The Briar Philosopher - Rain Chimes (Free Access)

 Of course you’re not familiar with rain chimes - probably more familiar with the wind-powered variety. That may have something to do with the fact that I invented rain chimes when I was a youngun and never figured out how to make them practical enough to officially “invent”.
 It’s raining today and I just happen to be sitting here remembering my rain chimes, so I thought I’d share them with you.
 We had some beautiful late spring showers in these Kentucky hills when I was a kid and I loved sitting in the old porch swing and watching them move across the hillsides. You could see one coming a mile off as the sheets of rain were visible against the faraway hills. Even out in the fields you could get a pretty good idea of when you needed to pick up your hoe and head for the house just by watching the silver curtains against the dark greens of approaching summer.
 One day as I sat on the swing during a shower, hoe still in hand because the rain didn’t look to last too long, I heard another sound mixed with the rhythm of the drops on the tin roof above my head. The sound said, “ting, tink, ting, tink” like notes of music. I looked over the edge of the porch and saw two canning jars sitting just right under the eaves for raindrops to hit their taps. I don’t remember what they had in them but one of them was a little fuller than the other. I thought the sound was pretty and it gave me an idea.
 The shower soon ended and hadn’t wet the earth enough to prevent further hoeing, so I set out to get back to whatever it was I was cultivating that day. I don’t remember what it was, partially because it was one heck of a long time ago but partially because I was figuring out my idea for rain chimes. I didn’t call them that then. I didn’t really call them that until I started writing this and needed a title and realized that “rain chimes” was exactly what they were.
 I didn’t have to have a name for them then. I just had to have my mother’s permission to drag fifty or sixty canning jars out of storage, fill them with varying amounts of water and sit them around the house, under the eaves where the rain off the roof could hit them. We didn’t have anything as fancy as gutters back then. That's a good thing. Never would have had rain chimes if we did.
 I knew my idea wouldn’t be an easy sell but I was prepared. Of course my momma thought my idea was genius (read crazy) but she was used to my particular kind of genius by then and was willing to listen to my justification. With my momma, you had to have a justification. “Because I want to,” wouldn’t get you very far. I reasoned that the squash and peas or I don’t remember what would be ready for canning soon and that the jars would have to be taken out then anyway. I promised I’d bring them in and wash them when I was done. That worked for her, provided I would agree to her conditions. I knew, of course, that there would be conditions and was already pretty sure what they would be. I had to sort through all the taps and rings saved from last year and pick out the worst ones and the borderline ones to use. I could use that many jars - no more - and I couldn’t ask anybody for help but I had to let my little sister help if she wanted to. I was also forbidden to leave the jars out overnight and forbidden to whine about having to wash them “canning ready” once I was done. Those of you who have ever canned know that a “canning-ready” jar is just about the cleanest thing on the face of the earth and has to be for a reason.
 I agreed to all the conditions without hesitation. She knew I would and that I would meet them all, even the hard ones like letting Melissa help and not whining. Melissa wasn’t really that much trouble and I knew I’d eventually be washing the jars anyway.
 The next time Grandpa told me there was a real good chance of rain for the day I set my plan in action. Grandpa was always right about the rain and I never doubted him for a minute. I’d already sorted out the rings and taps but had to leave the jars until the last minute because Mommy didn’t want them sitting around in the way. We kept several rain barrels out for watering things when it was dry. They were all full and that’s what I used to fill my jars - some just a little, some to the top and all stages in between. I sat them all around under the eaves, with Melissa’s  "help” of course, and then went about my chores until the skies began to darken. I kept an eye out for the rain against the hills and hurried to the porch when I saw it coming so I’d be waiting when the first drops hit.
 It started out slow, ting, tink, thingle, ting tink - then grew and grew as more and more notes joined in, blending with the rhythm of the roof, dancing above those deeper notes and adding harmony to the wind and rain on stone and grass, leaf and tree. As the rain picked up, the notes melded into the crescendo of a single chord with a cymbal of thunder at its peak before falling back slowly to the ting, tink, ting, tink that softly died away as rolling thunder echoed in the distance.
 The whole thing might have lasted twelve minutes but what a beautiful twelve minutes. The boys hated it and Melissa covered her ears all the way through. Mommy agreed that once was probably enough but she smiled when she said it so I knew she liked it too.
 I didn’t gripe about it. I was pretty sure it would never sound like that again anyway. I got it right the first time and knew the odds were against a repeat performance. I was satisfied. I had a thought, turned it into reality and thoroughly enjoyed the outcome.
 I emptied the jars and rinsed the grit off them in the rain barrels. That was my momma’s suggestion and I was glad of it. She knew I hated the sound of sand grit against the bottom of that old aluminum dishpan. Just the thought of it still puts my teeth on edge. I’m sure I washed the jars that day but I can’t really say I remember it – don’t really remember much about the rest of the day at all. I just remember remembering the rain chimes. I remember them still. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget.
 It may seem unlikely that I’d remember that much in such detail all these years later but it’s one of my treasures. I’ve taken it out of the treasure box in my mind so many times and listened to it again and again. I may not have been as perfect as I remember but I remember it perfect and that’s good enough for me.
 The philosophy behind it all may be this. Beauty and music can be found everywhere, even in common canning jars and a ragged little girl’s imagination. I was good at finding the riches of poverty. I wouldn’t trade my rain chimes for all the gold in Solomon’s mines, and Solomon, if he really was all that wise, wouldn’t either if he’d heard it himself.