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There is a pair of rusty window sash
weights that were removed many years ago from my great
Uncles old house in Alameda when new freshly painted windows
were installed against the fog and the wind and the rain of
the Bay Area's estuary weather conditions.
A grand Victorian with rich cinnabar cherry wood
wainscoting, oak plank flooring and a smattering of hand
carved beveled stars on the crown molding.
It was only fitting for me to preserve something of this
occasion, after all it had been the decision of the grown
people to throw away these curiously heavy globs of
elongated metal attached by thick cording that had suspended
their working weight on the top of their clanging bodies.
But it was, that my little fingers gleaned these meaningful
metal vestiges of age and circumstance as something
arresting in interest and laid them for their protection
under the seat of our little '46' black Ford my grandfather
had purchased off of the factory line that year.
For weeks, these marvels of mass rolled and clunked and
bothered and nagged and slid forward to cause a bruised
ankle or two and finally the loud and befuddled voices of
opposition forced these charms to take their place in a dark
and forgotten niche, placed in a box filled to the ceiling
with other obtrusive odds and ends on the last shelf of the
weather beaten garage, And there they stayed for the next
thirty years until the old structure was at last falling
under the skillful sledge hammer of my Uncle's grandson who
took the responsibility of replacing a worthy frame in its
wake.
Down came the empty staring picture frames robbed of a life
to surround, Juice O Matic dianasours whose teeth lay dry
and waiting in a half open struggle to engorge its mouth
with the memory of the juicy flesh of another orange. Down
came the boxes, and the woven straw luggage, the string tied
bundles and the canvas bags.
And now from the depths of their carton, the sleeping
beauties had been awakened from their darkened quiet and
again exposed to the critical view of another generation of
onlookers.
"What are those?", my tiny daughter asked with wide eyed
enthusiasm.
Her clean,
pale finger pushing a small daub of rust inward to the
touch.
Her dark turquoise eyes puzzling at the brown red powder
taking over her hand print.
I could have laughed and explained their true worth, but
instead there rose inside of me the temptation to gravitate
toward the depicting of their magic in a time-honored
unstructured story one gives to another through the ages, be
they storytellers in their hearts.
Perhaps I could from memory, resurrect the attraction I once
shared for them as well.
I began to bring forth the well spring of words, weaving a
tale of the forgotten Angel who wandered the clouds, looking
down upon us with love and concern for our well-being, and
whose lone journey it was to oversee the bringing of the
much needed rain to all of those who were thirsty, be they
two legged or four.
With one whirl of her delicate angelic hand she set to
sounds these two great pieces of rusted iron coming
together, and the sound swelled the air, and the air gave
birth to a million and one tiny sounds that reached the
clouds like laughing babes and played such a sweet song that
she began to laugh, and as she laughed it shook the clouds
and they were only want to shake all of the water free that
they had carried with them across the great seas.
"We need her to laugh huh mommie?" her tiny voice capturing
the concern, mimicking the news she had often heard us speak
of so many conversations at night around the supper table of
our ten year drought that had left many a reservoir dry and
the forests ready for tinder should a spark fly untold in
their direction.
I nodded in agreement and sad that she remembered it so
well, hoping that the true extent had not rested on such a
sweet mind to the detriment of her pleasant growing
memories.
Her eyes sparkled with a trust, with questions, with a faith
of knowing all things recognize what to do in the great
propose of all things.
"Well, to call for her laughter my little lambie, you
have to hang these big old heavy things up in the air where
the wind can touch them together to make that sound, and
make music so the angel would know where it is she has to
make her clouds shake rain over us."
There wasn't another word about them as they were brought to
the large pile for a trailer load to the local landfill
site.
Hands washed, tuna and picallily relish sandwiches split in
a diagonal triangle smothered with hot home made potato
chips and chocolate milk sat ready at each placemat, but
Rachel Moriah was no where to be found.
She was last seen everyone recounted, running past the open
field of Horsetail grass and toward the apple trees near the
barn.
Her name called a few times again but I did not receive the
musical voiced response in acknowledgement. But no concern,
a picture called out to rest assured she was deep into Play
Land where logic and response are put far a field to the
reality of their wise learning, where the stuff of creative
imagination was taking precedence in teaching to live a
life.
When the dishes were washed Rachel's little plate with the
three bears imprinted on its thin porcelain face, still
remained untouched.
By late afternoon I became concerned and left the kitchen
across the open field and began calling.
Unexpected winds had started creating a creaking music with
the barn door left ajar,
The leaves scurried to find a port against the basement door
and the tree tops bent in humble adoration to the power of
the breath of nature.
My whole body
turned when I heard the sound.
The dull
clanking din that did not belong, that had not spoken
anywhere before.
Tied to an apple branch with pieces of eighty pound test
fishing line, the two metal globs clanked awkwardly together
at the behest of the sudden squall.
"Rachel" I
shouted, too eager to find the little face I treasured.
"Right here mommie. I'm watching the angel move her music. I
got it up just in time."
I stopped and
breathed an outward sigh of relief.
"Yes, Yes you did. Just in time. Let's go in the house now
sweetheart, it's getting dark."
We moved together toward the back screen door in a walking
hug and I felt distinct small drops of water on my arm and
on my nose.
I stopped and extended my arm and opened the palm of my hand
outward toward the sky.
"I think it's
sprinkling."
"Oh no mommie,
it's going to rain, it's going to rain a lot."
By the time Rachel had been tucked into her warm quilted bed
it was pouring. Large dancing drops of rain beating their
pattern of music against the roof top,
Filling the gutters and the spouts, soaking all of the land
and singing their song of joy?
Sleepily she turned to grab Binny bear and snuggled closer
to his embroidered nose.
"It worked
mommie, our music worked, the angel is laughing rain for
us."
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