Red currants – Cynthia Reyes

Everybody was complaining about summer.

Not me.

After a painful several months – much of it spent in bed – I welcomed the summer by taking to the verandah.

Colourful cushions, simple wood furniture and time-worn rugs created a homey feel.

A verandah is a place for serious summer reading….

Or some serious hanging out….

In the nearby garden, sometimes it rained and hailed and the wind was crazy.

But flowers bloomed everywhere.

Birds sang.

The air was fresh.

Family and friends came to visit.

Some invited themselves, which I loved.

“How are you coping these days?”

“I’ve taken to the verandah,” I replied.

“I’m coming to visit!”

It was the summer of the verandah. Of kindness and affection. Laughter and quiet moments.

My editor Tim, returning home to South Africa, spent most of his last week in Canada with our family. He held court on the verandah like an eminence grise, saying wise, cryptic and funny things to everyone.

Some people wondered how he’d handle returning to a country which he left decades ago. Tim’s enigmatic reply: “Did I mention I’ll have the use of a heated swimming pool?”

“Long way to go for a heated swimming pool,” we laughed.

Of course, one should always feed one’s visitors. Despite one’s lack of cooking talent.

“You are the best cook I’ve ever met,” Tim declared, straight-faced, to loud laughter.

I swatted him with my dinner napkin. He complained – theatrically – of “the abuses I suffer in your home”.

We alternated between joking, serious talk and companionable silence. If tears were hovering, we didn’t let them show. This man has been a stalwart friend to me through life’s challenging times and I shall miss him.

Marilyn visited next. Marilyn’s the doyenne of tea (See Simply Splendid Victorian Afternoon Teas.) She kindly admired my floral arrangement and I wisely served a cold lunch… no cooking required.

“I caught that salmon, smoked it and sliced it,” I lied.

“Well done,” she praised, playing along.

Seriously, though: the lettuce, tomatoes and red currants came from our garden.

Longtime friend Dale arrived late one night, on her way back home from visiting family out west. I made breakfast, the only thing I cook consistently well, and we caught up on family news.

Marie, who lives way up north, took an evening break from her role in an important cross-country hearing. My husband cooked supper that day, as he did for my childhood friend, Angela and her family. Wonderful occasions.

Jacqui dropped in and lucked into one of the nicest dishes I made this summer.

“But this is GOOD!” she declared.

“Don’t tell anyone!” I pleaded. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Anthony Trollope once asked: “What on earth could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book and a cup of coffee?”

My answer: “A verandah, a garden, and loved ones to share them with.”

Dedicated, with a grateful heart, to my caring family and friends… and everyone who appreciates a verandah.

The skies turn dark, more grey than black.

The air becomes perfectly still.

And then comes the rain, in sheets and showers.

Pouring down on dry grass, garden beds…

… and our verandah roof.

The water streams down in front of and beside the verandah.

I sit on a chair, enjoying this moment from a safe perch of my own.

“I should grab my camera”, I tell myself. But I sit still, unwilling to interrupt the moment.

Overhead, small branches of pale-green maple leaves sway in the air.

Red weigela flowers move amid green leaves, showered by water, ruffled by wind.

Below them both, large hosta leaves are weighed down with raindrops.

Dip, dip. Fall back.

Unless you’re laden with red currants… in which case: Dip, dip. Fall forward.

The tall blue spruce tree stands majestic, appearing unmoved by the wind and showers.

But there’s light movement in its outermost branches. The tree has taken on a soft look, its face gentled by the rain.

All birds have taken cover, tucking themselves into dry spaces between thick branches.

One small bird sees opportunity. It darts into the rain, tail feathers wet and glistening, and aims straight for its target. It stays there, pecking, content to be alone with what it usually has to compete for: a space at the feeder.

From the verandah’s eaves trough, powerful streams torrent into the garden bed below. The Annabelle hydrangea is taking a beating, it seems. Branches, gracefully upright a few minutes ago, part with the wisdom of growing things faced with the unstoppable power of water.

It’s merely minutes later now.

The water from the eaves trough narrows. Long thin streams of vertical water form a transparent drape in the space between verandah posts.

Five streams falling steadily on the earth. Then four. Then, three. Then two, then one.

A trickle, now.

Then a quiet drip.

The rush of water, the soft thud of raindrops, the splash on leaves and flowers — all come to a stop. As if a mighty switch was turned on, then off, the rain has come and gone.

Flowers glisten.

Birds chirp and fly towards a single spot: the feeder.

And I think, as I watch them:

How smart that first bird was.

The one that went before, wet tail-feathers and all.

And how remarkable water is.

Liquid, fluid, transparent. Forceful and life giving.

And as I sit on my verandah, giving thanks for it all – the rain, the trees and shrubs and flowers, and the birds and a place in which to sit, protected — the sun comes out.