From Monica
After the rain.
Magical things happen after the rain even in our own garden's sometimes, what i think looks dead and wilting comes to life again after the rain stands straight and tall and flowers again, no were is the magic quite as remarkable then in the deserts.
The Ataccama desert is one magical place after the rains, over 200 desert plants suddenly germinate creating a blanket of colour all colours of the rainbow it is a rare phenomenon, itis known as the Floway desert and is one of the direst deserts on earth .
Th sahara Arabic desert is the worlds largest and one of the dresiest covering the same size as America, it gets very little rain fall so doest prouduce the wow factor of rainbow filled flowers, what it does produce are plants called Poach Egg Plants.
Arabian desert after rain produces purple flowers and green grasses sometimes this desert gets weeks of rain not often, but after a rain spell the desert turns green.
Thaw desert the eastern side of the of the Sahara Desert which is the dryest hottest and sunniest place on Earth it gets very little rain fall, so the magic doest happen here after a few drops of rain very few flowers or green appear .
The nearest I have been to see this magic after rain is in Ireland it is so green called the Emerald Isle it really lives up to its name, the green is just amazing in Ireland, the flowers trees and fields such a soft velvet green.
Monica Brennan
After the rain.
Magical things happen after the rain even in our own garden's sometimes, what i think looks dead and wilting comes to life again after the rain stands straight and tall and flowers again, no were is the magic quite as remarkable then in the deserts.
The Ataccama desert is one magical place after the rains, over 200 desert plants suddenly germinate creating a blanket of colour all colours of the rainbow it is a rare phenomenon, itis known as the Floway desert and is one of the direst deserts on earth .
Th sahara Arabic desert is the worlds largest and one of the dresiest covering the same size as America, it gets very little rain fall so doest prouduce the wow factor of rainbow filled flowers, what it does produce are plants called Poach Egg Plants.
Arabian desert after rain produces purple flowers and green grasses sometimes this desert gets weeks of rain not often, but after a rain spell the desert turns green.
Thaw desert the eastern side of the of the Sahara Desert which is the dryest hottest and sunniest place on Earth it gets very little rain fall, so the magic doest happen here after a few drops of rain very few flowers or green appear .
The nearest I have been to see this magic after rain is in Ireland it is so green called the Emerald Isle it really lives up to its name, the green is just amazing in Ireland, the flowers trees and fields such a soft velvet green.
Monica Brennan
_________________
Geraldine's story:
AFTER THE RAIN
In the middle of a huge, dense and thick forest, Jules et Jim lay deep underground, waking up from a long winter sleep and wondering when it would be time to go out for a walk.
- What do you think it looks like up there, Jim ? Do you think the leaves are out on the trees yet ? It’s so dark in here, I want to get out now !
- Well, Jules, you know we have to wait for the weather to warm up and it’s still damned cold down here. Maybe we should go for another long sleep, and wait for the signs of spring to appear : when we wake up, we will go and investigate outside and we’ll know better.
And so Jules et Jim settled back into their hole for another long long night, full of lovely dreams with the occasional nightmare waking them up in the night , but then, down there, it was night all the time…
And then, one day they woke up and knew somehow, it was the great day ! The earth around them was like muddy and there was like a slight glimmer that they started to try and reach… It took them right up and all of a sudden, there they were, out in the world…
- Look ! cried Jules ! What a fantastic place… Let’s go and explore…
Yes, answered Jim : it’s exactly as my Mum told me. The green little strings are called grass and the larger green dishes are leaves : when they are wet, they are so confortable to sit on or to slither along. And you see these very tall plants with such a wonderful smell, these are the stinging nettles that all our fellowships have told us about : if you stroll along their stems, humans will not try to catch you, for they get very badly stung when they touch them, so it’s a good place to go for a walk…
And so, off they went along the small path in the forest, stopping from time to time on heaps of cut grass and meeting friends who were also out for a stroll.
Without really noticing, they had walked for a while and were already quite far from home. All of a sudden, the sky became very very dark, the wind started blowing strongly , the leaves were shaking on the trees and a cloud burst just over their two little heads : they immediately shrunk and sheltered into their shells.
- What’s going on out there, it rumbles so hard said Jules with a tiny trembling voice !
- I think this is a storm : let’s just not move for the moment and wait untill all seems calmer…
So, Jules et Jim ducked their heads : they could hear the noise, on their shells, made by huge hailstones that bounced and bounced and they felt very very frightened by rumblings and lightenings. They suspended their breaths and stayed close to each other waiting for all this to come to an end. After some time that felt like ages, the noise lowered, the rumbling seemed to ward off and they felt that they could try and give the outside world a glance again.
