It has been a dry summer here in the Pacific Northwest.  On my walks the voice of the small brook has gradually gotten quieter and quieter as the summer progressed.  I love to listen to it as I have written before, but it has recently become a dim ghost of itself.  First it became a trickle, then a whisper, and then I had to strain to hear anything at all.  Finally there came the day when it was silent.  For the first time in my memory the little stream became mute.  I was surprised at how much I missed its cheerful voice which has always lifted my spirits on my walks.

        Today there came a long soaking rain.  I watched the rain come down as I drank hot black coffee at my favorite coffee shop.   At times the rain came down very hard and I even saw a flash of lightning which is always a cause for comment in this weird part of the world.  The drops of rain made little bubbles in the puddles that swirled, and I watched as the bubbles floated along the pavement and down the drain.

   I was immediately transported back to a time when I was about four years old.  We were living in this house at 501 N. 10th St. in Waco, Texas, and I was on the back steps watching a heavy rain as it ran off the roof.  As the runoff hit the ground it made  large puddles with bubbles foating about.  The bubbles moved about in a mad sort of swirl which fascinated me.

     My young mother came out and watched the bubbles with me. “Men and women dancing!” she laughed.  For some reason this memory has stayed with me almost buried, but resurrected today after so many years, as I watched the first heavy rain of the Autumn here in the Northwest.