Time passes so quickly. From little child to an old woman seems like days not years. Memories slip across my consciousness like an ice cube across a wood floor. Those memories are just as hard to capture as picking up that ice cube.
I do remember one afternoon when I was ten or eleven. It was a hot summer afternoon, and I went looking for a quiet place to read my newest library book. Well not so much quiet as a place where my little sister wouldn’t find me.
I rolled my book up in an old blanket along with a mason jar of water and probably fruit from one of our trees. I climbed up into our hayloft and decided that would work. I “encouraged” our collie, Rex, to climb up with me and the two of us laid down with a bale of hay behind us. The horses and milk cow were out in the pasture, so the barn was very quiet and still. The only sounds were the cooing of pigeons, and some chatter from the Barn Owl who was complaining we had disturbed her sleep.
I had been reading for a while, when I heard the largest clap of thunder ever. Not only did I hear the boom, but I also felt it in my breastbone and the barn shook with the sound. When it started to rain, I heard hooves and watched as the cow and horses charge into the loafing area. All of them, that is, except our little black Shetland pony. He was standing in the middle of the pasture, stamping his feet and screaming at the coming storm. When the next boom sounded, along with the sky opening, he decided discretion was the better part of valor and came stampeding into the barn where he pushed himself into the middle of the horses. I laughed until I was totally out of breath. `
Mom called my name, and I responded that I was in the barn and wouldn’t come out until the rain subsided. Rex and I again sat down to read and listen to rain on the barn roof.
Have you ever been in a barn or shed with a tin roof in the rain? The sound of rain on a tin roof is one of the most amazing sounds you will ever hear. The type and quality of sound depends on how hard the rain is coming down.
A gentle slow rain often sounds like dancing feet across the roof. The rain that day was a real gully washer and sounded like an army quickly marching across the roof. Yet at the same time it was comforting. In the warm loft was the sound of animals eating hay and milling around each other. There was also the smell of wet animals and the sweet smell of the recently baled hay. That leads me to the one important consequence of being in a warm barn with animals on a rainy afternoon and that is the probability of being lulled to sleep is probably around 99.9%, which was what I did.
I was awakened by my father calling me to help feed the critters and milk the cow. I slept through the storm and most of the rain and only read a small portion of my book. I rolled up my book and snack and handed it down to dad, he carried Rex down the ladder on his shoulder. The horses and pony had already gone into their stalls and the cow into the milking stanchion. I was in a bit of a haze as I carried feed to each of them and cleaned up the loafing area. The reason I remember this so well is I felt disconnected from all that was around me. Listening to the rain and animals had opened something inside. My sleep included dreams of faraway places, and people I did not know. There were images of books and of me standing and speaking in front of an audience. But like most dreams nothing made sense, and I really don’t have a clear memory of the dreams. But somehow in my young girl’s mind I knew that something spoke to me, that everything I saw, heard and smelled that afternoon was important for who I was to become.
Looking back from where I am now, I understand to a very small degree, some of that feeling. I have become someone who speaks out and I have seen some faraway places. But interpreting dreams is iffy at best and somewhat dangerous in so many ways. That is especially so for a set of dreams so long ago. Yet I have had a few visions since then, and while I wouldn’t bet my life on them, I still get the feeling they mean something, and I am not paying enough attention.
Some would tell me dreams are just bad bits of the evening porridge, and it is best to just ignore them. But now I’m old woman and not a little girl anymore. I have had many life experiences that have changed my view of the mystery called life. So, I am a little less willing to push aside what others say is meaningless. What matters to me are the insights or pleasures I receive from, a dream, a walk in the woods, an article or a book or, a stage production. There is always a possibility the experiences of unique moments in my 78 years of life will open a door of understanding or a new way to view an issue or the world. If such moments bring only a moment of joy or happiness, then all was worth it.
That memory of a long-ago rainy afternoon still makes me smile and dreams or no dreams, the memory teaches me the importance of taking the time to stop and enjoy what is in front of me.
Ruth Jewell, ©July 29, 2025.
A Quiet Walk 