- What on earth was all this ? cried Jim. How terrifying !
- I think that’s what humans call a storm ! It’s still raining a bit. Oh ! Look over there, what a fantastic rainbow ! This often appears after the rain…when you look at the darkest part of the sky !
- Would you say the danger is behind us ? Maybe it’s time to start walking back home…I think it’s quite a long way now.
The rain had really got every bit of grass, earth or leave soaked. But it was rather fun to walk around. They both poked their little eyes as far as they could out of their heads and started turning back to go home. Beside the grass, in the ditches, were these large nettles they had already come accross on their way down.
All of a sudden, they felt vibrations on the ground and heard some voices : there was an elderly lady with a big taft of white hair hanging on her shoulders , walking along the path : she wore blue jeans, big brown shoes and toc – toc – toc came the noise from the stick that helped her keep her balance. She was holding hands with a young girl – that looked like her grand’child – with lovely dark brown hair, green eyes and a very smooth carnation, holding a large plastic bag, that seemed already quite full..
- Granny, granny, lift the nettles with your stick : the snails love climbing up nettles ! And so, the lady started bashing the nettles with her stick : « here’s one ! pic it up quickly and put it in your bag ! And another one ! And look, 2 over there… Oh ! How wonderful to go out hunting snails after the rain : there are so many of them around. If we manage to get 120 , then that means we’ve got enough from grandpapa’s birthday next week : a dozen each for us and our 8 guests : that’s great !
They were getting closer and closer to Jules et Jim who were still slithering on the grass towards home. When they caught up with them, the young girl shouted « and another 2 here Granny, oh ! but they are so small ! » Well, you know, we shouldn’t take these yet : they will have to grow older and bigger – maybe next year ! Young snails are protected by law : « they need to grow to a certain size before you can pick them up, otherwise, we might extinct the species . OK Granny, and look, they are so sweet : she put her finger near their eyes and both Jules et Jim retracted into their shell for shelter. Then they moved on toc – toc – toc went the stick.
And ever since then Jules et Jim lived a very happy and long life, and because they knew that « after the rain » was the best time for hunting snails, they always hid far behind the nettles when they heard human voices or sticks crossing their way !
-----------------------------------
Paula's story:
Annemarie's story
After the Rains.
The four children squatted on the dry, dusty earth, each with a small pile of coloured marbles as
Donald, the eldest, concentrated on flicking his marble to hit the gobber, a large glass marble with three intertwirling colours of blue, purple and green. Donald and Lorraine Wells were to spend the next month with the Grenvilles while their father went back to the UK to sort out some legal business. Annette and James, of similar age, liked petite sweet-faced Lorraine, her short blonde hair bleached almost white by the sun but they always found Donald somewhat difficult. Tall and gangly, limbs baked brown, he was truly his father's son - the same surly expression, curly chestnut hair - and like his father quick to lose his temper and he always wanted to win. But as the other children in the expatriate community had been told, they must remember that Donald and Lorraine had lost their mother when six and four years old and that allowances should be made for them.
In much the same way their father, Roger Wells was not particularly popular, neither with the expats or the Africans who worked for him. He was quick to lose his temper and he could often be heard barking intolerantly at his workers, even as far the Grenvilles'home. However, he was universally admired for the way he had brought up the two children, how he managed the home and farm since the loss of Valerie; the children were always well dressed, well fed and they were adored by their father. Small and blonde like their daughter, Valerie had been the heart and soul of the family and at the club she was known for her vivacity, her love of parties and her dare-devil attitude. People wondered how on earth two such disparate people had made a life together. Then suddenly this vibrant wife and mother was gone from their lives. Three years previously Roger had driven Valerie to the station to catch a train to Cape Town, South Africa to help an aunt who was dangerously ill with malaria. Her friends in Kenya were unaware of Valerie's extended family and willingly lent a hand with the two children, the Grenvilles taking them into their home while Valerie was away so that Donald could concentrate on his farm.
It was only three weeks later that shocked friends heard from an even more shocked and grieving Roger that Valerie herself had contracted malaria and died just four days after her aunt. He went down to Cape Town where Valerie and her aunt were buried and he returned an even more morose and uncommunicative man, except where his children were concerned. To them he was unfailingly kind and patient.
Today Donald was leaving last minute instructions for the Grenvilles about his farm and the children before going to the UK. He sat on the verandah, long tanned legs stretched out, dressed in his khaki shorts and freshly ironed khaki shirt. Brown eyes squinting in his creased leathery face he watched the children scrabbling in the earth.. He would miss them, certainly. Yes, there was no doubt he was a good father although as a husband he had been a little less accommodating and somewhat critical of Valerie, eliciting raised eyebrows among her women friends on several occasions.
