Tell Them It Rained All Day

Tell Them It Rained All Day February 1, 2025

 

rain on a window pane
image via Pixabay

It rained all day.

It rained, and I was relieved. It ought to be snowing, but I’m glad for a thaw. A long, long stretch of uninterrupted snow doesn’t do wonders for my sanity, which is never very good. Last winter was only freezing for about two weeks, and this winter we’ve had at least six freezing weeks. Maybe we’ll have a few more.

When I went out to get Adrienne from school, it was pouring down. Her hoodie was dotted with raindrops as she got into the car. When we got home, we found that the power had flickered on and off, resetting all the clocks. I put them all back to 3:07, and sat down at the computer.

I found the news about the tariffs, which will drive prices through the roof and put Lord knows how many people out of work. I saw people panicking that the American car industry was going to go under if that maniac in the White House got his way. I thought of Jimmy, who still can’t get the geriatric Dodge to start. How’s he going to replace it?

And what about us? how will we afford to eat?

Jimmy came knocking at the door just then, as if my worry had summoned him. His boy is sick and needed the doctor to listen to his cough, so I handed him the car key. Charlie the neighborhood cat came up to the porch as we were talking, leaving soggy cat prints, and I got her a can of food. Between worrying about the boy and fussing over the cat, I was away from my desk for several minutes.

When I got back, I found out about the purges: the mass firings at the FBI. I found out that somehow, Elon Musk, whom nobody voted for, had locked civil servants out of the computer systems and was taking all the information for God knows what purpose. I saw people scrambling to archive thousands of pages of government websites that had been deleted. As the evening progressed, I saw that Trump is apparently going to dissolve USAID, illegally. People around the world will starve to death. Everything was happening all at once.

As the night fell, the panic online increased. Nobody seemed ready, even though we’d talked about something like this happening ever since June.

My queer friends were terrified and angry, that every single mention of their existence had been erased from the government websites, and things that said “LGBTQ” now said “LGB.”

I am so selfish, all I could do was worry.

And then I saw the plane crash.

When I scrolled past the photo, it looked like something out of a horror movie. When I saw the video, my brain refused to accept that it was happening. The more I looked, the more I was sure it couldn’t be real. A flash of light. A mushroom-shaped cloud. Chaos on the street. Houses burning. That wasn’t real life.

None of this can possibly be real life.

The power flickered again just then, and for a second I assumed it was the end of the world. And then, of course, it came back on. But the rain went on. It rained far into the night.

Adrienne was already in bed when I went upstairs to fold clothes and tidy up, and worry, and ruminate.

When I was a little girl, I didn’t know whether to say that I liked history or not.

I didn’t like to memorize names and dates. I didn’t like battles or political campaigns. But I liked to hear about how people lived. I wanted to know what clothes they wore, and what they had for dinner, and whether they got gifts at Christmas. Did they go swimming in the summer? Were they bored in church? When it snowed, did they think it was beautiful and go to play outside? Or did they hide away inside and wish it would stop? When it rained instead of snow, was that a blessing or a curse?

Of course, Interesting Times inevitably befell them, or we wouldn’t be reading about them in a history book. When the Interesting Times came, how did they feel, and what did they do?

When I studied history as a child, I didn’t want to read about the soldiers who went into battle, or about the people who packed up and fled, or the ones who died at once. I didn’t care about the politicians who made speeches either. I wanted to read about the ordinary people who stayed where they were and fought for good however they could. How did they do it? Did they plant a victory garden? Did they teach children in a one-roomed schoolhouse? Did they become midwives or medics? Make bandages or Molotov cocktails? Spirit their enslaved neighbors away on the Underground Railroad? Put a little cocaine on a handkerchief, so the Nazis’ dogs couldn’t smell the Jewish people hiding under the floorboards?

Were they angry?

Did they worry how they’d afford to eat, and then feel guilty for being selfish?

Were they ever so afraid that they wanted to cry, but the tears didn’t come?

Did they feel that it couldn’t possibly be real life?

As I was cleaning and putting away the laundry, I found my garden seeds: the neat manilla envelopes from the seed bank, and the messy plastic bags of sunflower seeds I saved myself. The packets from the dollar store I shouldn’t have bothered to buy, because they never grow properly. I’ve been hoarding seeds ever since the fall, just in case. There are six kinds of sunflower in my seed drawer: Velvet Queen, Lemon Queen, Mammoth Gray Stripe, Autumn Beauty, Indian Blanket, Italian White. Just to give people something beautiful to look at, and to attract the birds so we have something to listen to. If I can just get peat pellets in the next couple of weeks, I’m going to grow more seedlings than I need, to give away to neighbors.  If I can make it to summer, I’ll have food to share. If I can   make it to summer.

Let future historians know that my neighbor’s son was sick, and he had to borrow the car.

Let them tell their students that I was terrified, and ashamed of being selfish.

Let the record state that I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.

When you write the book about this time, write down that there were six kinds of sunflower seed in my seed drawer.

I hoped to make it to the summer, to share food with my neighbors.

I felt that it couldn’t possibly be real life.

Tell them it rained all day.

 

 

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows and Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

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