It’s raining again. I’ve lost count
the number of days the sky has been colored in grey swirls and the city
showered in a spectrum of precipitation. Freezing rain, sleet, and heavy wet
snow. This weather is famous in Pittsburgh. Instead of calling it the city of bridges we should call it city of endless overcast. On a typical rainy day I just pull on my black
rubber rain boots, open my umbrella, and try my best to stay dry. I don’t think
much of the rain. I’m not one for thinking about how different rain makes
everything look, smell, feel, and sound.
On the
bench in the middle of Baum the rain has created a unique blend of noise that
it becomes the only thing I can concentrate on. Droplets plop against the cement path cutting through the park. It’s the loudest
sound of the group. On the bark of the trees it’s a lighter noise. A faint tip tip tip. It’s consistent and much
more pleasant than the ting of the
rain hitting the garbage can behind me.
Below my
rain boots is the grass. Small beads of rain cling to some of the blades and a
puddle has begun to form. I can’t gather a specific sound from my height so I
set my umbrella down over my notebook and slide off the bench to the grass. The
water seeps through the knees of my jeans and adds to the chill already settled
in my body. I plant my palms in the grass, feel each blade squish and cave
under my weight. I put my ear close to the ground and hold my position. I
realize that I must look crazy, but I want to know the sound the rain makes on
the grass. I want to catalogue it in my memory and to know every inch of Baum
in every type of season or weather. That for if in a years time I move away
I’ll be able to have the most distinct memory of this place they way I have
with every corner of Minnesota. To be able to recall this moment wherever I end
up.
I can’t
tell at first if the rain on the grass even makes a sound. The plops, tips, and
tings seem to leave very little room in my ear canal for any other sound.
Behind me a car drives by and I hear the woosh
the tires make in the puddle-ridden street. I lean my head even closer to the
ground and wait. I know the sound will come if I let it. When it does I can
think of only one other sound in comparison: eyelashes fanning across a pillowcase.
Sweep . . . sweep . . . sweep. It’s a
sound so relaxing that I feel as if I could rest my head on the swamp like
ground and fall asleep. Descend gently into sleep with the plops and the tips,
and the tings, and the sweeps of rain falling in Baum.
Erin,
ReplyDeleteThis is a lovely and sensual post!
I was drawn in by your use of onomatopoeia with the words, “plop,” “tip,” “cling,” “ting,” “squish,” and “swing.” The formation of the sounds brought an immediacy and intimacy to your space.
I also loved how you physically interacted with your surroundings:
“The water seeps through the knees of my jeans and adds to the chill already settled in my body. I plant my palms in the grass, feel each blade squish and cave under my weight. I put my ear close to the ground and hold my position. I realize that I must look crazy, but I want to know the sound the rain makes on the grass.”
The blog seems even richer as you intertwine yourself with the body of the natural world, creating striking reflection. However, you do not take yourself too seriously with the addition of humor in this piece, which I admire: “Instead of calling it the city of bridges we should call it city of endless overcast,” “I must look crazy.”
Thank you for a wonderful read!
Marguerite
Erin,
ReplyDeleteI agree with Marguerite--the cataloging of sounds is great and even on a sunny, windy day like today, I can hear those "plops, tips, and tings" from your rainy day experience. You start with saying that on a typical day, you just try to stay dry, but in this experience, you are willing to "look like a crazy person" in order to catalog the experience of this place. The rain becomes the vehicle for your memory of a particular moment and I wonder how often in the future, perhaps years from now, a rainstorm will cause you to think back on the feeling of the wet grass in Baum with fondness. What a great example of turning a notion about nature on its head and making something like a cloudy, rainy day become significant and meaningful. Great read!
Allyson
This post resonates with me, all the way in Chicago. I. too, felt the overwhelming gray when I went to write this week.
ReplyDeleteThe way you talk about getting to know Baum park the way you know Minnesota made me think of our class discussion about sacred places, the physical ones and the ones we hold in our memories.
I like how immediate your writing is, very much in-the-moment. You bring the reader with you to the park and write so that we feel the wetness, hear the rain, see the gray.
I adore how you've set up this post by saying "I don’t think much of the rain. I’m not one for thinking about how different rain makes everything look, smell, feel, and sound" but then the whole post considers rain in unexpected and vivid ways.
ReplyDeleteThe grayness seems to be a common thread between all the blogs these last few weeks. Hopefully the gray will yield to the green soon.