As he and the Grenvilles sat around the wooden log table drinking cold ‘Pembe' beer and chatting in a lazy, desultory fashion, lizards skittered down the walls and under stones. The dog lay panting in the heat, its pink tongue flopped out of the side of its muzzle. Even the red hibiscus flowers hung down limp and enervated. This heavy, sultry weather would have to break soon. It was nearly the end of February and this year had been excessively hot, the grass already dry, sparse and scrubby, the red earth baked into dusty ridges. Beyond the native cattle with their curious humped necks plucked at non-existent vegetation, their ribs prominent under dry, dirty white hides, their tails whipping at the hundreds of flies, flies which buzzed unchallenged around their eyes and over their faces.
Then like a loose strand of wool unravelling from an old jumper came the distant rumble of thunder and dark clouds rolled and gathered in the darkening sky. The thunder echoed against the surrounding hills. Big round blobs of rain spotted the verandah and bounced on the tin roof until the rain became a deluge drumming down deafeningly on the corrugated iron and beating the tired flowers into submission.
The adults quickly gathered up their drinks and moved indoors, The children abandoned their marbles, now gleaming and sparkling with a rainbow of colours in the lashing rain; they also ran indoors and changed into old swimsuits and as the rain gathered momentum they rushed outside, exuberant, jubilant and faces tilted upwards, energised by the rain splashing down. They ran to the side of the bungalow where there was a depression in the red, stony earth caused by years of use as a washing area by the Africans. The rain quickly filled the dusty trough and the children threw themselves into the water, rolling around in it and rejoicing in the coming of the wet season.
“There's à better place near your Dad's farm”, said James, “let's go there.”
The four of the them scuttled off to the Wells' farm next door, their hair and bodies streaked in orange as rivulets of earth-strained water cascaded down them.
“Look, up behind your house, Donald, near the damn.” enthused James. “The rain is pouring down like a river. I know we are not allowed to go near the dam but we can go to the bit where the earth has been washed away. It's left a huge hole. It'll make a fantastic pond.”
And so it did; for days they played and bathed in the red/orange water, exhilarating in the coolness and wetness. Above their bathing hole, the raw red earth which had fallen away during the storm was like a giant scar, accentuated by the fresh blades of grass sprouting all around. By the end of the week the bank was peppered with small yellow flowers and sprouting lantana bushes. By the third week the pool was slowly evaporating leaving a delicious squidgy, slippery sludge. The children slipped and slid, jumped and glided, pushing and pulling each other until Lorraine skidded face down pushing her hands in front of herself.
“Oh, there's something hard and smooth and round here and I’ve found something else,”she said and dragging herself out, face, hair and body plastered in the wet murram earth she held something in her hand.
“Look what I found,” she shouted, clinging on to a chain.
They took it down to the house and ran it under clean water and in the middle of the chain was a silver plaque engraved with the name 'Valerie' and a little heart at either end of the name. “Mummy's name!” shouted Lorraine
After the rains Roger arrived home from England, eager to see the children.The first thing he saw were two police cars in front of his home and up behind his house near the dam a skeleton was being carefully lifted onto a tarpaulin.
After the rain by Jackie
Geraldine's story:
AFTER THE RAIN
In the middle of a huge, dense and thick forest, Jules et Jim lay deep underground, waking up from a long winter sleep and wondering when it would be time to go out for a walk.
- What do you think it looks like up there, Jim ? Do you think the leaves are out on the trees yet ? It’s so dark in here, I want to get out now !
- Well, Jules, you know we have to wait for the weather to warm up and it’s still damned cold down here. Maybe we should go for another long sleep, and wait for the signs of spring to appear : when we wake up, we will go and investigate outside and we’ll know better.
And so Jules et Jim settled back into their hole for another long long night, full of lovely dreams with the occasional nightmare waking them up in the night , but then, down there, it was night all the time…
And then, one day they woke up and knew somehow, it was the great day ! The earth around them was like muddy and there was like a slight glimmer that they started to try and reach… It took them right up and all of a sudden, there they were, out in the world…
- Look ! cried Jules ! What a fantastic place… Let’s go and explore…
Yes, answered Jim : it’s exactly as my Mum told me. The green little strings are called grass and the larger green dishes are leaves : when they are wet, they are so confortable to sit on or to slither along. And you see these very tall plants with such a wonderful smell, these are the stinging nettles that all our fellowships have told us about : if you stroll along their stems, humans will not try to catch you, for they get very badly stung when they touch them, so it’s a good place to go for a walk…
And so, off they went along the small path in the forest, stopping from time to time on heaps of cut grass and meeting friends who were also out for a stroll.
