her grandfather will take her bareheaded into the wet day, and help her laugh. A tired bromide calls for the making of lemonade from life’s lemons, but I like songs and when it pours — taking my granddaughter outside, to sing in the rain.
cjon3acd@att.net