Call of the Rain Crow

This summer the Colonel and his father -- the wise and strong-hearted Mister Vernon -- have fallen into a comfortable routine, spending more time with each other in the past year than in all of the previous fifty combined.  As he reflects on the last fourteen months that the passing of his mother made him his father's closest family, the Colonel realizes the enormity of the loss that those fifty years represent.  He is amazed at all that he has learned.

Several times a week, Mister Vernon drives the short distance from his home on the outskirts of Oxford, Mississippi to the Colonel's vast holdings at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, and he and the Colonel sit over strong coffee and talk.

The Colonel has many gaps in his knowledge of his parents' history.  They were always very private people. But the reality is whenever he was with them, the Colonel was shamefully more interested in telling them what he was up to than in asking about their lives.

The Colonel is a bore.

He'd much rather educate than learn, more often than not.

His loss.

This year, however, he has learned to ask questions.  Dad's answers have wondrously filled massive gaps in the Colonel's understanding.

As has been their custom this summer, coffee time has been shared in the shade of a small pavilion in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's gardens behind the Big House.  The ostensible reason is to watch the antics of the dozens of ruby-throated hummingbirds attracted to feeders into which a small fortune of sugar is poured daily.  The Colonel's ulterior motive is to get his father talking.

Mister Vernon is normally a quiet man.  He reminds the Colonel of the character played by John Wayne in the movie by that name.  So, it takes some gentle probing to stir the memories stored in his ninety-year-old mind.  He's still sharp, and once he starts, the details are amazing.  

The two old men have covered the waterfront.  The Colonel has learned about his dad's life from earliest memories living with his Methodist preacher grandfather in Tunica, Mississippi to exploits in Vietnam.  

The two old men share a love for wildlife, and spend much time discussing the changes in deer, quail, and duck populations over the years.  Mister Vernon's insights into reasons for declines would make game biologists slap their foreheads. 

The other day, a quail whistled nearby as they sipped their coffee.  

"That's the first bobwhite I've heard in several years," the Colonel observed.

Dad took the bait, "When I was a kid, you couldn't walk anywhere without jumping a covey."  Memories connected to flushes flowed behind.  Then, quiet sips of coffee.

A bird called from the pine and brush ringing Miss Brenda's gardens.  It was a low whooping, like water dripping in a well.  The Colonel has wondered for years what bird makes that sound.

"Dad," the Colonel asked. "What is that bird?"

"Rain crow," was the quick answer.

"C'mon, Dad! You just made that up!"

"It's a rain crow."  Dad didn't offer anything else.  Sometimes he does that to make the Colonel ask more stupid questions.

While his father sipped his coffee and studied hummers, the Colonel surreptitiously fished his smart phone from his pocket and thumbed in a search.  

"Rain crow" is colloquial for the yellow-billed cuckoo, Google told him.  The Colonel told his dad.

"Could have told you that.  Ever seen one?"

"Yessir.  Had one fly into a window several years ago."

"They're real shy," Dad offered.  "You won't see 'em in the woods.  But, you'll hear 'em when the weather is hot and humid.  Means it's likely to rain."  

Raining this morning.  The rain crow called it.  

There's been a lot rain in the Colonel's life lately.  The rain crow's call has been nearly omnipresent.

But, a good rain clears the air.  The bad stuff washes out.

Keep callin', rain crow.