Without really noticing, they had walked for a while and were already quite far from home. All of a sudden, the sky became very very dark, the wind started blowing strongly , the leaves were shaking on the trees and a cloud burst just over their two little heads : they immediately shrunk and sheltered into their shells.
- What’s going on out there, it rumbles so hard said Jules with a tiny trembling voice !
- I think this is a storm : let’s just not move for the moment and wait untill all seems calmer…
So, Jules et Jim ducked their heads : they could hear the noise, on their shells, made by huge hailstones that bounced and bounced and they felt very very frightened by rumblings and lightenings. They suspended their breaths and stayed close to each other waiting for all this to come to an end. After some time that felt like ages, the noise lowered, the rumbling seemed to ward off and they felt that they could try and give the outside world a glance again.
- What on earth was all this ? cried Jim. How terrifying !
- I think that’s what humans call a storm ! It’s still raining a bit. Oh ! Look over there, what a fantastic rainbow ! This often appears after the rain…when you look at the darkest part of the sky !
- Would you say the danger is behind us ? Maybe it’s time to start walking back home…I think it’s quite a long way now.
The rain had really got every bit of grass, earth or leave soaked. But it was rather fun to walk around. They both poked their little eyes as far as they could out of their heads and started turning back to go home. Beside the grass, in the ditches, were these large nettles they had already come accross on their way down.
All of a sudden, they felt vibrations on the ground and heard some voices : there was an elderly lady with a big taft of white hair hanging on her shoulders , walking along the path : she wore blue jeans, big brown shoes and toc – toc – toc came the noise from the stick that helped her keep her balance. She was holding hands with a young girl – that looked like her grand’child – with lovely dark brown hair, green eyes and a very smooth carnation, holding a large plastic bag, that seemed already quite full..
- Granny, granny, lift the nettles with your stick : the snails love climbing up nettles ! And so, the lady started bashing the nettles with her stick : « here’s one ! pic it up quickly and put it in your bag ! And another one ! And look, 2 over there… Oh ! How wonderful to go out hunting snails after the rain : there are so many of them around. If we manage to get 120 , then that means we’ve got enough from grandpapa’s birthday next week : a dozen each for us and our 8 guests : that’s great !
They were getting closer and closer to Jules et Jim who were still slithering on the grass towards home. When they caught up with them, the young girl shouted « and another 2 here Granny, oh ! but they are so small ! » Well, you know, we shouldn’t take these yet : they will have to grow older and bigger – maybe next year ! Young snails are protected by law : « they need to grow to a certain size before you can pick them up, otherwise, we might extinct the species . OK Granny, and look, they are so sweet : she put her finger near their eyes and both Jules et Jim retracted into their shell for shelter. Then they moved on toc – toc – toc went the stick.
And ever since then Jules et Jim lived a very happy and long life, and because they knew that « after the rain » was the best time for hunting snails, they always hid far behind the nettles when they heard human voices or sticks crossing their way !
-----------------------------------
Paula's story:
After the rain came the howling winds. Those winds shook the
three-story concrete newspaper building where we were working, and sheltering,
during the storm. The sheer force of the gales shattered a huge floor-to-ceiling
window in one of the executive offices, just across the atrium from our
newsroom. If you stood in that atrium during the height of the storm, you could
listen to the eerie moans and high-pitched shrieks of the winds as they
buffeted the building.
In the morning, all was quiet. We had lost power to the
building, and indeed the entire
city. But, anticipating that, we had set up a generator-powered “bunker”
in the photography lab, and editors took turns staffing the bank of computers
and cell phones, taking dictation from reporters in the field. During one of my
free hours, I took a sandwich and a book into the newsroom conference room,
closed the door, and sat alone at the long table, facing the row of windows
that looked out onto an elevated highway next to the building. I could see
downed power lines, trees snapped at their bases, roadways littered with tree
limbs and other debris. But there was no water. The streets were dry.
That evening, after the events of the day had been distilled
into a handful of shocking stories, stunning photographs and explanatory
graphics, and the newspaper had been finished and posted online, several of us
gathered outside on the concrete loading dock, where the big trucks pulled in every
day before dawn to receive their allotment of newspapers hot off the presses to
deliver to homes and businesses across the city. But on this night, the
presses, with no power, were quiet. There would be no traditional newspaper
delivery the next morning. The paper existed online only. As we drank champagne
and talked quietly about the storm and what might lie ahead, we noticed that
water seemed to be slowly filling the parking lot below our makeshift bar. One
editor began to time the rising water.
