Cool gray late-summer rain sounds like a proletariat piano solo. All that indulgent, melancholy plink-a-plinking. The morning is overcast with memory. Almost expect to look out the window and find bare trees standing in piles of wet potato peelings, bark dark black from cold-cold rain-rain-rain. But it’s not the end of the world yet. It’s too early. It’s only August. (And Congress is on recess.)
Still, the mind is easier to trick than a little dog. It feels like Fall. So maybe it is the Fall. Maybe it’ll keep on raining for a couple days straight like it did here in southeast Minnesota two-years-ago and flood green valleys with mud, roadoil and pesticide. If not here, someplace else.
It’s raining. It’s August. The sky is falling.
That’s how gloom and doom works.
Gets in your head.
Tangles up your wires.
Been so much gummy blather and bilious gunk belching from all the windbags blowing-bare the branches of the historic health care reform debate in America. Almost forget how vigorous and fresh the young plum tree looked last spring. Fat new buds sprouting blood blue rose petals infused with green. Bark the color of red cabbage. Nothing quite like the young plum in spring.
But spring is gone again, a sanguine mood that’s fast-passed, or fog condensing into rain as the dark sun rises. Then it starts to pizzle and grumble. Got to fight the urge to crawl back into bed, pull the covers up over the ears, damp that mournful-damn drip-drip-drip of pessimism and fear. Still summer. Pick plums instead.
Got to look a fat ripe plum right in the eye. Don’t be afraid. Shovel it into your mouth like you’re kissing a trout. Take a bite.
Congressman Tim Walz lobbed plums into a cloudy DFL fundraiser last weekend, “We’re gonna get there,” he said. “We’re gonna get healthcare reform. Is it gonna be everything you want? Probably not. But we’ve got to do something.”
Minnesota writer Tom Driscoll reports on politics, economic development and life in rural America at The Small of America.