It Might Be A Drought If It Doesn’t Rain
The things people say when they have nothing to talk about!
I don’t know why, but it really bugs me when people seem to have nothing to talk about apart from the weather.
It’s been dry around here, dry and hot, and although we had good rain in December, it’s been pretty dry since.
Apart from today when we had a storm.
And then the conversation changed from “gee it’s dry.. and hot” to “look at that rain pelting down… why did it have to rain on Friday afternoon”.
“I suppose the weather will cool down now that it’s raining..”
(It didn’t. It was just hot and muggy!)
Over the past week, I even had one person ask if it was ever going to rain again.
I answered that yes, rest assured, it will certainly rain again. He looked at me like a stunned mullet, and asked “when?”.
“I don’t know” I replied. He walked away shaking his head (and I walked away shaking mine too btw).
I wonder if this is all because we have lost the art of conversation? Or are our lives so boring that we have nothing else to talk about?
Or are we scared to get involved in a decent conversation, because it may mean some kind of a commitment on our part as a result?
Below: The storm clouds rolling in today!
Of course, we wouldn’t want to be like poor old Hanrahan, would we?
“Said Hanrahan” is a poem by John O’Brien (The pen name of PJ Hartigan).
Said Hanrahan
P.J. Hartigan (“John O’Brien”)
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan
In accents most forlorn
Outside the church ere Mass began
One frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock and crops and drought
As it had done for years.
“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke;
“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad.”
“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran
“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.
“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-O’-Bourke
They’re singin’ out for rain.
“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,
“And all the tanks are dry.”
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.
“There won’t be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There’s not a blade on Casey’s place
As I came down to Mass.”
“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak –
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, ”
If rain don’t come this week.”
A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
“We want an inch of rain, we do,”
O’Neil observed at last;
But Croke “maintained” we wanted two
To put the danger past.
“If we don’t get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”
In God’s good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-O’-Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If this rain doesn’t stop.”
And stop it did, in God’s good time:
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o’er the fence.
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place
Went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.
“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”