It turned out, of course, that the rain and the wind were not
the problem. Earlier that day, a writer and an editor had left the newspaper
building on their bicycles, which they had carted to the newsroom, along with the
usual sleeping bags and ice chests, to ride out the storm. They decided they
were going to head north, to the area of the city along Lake Pontchartrain, to
check on their houses. What they discovered changed our lives forever.
*****
After the rain, the wind-driven storm surge weakened the
walls of the federally built levee system that ringed New Orleans and kept the
city safe and dry. Those walls had become unstable, and had gone years without
the mandatory inspections designed to find any weaknesses in the system. And
one by one, they began to crumble and fall, and seawater began to pour
unfettered into the neighborhoods closest to the lake and the drainage canals.
The two men on bicycles, drenched and bedraggled, barely made it back to the
newsroom to tell us what they had discovered. Water was rushing in great torrents
from the lake toward downtown New Orleans.
Early the next morning, the editor’s timed watch of the
water rising in the parking lot of the newspaper building bore frightening
fruit. The water was now lapping against the fifth step of the front entrance.
The cars in the parking lot were almost submerged. He hurried to the office of
the editor-in-chief to sound the alarm. Together with the publisher, they
hatched a plan to empty our building using the huge newspaper delivery trucks.
Taking no computers, no equipment, just what we could carry in one hand, the
150 of us, some with families in tow, climbed into the tall trucks and set off
into the deluge that was getting deeper by the minute.
*****
That evening, we set up a makeshift newsroom in a strip
shopping mall in Baton Rouge, 75 miles north of New Orleans. What followed was
several weeks of sleepless nights; worries about our pets, our homes, our
friends, our city; and endless, relentless days and nights of working to tell
the story of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath to the world. After the rain
of August 29 and everything that came afterward, I learned a lot about myself:
about my ability to handle adversity, about my ability to help others who were
suffering, about my ability to focus on the job at hand, almost to the
exclusion of everything else. I also, finally, learned to ask for the help I
needed.
After the rain, everything changed. And it took me a long
time to enjoy the sound of the rain again.
Annemarie's story
After the Rains.
The four children squatted on the dry, dusty earth, each with a small pile of coloured marbles as
Donald, the eldest, concentrated on flicking his marble to hit the gobber, a large glass marble with three intertwirling colours of blue, purple and green. Donald and Lorraine Wells were to spend the next month with the Grenvilles while their father went back to the UK to sort out some legal business. Annette and James, of similar age, liked petite sweet-faced Lorraine, her short blonde hair bleached almost white by the sun but they always found Donald somewhat difficult. Tall and gangly, limbs baked brown, he was truly his father's son - the same surly expression, curly chestnut hair - and like his father quick to lose his temper and he always wanted to win. But as the other children in the expatriate community had been told, they must remember that Donald and Lorraine had lost their mother when six and four years old and that allowances should be made for them.
In much the same way their father, Roger Wells was not particularly popular, neither with the expats or the Africans who worked for him. He was quick to lose his temper and he could often be heard barking intolerantly at his workers, even as far the Grenvilles'home. However, he was universally admired for the way he had brought up the two children, how he managed the home and farm since the loss of Valerie; the children were always well dressed, well fed and they were adored by their father. Small and blonde like their daughter, Valerie had been the heart and soul of the family and at the club she was known for her vivacity, her love of parties and her dare-devil attitude. People wondered how on earth two such disparate people had made a life together. Then suddenly this vibrant wife and mother was gone from their lives. Three years previously Roger had driven Valerie to the station to catch a train to Cape Town, South Africa to help an aunt who was dangerously ill with malaria. Her friends in Kenya were unaware of Valerie's extended family and willingly lent a hand with the two children, the Grenvilles taking them into their home while Valerie was away so that Donald could concentrate on his farm.
It was only three weeks later that shocked friends heard from an even more shocked and grieving Roger that Valerie herself had contracted malaria and died just four days after her aunt. He went down to Cape Town where Valerie and her aunt were buried and he returned an even more morose and uncommunicative man, except where his children were concerned. To them he was unfailingly kind and patient.
Today Donald was leaving last minute instructions for the Grenvilles about his farm and the children before going to the UK. He sat on the verandah, long tanned legs stretched out, dressed in his khaki shorts and freshly ironed khaki shirt. Brown eyes squinting in his creased leathery face he watched the children scrabbling in the earth.. He would miss them, certainly. Yes, there was no doubt he was a good father although as a husband he had been a little less accommodating and somewhat critical of Valerie, eliciting raised eyebrows among her women friends on several occasions.
