The Out Front Kind

Shortly before Mom’s dinner time, she wheeled into the Arizona Room where Bill and I were sitting on the sofa playing Scrabble on our Kindles.

“Have you seen the rain?” she asked.

“Only about an hour ago, except it just spit in the yard a little and went away,” I commented as I filled in SPLINTER around Bill’s LINT.

“Well it’s raining in the front yard.  You should go look,” she instructed as she performed an abrupt U-turn then hung a left into the kitchen.

Bill and I glanced over our shoulders and looked out the window behind us into the backyard.  “It isn’t raining out back,” Bill yelled after her.

“Well it’s raining out front,” she shouted from the bowels of the kitchen.  “I can see it coming down.”

I laid my Fire aside, got up from the couch and trailed after her.  She was parked by the table in the breakfast nook, staring out the big picture window.  “See,” she said, pointing toward the street.  “It’s raining.  I can see the drops hitting the water washer and the sidewalk might be wet too.”

“Water washer?” I repeated, taking a moment to search through my mental file drawer of Mom-isims.  “Do you mean the birdbath?” I asked.

“Yes, that, the bird pot.  See, see, the rain’s falling in the water and making circles.”

“I think maybe it’s just dripping from the eave or the gutter because the street’s dry and it isn’t raining in the backyard at all.”

“Well weather’s funny that way,” she replied, putting the Red Menace into gear and motoring out of the kitchen and down the hall toward her bathroom.  “Sometimes it rains in front, sometimes it rains in back and sometimes it rains all over,” she shouted as she wheeled into her bedroom.  “This must be the out front kind.”

rain 2



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