Rain

Here in North Georgia, after years of drought, cracked earth, parched fields and a lake shoreline strewn with boat docks abandoned in the red dirt banks by the receding water, it is raining again. Not little pitiful drops, either, given up by clouds too weak to spit, but real, saturating, soaking, drenching, air cleansing, all day rain.

From my vantage point on the sofa, laptop securely balanced, I can see a small edge of Lake Lanier. In tiny increments, it is spreading itself from its four-year exile to resume its rightful place at full pool. Up in the cove that hasn’t seen water for more than two years, small trees have sprouted, not knowing they have taken up residence where water usually lives. If the rain continues, the small trees soon will find their foundations flooded. How could they have known they had planned their futures in soil that didn’t belong to them? The water will surely win out, though. It will, that is, if it keeps raining.

And here’s an interesting twist, though the water claims ownership of this gouge in the topography, when the lake is filled, edge to edge, it hasn’t always been thus. This land was once a valley between two hills. Before Buford Dam was built, fifty some odd years ago, here, where I sit on my sofa, was part of the hills and vales of a farm. So, if you were inclined to research the abstract, you could say, in all fairness, that the trees were here first. Or, at least, the ancestors of the clueless seedlings, that are about to be swamped, were here first.

Imagine if today’s attorneys could represent the trees in a lawsuit against the lake. Ah, but what was I thinking, that’s nonsense. They wouldn’t sue the lake; they’d go after the Corp of Army engineers for building the dam in the first place. The trees might win, or maybe not, but the lawyers would make a bundle, that’s a given.

See what strange thoughts one can entertain on a rainy November Saturday in front of a hissing fire? Earlier I had begun an ambitious list of things I ought to do today. Cleaning my office was the first bullet. Then came laundry. My third entry was ORGANIZE PANTRY, but in a flash of sanity, I quickly crossed that one out. In the grasp of summer weekends that lend themselves so well to working outside, boating and swimming, it is delightfully easy to make mental catalogs about THINGS TO DO ON RAINY, WINTER WEEKENDS. The list is long in the summer. But, when the days are warm, bright and long, inside days are only vague, disconnected memories. The list doesn’t threaten.

But now, here I dawdle, needing to firm up and accomplish those tasks I had set aside, with such noble intentions, for days such as this, and all I can want to do is sip steaming coffee by an autumn fire, writing and thanking God for His rain. Occasionally, I can look up and watch the progress of the water’s edge as it continues stretching closer to the unsuspecting saplings.

List? For the life of me, I cannot remember where I put it. I’m guessing it’s in my office, which I’m sure I’ll find when I clean, one long August Saturday, when it’s too hot to be outside.