The Good Life
When the rain comes, what do the drought-stricken do? Why, dance in it, of course.
In the country, no one can hear you singin’ in the rain. Or see you dance. And, I say, thank goodness for that. The carry-on at our place when the heavens finally opened after nearly two months without proper rain was less Gene Kelly and more drunk uncle at a wedding.
The lambs, always a tough crowd, pretended not to see, though when we told Miles the sheep farmer about our disgraceful display in the rain, he paused, as he does, and then said, “No wonder you didn’t want any neighbours.” This comment, after rigorous scientific testing, is now officially held to be the only thing drier than the drought.
The Big Dry was much worse in central and southern Wairarapa and regions east of us, but every last lovely drop, and the sometimes sudden heavy drops, that have fallen since Christmas have been like aqua from heaven.
It was inevitable, of course, that when the rain finally came, it would arrive at just the wrong moment. We’d just had more firewood delivered by John, the farmer up the road. So while Michele capered and whooped, I tried to get the last of the pine logs stacked away in the second-best woodshed.
I was aided in this venture by possibly the world’s most embarrassing trailer. A couple of months after I bought my ride-on mower – I’m sure I must have mentioned that important life event before – I decided I needed to find more excuses to drive it around the property. When not mowing lawns to perfection, I figured, the machine could also serve as my horse (have I mentioned before that it has a massive 16.8 of horsepower?), so what was needed was a buggy or, if I’m being strictly accurate, a trailer.
Michele, although having a high tolerance for my impulse purchases, tried very hard not to laugh when it was delivered, but was only modestly successful.
On seeing my tiny trailer for the first time, Miles said, after a pause, “You always want a bigger tractor”, a comment that, following detailed expert analysis, was deemed to be drily empathetic. Still, as the rain fell on the unmoved firewood, my silly, tiny toy trailer finally proved to be my smartest rash investment yet. If only it were a little bigger.
In the country, no one can hear you swear when you lose at Scrabble, either. And thank God for that too. Many summer holiday rituals have evolved at our house over the past 20 years: strict enforcement of afternoon naps; an early cocktail hour; rewatching The Castle; and eating every last scrap of ham on pain of death. But it is Scrabble that has become our most fierce tradition.
Indeed, if war is the continuation of politics by other means, then at our house Scrabble is a bloodbath with triple-wordscore squares. No quarter is given, especially if you manage to get the word “quarter” on a triple.
After soundly thrashing Michele five games to three last summer, I was confident of beginning this summer with a win. I had just placed the excellent “aver” on a triple, the letter bag was empty, the board was very tight, Michele was stuck with the Q and 13 points separated us. I was poised for another famous victory.
And then the heavens opened, again. Well, not quite. In her final move, Michele managed to get her last four letters – including her Q – not only on the board but on another triple-word-score square. “Aqua,” they spelt.
The Lord, or so I’ve read, sends rain on the just and the unjust alike. And aqua, too.