As he and the Grenvilles sat around the wooden log table drinking cold ‘Pembe' beer and chatting in a lazy, desultory fashion, lizards skittered down the walls and under stones. The dog lay panting in the heat, its pink tongue flopped out of the side of its muzzle. Even the red hibiscus flowers hung down limp and enervated. This heavy, sultry weather would have to break soon. It was nearly the end of February and this year had been excessively hot, the grass already dry, sparse and scrubby, the red earth baked into dusty ridges. Beyond the native cattle with their curious humped necks plucked at non-existent vegetation, their ribs prominent under dry, dirty white hides, their tails whipping at the hundreds of flies, flies which buzzed unchallenged around their eyes and over their faces.
Then like a loose strand of wool unravelling from an old jumper came the distant rumble of thunder and dark clouds rolled and gathered in the darkening sky. The thunder echoed against the surrounding hills. Big round blobs of rain spotted the verandah and bounced on the tin roof until the rain became a deluge drumming down deafeningly on the corrugated iron and beating the tired flowers into submission.
The adults quickly gathered up their drinks and moved indoors, The children abandoned their marbles, now gleaming and sparkling with a rainbow of colours in the lashing rain; they also ran indoors and changed into old swimsuits and as the rain gathered momentum they rushed outside, exuberant, jubilant and faces tilted upwards, energised by the rain splashing down. They ran to the side of the bungalow where there was a depression in the red, stony earth caused by years of use as a washing area by the Africans. The rain quickly filled the dusty trough and the children threw themselves into the water, rolling around in it and rejoicing in the coming of the wet season.
“There's à better place near your Dad's farm”, said James, “let's go there.”
The four of the them scuttled off to the Wells' farm next door, their hair and bodies streaked in orange as rivulets of earth-strained water cascaded down them.
“Look, up behind your house, Donald, near the damn.” enthused James. “The rain is pouring down like a river. I know we are not allowed to go near the dam but we can go to the bit where the earth has been washed away. It's left a huge hole. It'll make a fantastic pond.”
And so it did; for days they played and bathed in the red/orange water, exhilarating in the coolness and wetness. Above their bathing hole, the raw red earth which had fallen away during the storm was like a giant scar, accentuated by the fresh blades of grass sprouting all around. By the end of the week the bank was peppered with small yellow flowers and sprouting lantana bushes. By the third week the pool was slowly evaporating leaving a delicious squidgy, slippery sludge. The children slipped and slid, jumped and glided, pushing and pulling each other until Lorraine skidded face down pushing her hands in front of herself.
“Oh, there's something hard and smooth and round here and I’ve found something else,”she said and dragging herself out, face, hair and body plastered in the wet murram earth she held something in her hand.
“Look what I found,” she shouted, clinging on to a chain.
They took it down to the house and ran it under clean water and in the middle of the chain was a silver plaque engraved with the name 'Valerie' and a little heart at either end of the name. “Mummy's name!” shouted Lorraine
After the rains Roger arrived home from England, eager to see the children.The first thing he saw were two police cars in front of his home and up behind his house near the dam a skeleton was being carefully lifted onto a tarpaulin.
After the rain by Jackie
A
non desirous virus
That
I first heard about on the wireless
Wraps
you up in your home
So
you can’t roam
I’m
like a clown in lockdown
Don’t
frown, I’ve kept on my gown
It’s
brown, so I won’t go downtown
To
spend my crown and drown
After
the rain I’ll go for a walk
I
have to, or I’ll squark
sorry,
I can't stop to talk
my
lips are sealed
don’t
gawk
I
dream of taking an aeroplane or why not even a train
To stay sane
"What
a pain" said
Mark Twain
The
rain is beating
Into
my brain
Making
it churn making it burn
I’ll
do my tasks in the morn
After
the rain I’ll be less worn
The
sun will shine and I won’t be forlorn
The
sky is blowing a rainbow
as
I look out of my bow window
blue
yellow green and red
Oh,
I shall have to get out of bed
But after the rain
_______________________________________
Sarah's story
After the rain 3
(05.06.2020)
"The kitchen must be cleaned, and thoroughly!. It will be Easter in a few weeks and God expects a spotless house!"
