rather than let him back me into a corner I try to follow him someplace useful.
And itâs funny what will run him off. Usually itâs just time. In other cases the change is so abrupt itâs clear some intracellular switch got knocked back into the âfunctionâ position. And sometimes exterior forces will do the trick. Like, oh, say, gathering in a big happy tent with other happy humans. Sometimes a physical remove delivers a psychological removeâit may not even last, but for a little while your brain gets pointed in another direction and your heart beats to a more lively rhythm. Maybe church will do it for you, or maybe a group of friends telling old stories around a kitchen table, or maybe just a road trip to an unfamiliar city. I can tell you Iâve shown up at this tent more than once with the black dog riding in the back seat, and then Iâll be in here and the music will be going and the people will be rocking or swaying or applauding or just sitting quietly with their faces tilted toward the stage just so, and Iâll look around and heyâno black dog. He may be waiting in the car, he may jump out from the ditch somewhere along the road home, but he for dang sure ainât gettinâ in this tent.
So I look forward to the second half of the show here, listening to music that is to black dogs what that mail carrier spray bottleis to nippy-yippy dogs. Itâs nice just to get together and feel the sunshine, even if you are under a tent after dark.
Oh, and P.S.: I may have made up the word acorporeal also but am maintaining my Google holiday and will not look it up until the show is over.
CANVAS RAIN
During this performance we could hear the sound of rain hitting the tent. It was lovely.
Did you hear the rain on the canvas earlier? That was nice, I thought. The thing about music in a tent is, as long as everythingâs battened down and buttoned up, the rain can be part of the show without wrecking the show. The click and the trickle, the tappety-tap, the steady fall of it, itâs a soft carpet of sound that only adds to the coziness of the space. Outside of blizzard nights, never does our old farmhouse feel so safe and gracious as when I am tucking my daughters abed and through the hip roof just feet above us we can hear the muffled finger-drumming of rain on the shingles.
Rain can run you right out of adjectives. It falls an infinity of ways, it sounds an infinity more. Tonight the rain is striking canvas stretched tight as a drumhead, so every little drop lands with a percussive splat. It is the sound of leprechauns applauding.
Rain on a flat rock sounds different than rain on a round rock. Rain on green leaves sounds different than rain on fallen leaves. Rain on your picnic table sounds different than rain blown sideways against a window. Rain on an umbrella sounds different than rain striking the bottom of an upturned canoe.
The sound of rain is colored by your circumstance: the sound of rain on a cold day versus the sound of rain on a warm day; the sound of rain on withered corn versus the sound of rain for theseventh day straight; the sound of rain when you are standing in dry socks versus wet socks.
When I worked on a hay crew in Wyoming, the sound of rain on the bunkhouse roof in the morning meant Iâd be trading my swather and the wide-open spaces for a paintbrush in the bossâs wifeâs kitchen. Earlier in the season, when I was working on the irrigation crew, rain in the morning just meant Iâd be wet all day.
Twenty years after I dug my last feeder ditch, my boss contracted cancer and I returned to the ranch to do the job again. He was a hero of mine and responsible for some of the few threads of good character I might possess. The day before he left for the hospital, we were working the big ditch up top and a ferocious rain blew in. We ran for the pickup truck and talked over the roar of the storm. My wife and I were only recently married;
And itâs funny what will run him off. Usually itâs just time. In other cases the change is so abrupt itâs clear some intracellular switch got knocked back into the âfunctionâ position. And sometimes exterior forces will do the trick. Like, oh, say, gathering in a big happy tent with other happy humans. Sometimes a physical remove delivers a psychological removeâit may not even last, but for a little while your brain gets pointed in another direction and your heart beats to a more lively rhythm. Maybe church will do it for you, or maybe a group of friends telling old stories around a kitchen table, or maybe just a road trip to an unfamiliar city. I can tell you Iâve shown up at this tent more than once with the black dog riding in the back seat, and then Iâll be in here and the music will be going and the people will be rocking or swaying or applauding or just sitting quietly with their faces tilted toward the stage just so, and Iâll look around and heyâno black dog. He may be waiting in the car, he may jump out from the ditch somewhere along the road home, but he for dang sure ainât gettinâ in this tent.
So I look forward to the second half of the show here, listening to music that is to black dogs what that mail carrier spray bottleis to nippy-yippy dogs. Itâs nice just to get together and feel the sunshine, even if you are under a tent after dark.
Oh, and P.S.: I may have made up the word acorporeal also but am maintaining my Google holiday and will not look it up until the show is over.
CANVAS RAIN
During this performance we could hear the sound of rain hitting the tent. It was lovely.
Did you hear the rain on the canvas earlier? That was nice, I thought. The thing about music in a tent is, as long as everythingâs battened down and buttoned up, the rain can be part of the show without wrecking the show. The click and the trickle, the tappety-tap, the steady fall of it, itâs a soft carpet of sound that only adds to the coziness of the space. Outside of blizzard nights, never does our old farmhouse feel so safe and gracious as when I am tucking my daughters abed and through the hip roof just feet above us we can hear the muffled finger-drumming of rain on the shingles.
Rain can run you right out of adjectives. It falls an infinity of ways, it sounds an infinity more. Tonight the rain is striking canvas stretched tight as a drumhead, so every little drop lands with a percussive splat. It is the sound of leprechauns applauding.
Rain on a flat rock sounds different than rain on a round rock. Rain on green leaves sounds different than rain on fallen leaves. Rain on your picnic table sounds different than rain blown sideways against a window. Rain on an umbrella sounds different than rain striking the bottom of an upturned canoe.
The sound of rain is colored by your circumstance: the sound of rain on a cold day versus the sound of rain on a warm day; the sound of rain on withered corn versus the sound of rain for theseventh day straight; the sound of rain when you are standing in dry socks versus wet socks.
When I worked on a hay crew in Wyoming, the sound of rain on the bunkhouse roof in the morning meant Iâd be trading my swather and the wide-open spaces for a paintbrush in the bossâs wifeâs kitchen. Earlier in the season, when I was working on the irrigation crew, rain in the morning just meant Iâd be wet all day.
Twenty years after I dug my last feeder ditch, my boss contracted cancer and I returned to the ranch to do the job again. He was a hero of mine and responsible for some of the few threads of good character I might possess. The day before he left for the hospital, we were working the big ditch up top and a ferocious rain blew in. We ran for the pickup truck and talked over the roar of the storm. My wife and I were only recently married;
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