The Irrepressible Desire for Community
When it Rains, It Pours
I spend a lot of time checking the weather app on my phone these days. It never used to be this way. Even last year it wasn’t this way, because last year it never rained.
But now it rains. I’m really happy about that. Well, happy-ish. You see, I don’t want it to rain on certain days at certain times, as if what I want matters.
This ambivalence is not just me. It’s not just rain. We know this. When we get a new job, we look forward to a steady income and with luck, meaningful work with dedicated coworkers, until we experience the toxic politics of the place. Then we realize we traded the stressless joy of an empty grocery store on Wednesday mornings for it.
Or when our kids are born, we pray and/or look forward to seeing what kind of adults they’ll turn into, but please don’t let them to turn into narcissists or drunks, drug addicts or wife beaters or just plain aimless. We ask the Universe to keep them safe, even when we wish they’d learn a lesson the hard way – but not too hard - just once.
So, these days if it rains around here, I rejoice that the roots of 200 honeyberry bushes will recover from four years of drought. Then maybe next year I’ll use the kiddie pool and bush-shaker to harvest hundreds of berries off of each bush in 20 seconds instead of handpicking a lousy two quarts one berry at a time through brittle branches, dripping sweat amidst biting flies.
If it rains, the rough edges of leaves on the 60 Asian pear trees will become soft again, helping the fruit to grow round and fat, wet and juicy. If it rains, I can stop giving the timber next to our house the side eye, wondering why I’ve never performed a controlled burn to get rid of that underbrush.
But I didn’t want it to rain June 20th at 6 p.m. That was the day of our first-ever Potluck on the Prairie at Draco Hill Nature Farm. In an effort to redefine rural community, we’re using our 75 acres to host a year-long series of outdoor events like mushroom forays, bird walks, prairie seed collecting and bug nights, free and open to the public. More than a dozen people had signed up online to come to a place some had never seen to break bread with people most had never met. It was an exercise in faith, for all of us.
The forecast called for scattered thunderstorms. Earlier in the day, I set in motion a back-up plan – a relatively clean garage – and notified people who had RSVP’d of a possible change of venue. I even have “Today’s Event” signs used to point to different places depending on what else? The rain.
At 5 p.m., an hour before start, the weather was sunny, hot and humid. The skies were clear and the forecast hopeful, so we loaded our utility vehicle with the new charcoal grill, charcoal, condiments, dogs, buns, chairs, chips and coolers. We hauled it a quarter mile through the prairie and down to the river, a favorite spot among visitors. We unloaded and lit the coals.
Thunder rumbled in the distance but I had dutifully checked the radar all day. This storm would go south of us. At 5:30, Paul and I sat there watching the coals and checking the forecast, again. A guest arrived early and we chatted as the thunder grew louder.
Worst-case scenarios started taunting me. As I nodded politely in conversation, my imagination went into overdrive: What if they get here and then is starts raining? The farm road will be too muddy to drive on, the food will get soaked, the charcoal drenched. I’ll have too much of everything if no one comes. It’ll be a nightmare if everyone comes. People I barely know or don’t know at all will be standing around sopping wet, hunched and blinking out from under the downpour coming off their drenched hats, paper plates wilting in their hands, food collapsing on the ground, our dogs lapping it up, only to vomit up in the living room later.
When everyone finally gives up and tries to leave, their cars will get stuck in the mud. Everyone else will jump in to push them out, only to get covered in mud from spinning tires.
No one will ever come to an event here again. The Draco Hill Nature Farm experiment will be over before it began.
At 5:45 a text came in from a friend in Iowa City, 20 miles west.
“Is it still on?”
“Of course!”
“OK, I’ll head out as soon as this downpour passes.”
That did it. We packed up. At 5:55 we pulled into the driveway with everything but the hot grill. We enlisted the first guests to help open the three garage doors, pull out the car and tractor, get an old folding table set up, throw on a table cloth to hide the stains and toss coolers, chairs and bags out of the utility vehicle. An adventuresome guest and I went to get the hot grill. We pulled up to the garage just as the first rain drops hit the gravel.
More cars pulled in. I asked someone to run a playlist on their phone. Crosby Stills and Nash lit up the party. We set the grill under a high awning next to the garage. The rain started in earnest as more people arrived. The wind gusted, blowing rain onto the hot dogs and coals. I scrambled for the lid and used my body to protect the grill. Still more cars pulled in, unloading people carrying glass and plastic containers. I could barely see them through the downpour as they took cover in the garage, laughing and setting down their contributions to the meal.
Everyone knows Iowans are well-versed in potlucks, but this took that to a whole new level. Nearly 30 guests - double what we had expected - drove miles in a major storm, squeezed everything onto a single table, found their drinks in coolers and made themselves comfortable in whatever chair they could find. A group of seven Hipcamp guests visiting from Omaha joined us, donating 12-packs of Fanta and Coke. Two little kids ran around under umbrellas they quickly abandoned. By the end of the party, they were down to their underwear, still splashing and playing.
The skies eventually cleared. As if on cue, a double rainbow appeared over the garage. Some people took a walk down the long hill, through the prairie and orchards to the river. Others sat on the pergola in Adirondack chairs overlooking the river valley. A group hovered by the chicken coop, peeking in at the new chicks. Everyone made themselves at home. My soggy, sunny, puddle-splashed vision fulfilled.
It rained. I didn’t want it to. And it didn’t change a thing.
When have you found yourself negotiating with the weather, Fate or God? How did that turn out for you? Start the conversation here!
What a wonderfully told story, full of every emotion under the sun. And the rain.
Folks that know how to make the best times in spite of wonky weather are a hardy bunch, or should that be hearty? Iowans and prairie people have endured for years and will for years to come. Love your opening your farm for public gatherings and sharing. That's what the Spirit of community is all about. Thanks for sharing.