Rain

John 11:25.

I don’t know where to start.

If you read a lot and have a good memory, it is tempting to compare your current situation with that of some near-forgotten character in a book read decades ago.

For some reason, the scene was memorable, perhaps because it was well-written and immediate, and that created a lasting impression. Or maybe it was the mood, not the scene, that captured interest.

Anyhow.

* * *

It rained Saturday.

This time of year, honeysuckle blooms and attracts bees. That is strikingly ill-advised, biologically speaking. By the first of February, winter returns with enough violence to remind us the season is not what it had appeared.

The rain was unwelcome: it had been warm enough for a few days to see to farm chores that had been neglected for nine months due to illness. The surprising thing was how quickly those tasks undone, accumulate without giving notice.

There are times in life when the difference between the last time and this, is remarkable. However, strength returns and with it, hope.

Once back, the cut straw and grass that had grown nearly to waist level, revealed the first signs of life and spring. In 2022, Galanthus bloomed the day the Ukrainian invasion began. It was encouraging last week to discover their return, weeks away from bloom, but clearly alive in a field of last season’s dry and dead straw.

The rain put all outdoor plans on hold, and it was not obvious what ought to come next on the list.

“Been dry; we need the rain,” someone commented.

* * *

Richard had been nowhere to be seen Sundays, for months. Years, even.

I had not known him well, but his reputation and the few times I had seen him impressed me. He had been a family practice lawyer as well as the unapologetic Southern historian it is good to come across every so often.

The one memorable remark in the homily, was a reference to Richard’s book The Virginia Gentleman: A Field Guide, an Owner’s Manual, a History, and a Way of Life. Nothing about the book was mentioned except its price online.

“For any who own a copy, I recommend you hang onto it…” the Rector had advised.

* * *

I had nothing in particular to do that Saturday afternoon.

A funeral seemed just the thing. I would be needing something similar in the near future myself, so it seemed a reasonable idea to test-drive one of the sort that might do for me as well as for Richard.

At a certain stage in life, it seems funerals for those who were known to you in your youth suddenly spring up with the death of, say, a lover you hadn’t seen in decades. This may be followed by a wrestling team captain who was a buddy, and whom everyone recalled for his barrel chest and massive arms, and less so for his lenses thick as Coke bottles, and for his service as a U. S. Marine.

My sharpest memory of that was seeing the funeral director bearing a small walnut box at the end of the ceremony, and thinking what part of Eddie Barber fits in that box?

The initial shock wears off.

Or at least it seems civil to say so.

* * *

After the service, I came across another hurrying in the rain toward the parking area.

“He was a good man,” I observed.

“He was a GREAT man,” he returned.