Ankles, Rain and Trains

The smell of rain depends on where you are.  Here at the bus stop the rain smelled like wet,  uncomfortable, soaked sweaters you couldn’t wait to peel off and the feeling of your socks sloshing in your Mary-Jane’s. The sound of the perpetual rain orchestra on the shingled roof teetered between a comforting lullaby and a tedious drone.  It was cold, it was wet.  I was determined that my fingers had frostbite because they left goose bumps on my face when I reached up to wipe my nose on my sleeve.  But worse than that was the feeling on my ankles.  My pants had already soaked up a few inches of moisture up my pant leg. There is nothing worse to me than the feeling of wet ankles.  If I stepped closer to the road and looked to my right, I could see the groomed entrances of Suburbia Washington.  If I looked even farther, I could see my yellow school bus getting closer and closer to us.  I felt bad for the kids who had to stand out in the rain. They didn’t have a bus stop.  We didn’t have a bus stop either until my dad organized the men in the neighborhood to help him build one.  This bus stop was special.  It was big and protective and had little hooks on the poles where you could hang your backpack if you were so inclined. 

            Soon the bus would come, and we’d all board.  Inside the bus was no better than outside.  It was worse, in fact.  At least outside you could breathe fresh air.  The air was thick and heavy.  The warmness of our bodies semi-dried our clothes and skin, but the newly evaporated water had no place to go.  So it just hung in the air like microscopic ghosts.  Quickly, the windows fogged over and we were free to draw and write notes. The occasional: “EM PLEH” was written as a plea to outsiders.  As if they’d think that we were all being taken somewhere against our will and come to our rescues.  This never happened. 

            The bus route would take us under the overpass. For a moment, the mindless plunking of the rain on the metal roof would be silenced.  We were out of Suburbia and onto Blueberry Lane. My hand wiped the foggy window and I peered through the blurry glass.  The storm-drains were working overtime.  Some of them have been clogged by the leaves of deciduous trees causing a great body of water to form in the street.  These were the best to drive though if you picked up enough speed because they would cause a tidal wave, some high enough to reach our windows.   It was especially good if there was an unsuspecting pedestrian.  They never saw what was coming, but we did.   

Soon we made it to the railroad.  There are some sounds that you never forget.  The whistle of a train is as good a lullaby as any to me.  It doesn’t matter where you are in town, if there is a train coming, you will know.  (A few years ago, I was standing outside my present home in the foothills outside town.  We were miles from town, miles from civilization.  Yet while I was looking at the stars, I heard the familiar sound of the train.  I shivered from the cold and the realization that some things never change).   The bus driver stopped at the tracks and opens the door to listen for an oncoming train.  This was a life or death situation for the driver so we were expected to be absolutely silent.  We obeyed to the best of our ability. 

Monroe was built of the railway and grew with the highway.  Along HW2 businesses popped up frequently here and there.  Some survived, some didn’t.   Eventually, we crossed the tracks and merge onto the highway passing landmarks:  the old Monroe Motel, the international auto garage, Patty’s Egg Nest Breakfast.  We’d continue up the hill to our elementary school.   The forest is thick with evergreens and bushes.   Moss and lichen are everywhere on everything.   In Western Washington nothing stays “not-green” for long. 

The bus continued up the hill, winding this way and that, until we reached our destination: Salem Woods Elementary.  I often pass Salem Woods and reminisce of the fine times I had:  the books I read, the games of four-square and tetherball, Ms. Bostrom's 2^rd grade class, and even better Mrs. Alt’s 4^th grade class.  I think about the imaginations shared and the friendships I made, some of which have lasted until today.  Some things haven’t lasted though.  I was driving through Suburbia this summer and stopped by my old neighborhood.   The cherry blossom tree in my old front yard had been trimmed to the trunk and the special bus stop had been destroyed by a crazy drunk a few years back. Patty’s Egg Nest is going out of business because people now are too busy to stop and eat a decent meal.  But the railroad is still there and it still rains 90% of the time leaving enough room for sticky sweaters and wet ankles, much to my dismay. 

Utah rain smells different.  It smells like wet asphalt on a summer day.  It smells even more like wet asphalt with chalk drawings on a summer day.  You know, rain smells different depending on where you are.  And I can’t wait to smell home.