Ronnie Dee--Rain, Rain, Don't Go Away

Rain, Rain, Don't Go Away

Ronnie Dee

Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric at Pexels.

The burly police detective threatened, "Why you lousy ceraunophile, I oughta. . ."

"No, wait, I'm not a ceraunophile anymore. I'm just a pluviophile, I swear it," I pleaded.

"Yeah, well, you're still all wet, whichever one you are. Go dry off."

No, it's not dialogue from the latest crime thriller, it's just me having a little fun. In case you're not hip, or even if you are, a ceraunophile is someone who loves thunderstorms and lightning.

A pluviophile is a person who loves rain. That is me now. I used to love storms until I was nearly killed by one. A near death experience will usually sour one's attraction to something.

It was in Donna's apartment at Stoke on Trent in Jeffersontown, KY when there came up a terrific thunder storm. I had consumed at least my daily quota of beers and decided to go out on the little balcony. It was really coming down, with lightning flashing and when Donna came into the living room and saw me outside, she rushed out to grab me and pull me inside. We had barely made it in and fell to the floor when a bright flash was accompanied by an immense explosion right outside the door. We gaped in astonishment as a cloud of smoke rose from the deck right where we had been standing seconds before. Donna was so mad she started crying and all I could do was stare at the smoldering deck.

It had to be repaired and ever since then, when I hear thunder or see lightning, I make sure I am indoors as soon as possible. I still like to watch storms, as long as I am safe inside or in a car, but I am fearful and respectful when it comes to tornadoes or hurricanes no matter where I am.

As a child on 35th Street, we had a great set up. Our house faced the west and we got the setting sun every day, so we had a heavy canvas awning erected on the front porch and it was great during storms. I would lower it and sit on the porch, safe from the turmoil, but close to it. My grandmother was terrified of storms and would stand in the center hallway when bad weather came on. Sometimes she would stand there half the night, trembling, until it got better.

Donna (Maybe I should explain that her name was Donna Sue, but she liked to be called Suzie.) was likewise terrified of storms. Coming home from a trip out west back in the seventies, we pulled into a Holiday Inn just to the east of Kansas City mere minutes before a huge thunderstorm rolled in. We registered and got a first floor room just as it hit and we went into the dining area to have a nice dinner. We weren't there long before the lights went out. Our waitress brought some candles over and told us that we could still have dinner as the ovens were all gas. So we had a lovely candlelight dinner while the storm raged on. Donna had a steak and I went for the shrimp. When we finished, we strolled out to our room, passing a lobby full of people waiting to be led up the stairs to their rooms by flashlight wielding bellhops. The receding storm, pushing eastward, put on a tremendous lightning show from the balcony and I could hear people from the upper floors "oohing" and "ahhing" as they too, gaped at Mother Nature at her best. Donna wanted no part of it and went to bed. Ironically, it was a thunderstorm that had initially brought us closer together a few years earlier.

I will still get up in the middle of the night and sit at a window if it is raining hard enough. At work, if a storm brewed up, I would race to the back of the floor and open the windows and lean out, enjoying it. Or I would go down to the overhang by the guard shack by the entrance. I just hated to be coped up in a building with a good storm going on.

I do love the sunshine, but after a few days, I am ready for a nice, all day rain. I love to sit on my screened-in back porch and read while it rains. These days however, it seems that I am chased indoors by lightning more often than not. I love the smell of rain and I like being close to it, but not necessarily in it. I like being in a light, misty rain most of all. I would hate to live in a place where it rarely rains.

I still fondly remember a night from the early seventies when I went to a place called The Pine Room, on River Road in Louisville. It was an old house converted into a restaurant/club. They had no air conditioning, so on hot summer nights, they opened the big front doors which, on this night, were close to my table. There was a good folk group playing and it started storming. Not a fierce storm, but some thunder and lightning and I was right next to the open doors. I could see the lightning and feel the very light mist from the rain blowing on my face while drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and listening to some good folk music. I was as content as I could possibly be.

There was another haven I found in the West End where I would go on rainy nights when it wasn't too cold. It was a school; Henry Clay Elementary, at 34th and River Park Drive, one block from home. It was an H shaped building and in the middle of the H was a courtyard with a brick and concrete porch in the middle, which was an entrance directly into the school's offices. Since the porch was set back about thirty feet from the sidewalk, I would grab some beers and sit on the porch coping, just drinking, smoking and cooling it in the dark, out of the wind, watching it rain.

When I was nearing the end of my trick or treat days, I guess I was about 18 or 19, or maybe it was 12 or 13. Anyway, it was raining like the dickens all evening, but I went out, wearing the old reliable leather jacket and collected quite a haul, because no one, and I mean no one was out that night except me. People were actually glad to see me and gave me extra portions of whatever they were handing out.

I once lived in a basement apartment. Just outside the door of the apartment was the outside door. There were only two basement rentals. The outside stairs came down and under the back stoop. So just outside the door I had concrete above me, to my back and to my right, and the inside door to my left as I looked up the concrete stairs. It was the perfect place to safely watch a raging storm. I was not actually in it, but very close. I loved it.

That was the place where I had another lightning scare. There was a pretty good storm carrying on and I thought I would go up to the front porch to watch it. The porch was wide open with a high ceiling and several two story columns. The instant I opened the door and stepped onto the porch, there was a quick, blinding flash and maybe the loudest explosion of thunder I have ever heard. It wasn't rolling, it was a bomb. It hurt my ears and scared the Hell out of me. I ducked back inside as fast as I could and jumped down the stairwell to the bottom in one leap, and I am not a big leaper.

I burst into my place and I wanted to dive onto my bed and pull the covers up, but I didn't go that far. I did, however, stay in my apartment until the storm ended.

I love fog too, as long as I don't have to drive in it. I seem to have gotten cautious about all kinds of stuff in my old age. I used to fear nothing or nobody, now I get queasy just hearing the words "go out." It's pitiful.

But you see, I ran very nearly every night of my life for forty years, often until 4:00 or 5:00 am. and now, I just hate going anywhere. I am perfectly content ro stay home. I am never bored. I am sad that my sweet Suzie is gone, and the dogs are gone, but I still have sports and movies on TV, the computer, my musical instruments, my writing, plenty of books, music to listen to and crossword puzzles. I also like to cook and I still have that "wonderful nation," my imagination to entertain me. I also have a house to keep reasonably clean, so I don't have time to get bored. Life is a full time job.