The Shirt

We were walking over from the barn last night, quite a drove of us with Alan home and all, when the boss said, "I'll eat my shirt if it doesn't rain tonight."


As farmers do, we looked at the sky. There were a few promising clouds, but there was no scent of water on the air, no sharpening breeze or tempting little chill....nah, we all said...ain't gonna happen.

And so we came inside and started picking out the shirt. Although Alan and I actually trekked to the laundromat after camp, washed the  blankets and soggy swimsuits and all, along with a week's worth of farm laundry, there is always at least one shirt around here that you probably wouldn't want served up with your meat and potatoes.

We had it all planned, how it wasn't going to rain, and we would hand him the shirt in the morning....maybe allow him a bottle of ketchup, or maybe even mayo.


Then along about ten o'clock there was a little susurrus outside the kitchen window. 


It WAS raining.....The kids went outside and whooped and hollered and danced around in it. After four or five years of monsoons, it felt strange to be glad of a rainstorm.




Saved by the drips.


It didn't amount to much...a sheen on the hood of the truck, a trickle for the starving flowerbeds, a glimmer for the dying grass, but at least it dampened down the dust a little bit.