This command was addressed to the daughters. The sons had other chores, such as chopping the wood and bringing it in, cleaning out the byre, clearing a path daily or almost daily through the snow to the road that led down into the valley. The girls did their part willingly most of the time, milking the cows, churning the butter, making the cheese, helping with the cooking and cleaning up afterwards. When spring came, they would be the ones to carry the dairy products down into the valley to sell them at the fairs. All these things they enjoyed, some more or some less, but the one thing they detested was the spring cleaning. Their mother was relentless, and not a speck of dust or grit would be allowed to remain when they had finished.
"Oh, Mother, it's still so grey out! We can't see well enough. We'd be sure to leave grime in the corners and dust in the shadows. Let's wait a bit. It's weeks still till Easter!"
There were other things to do, such as mending the tea towels—nothing was ever thrown away—or tearing into rags those that were too far gone to mend. There were buttons to be sewn on trousers, there were seedling plants to prepare for when the snow would finally disappear and they could plant them so as to be grown by the time of the short summer season. Best of all there were the Easter cookies to bake. These were better made ahead, even a month before hand.
So their mother relented, and they all busied themselves with the numerous other tasks. And in the evenings they studied. Their mother could read, but just barely; their father was hardly better at it. Their grandmother back in Austria could not read or write at all, but they wrote to her four times a year, and a neighbour read the letter to her. God willing, this generation was going to know everything, and become prosperous!
The children had known no other life than this house and farm halfway up the mountainside, in a notch of the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Their parents had known the old country and had brought with them from there a solid German philosophy of hard work, pious living and frugality. Already things were far better here than the future that had awaited them back home. And they would be better still, provided everyone did their part.
A week later, a thaw began to set in, a sure sign that spring was on its way. But the skies were even greyer, and the clouds lower still than before.
"Wait a little longer, Mother!" they said. And in her desire for perfection, she agreed. They would bake the cookies, and after that do the cleaning. It was only logical.
But after the cookies, the rain began, and it was even more dismal and harder to see. They burned the oil lamps even in the daytime. "After the rain, Mother!" And again she agreed.
One day a young man came up to the house. "There's danger of an avalanche," he said. "The rains are unsettling the snow. You must all come down."
"And leave the cows?" thundered the father.
"And we haven't done the cleaning!" said the mother.
"Oh, let's go down, please!" begged the sons and the daughters, who loved the gayer life of the valley.
"Never!" replied their parents in unison. The young man went away, for it was clear that nothing would change their minds.
The day grew darker, the rains fell faster. Then one of the boys said, "Listen!" There was a faint noise, indistinguishable, but as they listened it grew in force. The father went to the door and peered out and up the slope where the noise, now almost deafening , was coming from.
"It's on us!" he creid. "it's coming straight for the house! Out, everyone!"
Each grabbed a coat or a shawl, whatever was handy. One of the girls snatched up her doll, one of the boys ran for his penknife, and they all rushed outside. "Away! Away from the house!" cried the father, and they followed him, stumbling and clutching each other, till they were a good distance away.
The rain was pelting down. They were freezing with the wet, though it was much less cold, really, than the dead of winter in these parts. They shivered, more from dread even than from the cold, and huddled together. The mother sent up desperate prayers to a heaven that was now wholly invisible.
And as they stared, mesmerized, at this roaring grey-white monster bearing down on them, it began to divide in two. One part snaked around the farther side of the house and byre, and the nearer one, skirting the house and the byre, began to head straight in their direction. They scattered left and right, ran back towards each other again, clasping each other in their arms, pushing and pulling resisting arms to the one side or the other, but there was nowhere to go. The avalanche piled into them and over them, and continued on its relentless path down the slope.
When the valley people came up the next day to see how they had fared, they were amazed to see the house and byre unscathed. The spring cleaning had not been done, but no-one noticed that. The cookies were in their tin, the wood was piled next to the stove, and so far as anyone could see, the house was in perfect shape. As to the family, they were nowhere to be seen.
It was only a week or so later, when the snows had half melted away, that the bodies began to be found. Volunteer parties came out and recovered them all, and a tearful funeral was held. The letter to the grandmother was found too, unfinished, but there was no address, and no-one knew how to contact the old woman to tell her of the tragedy.
"Best not to," said one.
Finally, the village put up a stone on the valley road, to tell travellers from near and far, of the plight of this valorous family, and tourists would stop and muse on the irony of Fate. My own childhood was haunted by the story.
+ 1065 wds
NB: if anybody wants to know what's true and what's fiction here, the family that fled their house in an avalanche and were killed while their house was spared, and the fact that the story haunted my childhood, are true; the rest is all fiction.
(05.06.2020)
"The kitchen must be cleaned, and thoroughly!. It will be Easter in a few weeks and God expects a spotless house!"
