There’s song Texas country artist Walt Wilkins used to do with his band, The Mystiqueros, called It’s Only Rain. The lyrics are haunting in a simple yet stunning sort of way. “Barn storm brewing up in the loft/When she comes down/She falls so soft/ Like rain/It’s only rain….Dust ball farmer/Red dirt clay/Drops his shovel and he kneels to pray/For rain/It’s only rain.” I saw Walt sing, intimately, at a house concert here in town a few years back. He performed some acoustic sets. Think Kris Kristofferson’s face with longer, grayer, shaggier hair. That is Walt. Someone from the audience asked him to sing It’s Only Rain. He gave a speech about the writing of the song and how he’d hoped it would be a chart topper. Then, he refused to sing it. I heard post-concert chatter of fallings out and hard feelings with some of the band members. Granted, until I started writing this article, I thought he was saying dust bowl farmer. I envisioned my grandfather, back in the 30s, trying to grow crops while unable to see through the opaque dust, the ground being where the sky should’ve been. I guess the sentiment is similar. The farmer in the song is literally growing dust balls instead of corn. Still, even though Walt’s wish for a chart-topping mega hit didn’t come to fruition, it’s a heckuva tune, and apropos for this column, since, at the moment in July that I’m writing this, it rained today for the first time in 6 weeks. We laugh about the drought. We roll our eyes, cause, Texas, ya know. It’s always too hot. There’s never enough water. We shout “rememberthesummerof80” like we survived the Alamo or something. Yet, this summer has seemed different. Parts of Royse City actually ran out of water suddenly. The Great Salt Lake is drying up. There’s something involved in this where the salt will kill the algae and turn everything into a form of arsenic that could be blown hither and yon by Utah winds. Local lakefront homeowners are suddenly realizing why they got that sweet deal on their property a few years ago. Boat lifts are dangling watercraft over empty channels that look more like the Sahara than a lake finger. And, as in all other years where we are sorely lacking water, we begin to get nervous. Where is the rain? Can we hunt it down? Can we dance it over? Can we pray it here?
Boy Scouts of America founder Ernest Thompson Seton created an organization he called the Woodcraft Indians. Ironically, this was a program dedicated to outdoor skills offered only to non-native boys. No girls or indigenous need apply. His wife, Julia Buttree Seton, wrote a book entitled The Rhythm of the Redman (patronizing much, Setons?) that described the celebratory dances of the Zuni people. I mention this because it is the first published writings of the tribal rain dance. In her book, Julia describes, in great detail, the turquoise feathers and other items of blue worn during the dance, symbolizing water. All indigenous groups had a beckoning dance saved for times when rain was sorely needed, though it was more than wishful thinking. The Osage and the Quapaw expertly documented the ways of tracking and following weather patterns in order to predict precipitation. Indeed, the passing on of this knowledge from tribes to settlers is where the Farmer’s Almanac originates. See, they knew when it was coming. Then, they would perform their dance to settlers in return for trade items. Shortly thereafter, it would rain. The settlers would both rejoice and recoil from these mystical, magical savages. After all, we know too well what people do to other people over things they do not understand. I digress. The call for rain within the 30s lore of the Ozark Mountain people finds the hillmen burning brush along creeks, gigging frogs to be placed along dry roads, salting visible gravel bars, hanging dead snakes belly up on fence lines, and, sadly, holding cats under sulfur water “just for a moment.” All of these things were intended to summon rain. African kings are thought to hold the power of rain. In a number of societies, severe droughts are blamed on rulers. Kings have died for their inability to draw water from the sky. Chinese shaman from the Wu Dynasty were forced to dance inside a fire ring until it rained. Exhausted? Sick? Near death? A shaman was thought to be a messenger from the spirits of nature. Make it happen or dance. The Romans staged elaborate ceremonies for rain. There was even a precious stone stored at the Temple of Mars that had to be brought to the Senate so that Jupiter, god of the sky, could be petitioned. There was always the fear that Jupiter would just decide to skip the moisture and zap someone with a bolt of lightning. Those crazy Romans, am I right? Heck, Governor Perry came on television in 2011 and asked Texans to pray for rain. Water is a precious commodity.
I’m preparing to hear the meteorologists laugh at today’s paltry sprinkles that didn’t even require a car wash after the fact. We have downgraded from developing a lovely flower garden to just keeping the plants alive. One of my doorknobs fell off in my hand as only a 1910 doorknob on a pier & beam house, middrought, can do. Yet, today, we had a glorious moment. People were running through Walmart screaming, “It’s raining,” with glee. I came home and donned a blue shirt and my grandmother’s turquoise ring. The Zuni might be on to something.
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