Recent rains a beautiful thing

One of my favorite photographs was taken 70 years ago this summer.

In the 1947 black-and-white print, J.G. “Spud” Greaves is standing under the awning of the Portales newspaper office, where he was editor of the Portales Valley News and later the Portales Daily News for years.

Spud’s right arm is extended so his hand can catch the rain, and his face radiates the joy that we desert-dwellers feel when life-giving liquid gold falls from the heavens.

In eastern New Mexico, rain is a feast-or-famine commodity. This week, many of us have been feasting abundantly, welcome relief after a summer of spotty precipitation.

That heady perfume that fills the air with the first drops of a long-anticipated rain has a name: petrichor. Scientists credit it to an unromantic-sounding mix of bacterial spores and plant oils, with a splash of ozone.

In my book, it’s a scent right up there with fresh-baked apple pie, green chiles blistering over a flame, and beef stew simmering on a winter day.

And as sounds go, few are more beautiful than the rumble of thunder and the splatters of raindrops.

At my house, much of the precipitation that falls is funneled to a valley in the roof that feeds it straight down to a pockmarked concrete porch step that my father poured in 1958 when he and his new bride built an addition onto the family home. His handprint, pressed in before the cement set, still catches water on the south edge.

Sensible home designers would argue that having the main roof runoff focused only inches from the front door was poor planning. My mother might have agreed, because she was the one we all depended upon to rise during the night, move the doormat before it turned to a sodden rectangle, and close windows when storms raced through in the dark.

But that awkward placement of a front step has been the way our family has celebrated rain since 1958. In a place where we measure precipitation by hundredths of an inch, our spirits start to rise when the rain starts “hitting the step.”

Spud Greaves died in 1949, a decade before our porch step was built, but I think he might have given a nod of approval.

There is exactly enough room by this step to be sheltered from the storm, while you reach out a hand to feel hope falling from the sky.

Betty Williamson is grateful for every drop. You may reach her at: [email protected]