This command was addressed to the daughters. The sons had other chores, such as chopping the wood and bringing it in, cleaning out the byre, clearing a path daily or almost daily through the snow to the road that led down into the valley. The girls did their part willingly most of the time, milking the cows, churning the butter, making the cheese, helping with the cooking and cleaning up afterwards. When spring came, they would be the ones to carry the dairy products down into the valley to sell them at the fairs. All these things they enjoyed, some more or some less, but the one thing they detested was the spring cleaning. Their mother was relentless, and not a speck of dust or grit would be allowed to remain when they had finished.
"Oh, Mother, it's still so grey out! We can't see well enough. We'd be sure to leave grime in the corners and dust in the shadows. Let's wait a bit. It's weeks still till Easter!"
There were other things to do, such as mending the tea towels—nothing was ever thrown away—or tearing into rags those that were too far gone to mend. There were buttons to be sewn on trousers, there were seedling plants to prepare for when the snow would finally disappear and they could plant them so as to be grown by the time of the short summer season. Best of all there were the Easter cookies to bake. These were better made ahead, even a month before hand.
So their mother relented, and they all busied themselves with the numerous other tasks. And in the evenings they studied. Their mother could read, but just barely; their father was hardly better at it. Their grandmother back in Austria could not read or write at all, but they wrote to her four times a year, and a neighbour read the letter to her. God willing, this generation was going to know everything, and become prosperous!
The children had known no other life than this house and farm halfway up the mountainside, in a notch of the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Their parents had known the old country and had brought with them from there a solid German philosophy of hard work, pious living and frugality. Already things were far better here than the future that had awaited them back home. And they would be better still, provided everyone did their part.
A week later, a thaw began to set in, a sure sign that spring was on its way. But the skies were even greyer, and the clouds lower still than before.
"Wait a little longer, Mother!" they said. And in her desire for perfection, she agreed. They would bake the cookies, and after that do the cleaning. It was only logical.
But after the cookies, the rain began, and it was even more dismal and harder to see. They burned the oil lamps even in the daytime. "After the rain, Mother!" And again she agreed.
One day a young man came up to the house. "There's danger of an avalanche," he said. "The rains are unsettling the snow. You must all come down."
"And leave the cows?" thundered the father.
"And we haven't done the cleaning!" said the mother.
"Oh, let's go down, please!" begged the sons and the daughters, who loved the gayer life of the valley.
"Never!" replied their parents in unison. The young man went away, for it was clear that nothing would change their minds.
The day grew darker, the rains fell faster. Then one of the boys said, "Listen!" There was a faint noise, indistinguishable, but as they listened it grew in force. The father went to the door and peered out and up the slope where the noise, now almost deafening , was coming from.
"It's on us!" he creid. "it's coming straight for the house! Out, everyone!"
Each grabbed a coat or a shawl, whatever was handy. One of the girls snatched up her doll, one of the boys ran for his penknife, and they all rushed outside. "Away! Away from the house!" cried the father, and they followed him, stumbling and clutching each other, till they were a good distance away.
The rain was pelting down. They were freezing with the wet, though it was much less cold, really, than the dead of winter in these parts. They shivered, more from dread even than from the cold, and huddled together. The mother sent up desperate prayers to a heaven that was now wholly invisible.
And as they stared, mesmerized, at this roaring grey-white monster bearing down on them, it began to divide in two. One part snaked around the farther side of the house and byre, and the nearer one, skirting the house and the byre, began to head straight in their direction. They scattered left and right, ran back towards each other again, clasping each other in their arms, pushing and pulling resisting arms to the one side or the other, but there was nowhere to go. The avalanche piled into them and over them, and continued on its relentless path down the slope.
When the valley people came up the next day to see how they had fared, they were amazed to see the house and byre unscathed. The spring cleaning had not been done, but no-one noticed that. The cookies were in their tin, the wood was piled next to the stove, and so far as anyone could see, the house was in perfect shape. As to the family, they were nowhere to be seen.
It was only a week or so later, when the snows had half melted away, that the bodies began to be found. Volunteer parties came out and recovered them all, and a tearful funeral was held. The letter to the grandmother was found too, unfinished, but there was no address, and no-one knew how to contact the old woman to tell her of the tragedy.
"Best not to," said one.
Finally, the village put up a stone on the valley road, to tell travellers from near and far, of the plight of this valorous family, and tourists would stop and muse on the irony of Fate. My own childhood was haunted by the story.
+ 1065 wds
NB: if anybody wants to know what's true and what's fiction here, the family that fled their house in an avalanche and were killed while their house was spared, and the fact that the story haunted my childhood, are true; the rest is all fiction.
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