The Sound of Rain on a Tin Roof
Room here for a quote from the essay
- By Dennis Easters
As I sit here on my front porch, listening to the gentle sound of a tropical evening rain, a distant childhood memory comes back around—summer afternoons in the care of my grandma Murphy… my great-grandmother, though she was simply “Grandma” to me.
She lived in an old Florida Cracker-style house, with none of the modern comforts of central air. Just old double-hung windows, two screen doors and a window fan for relief from the sweltering heat.
Her bedroom fascinated me most. It was really a sleeping porch—one-third wall, two-thirds screen—open to the air and the rhythm of the night. An old wooden bed sat against the wall, a trunk at its foot and a dresser to the side with a large mirror that seemed to hold more than just your reflection. A photograph of my great-grandfather rested nearby, along with an old metal powder box that doubled as a music box. I’d wind it again and again, listening as if it might tell me something new each time.
That old trunk was a world unto itself. For a little boy, it was treasure. High-heeled shoes, an old army uniform—things that didn’t belong to me, but somehow invited discovery. As Grandma would say, I loved to “plunder.”
Grandma, in her kitchen, just as I remember it.
I’d lay on the floor in front of the window fan, trying to get cool. The old live oak would rustle outside, Spanish moss dancing in the wind. The sky would darken, and a softness would settle into the room.
Just outside the porch, a night-blooming jasmine filled the air, making those summer evenings feel even more alive… more memorable… like something you didn’t quite understand at the time, but knew mattered.
After a morning of yard work, Grandma would scrape a cup full of ice crystals from her icebox freezer and sit me on her kitchen stool to enjoy this simple delicacy—sometimes by itself, sometimes with milk, sugar, and vanilla.
She’d stir a pot of lima beans, then pull out an old mustard-colored crockware bowl—one she always said was “Mama’s”—and mix flour and water to make a hoecake to go with them. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions would be sliced and doused with a homemade dressing of Musselman’s white vinegar and sugar. A pot of steaming tea bags would be poured into an old black-and-white enamel pitcher and stirred vigorously to dissolve the sugar.
The clinking of plates coming out of the china cabinet…
the drop of ice into mason jars…
the sharp crack as the hot, sweet tea made contact.
I’d hop down from the stool and open the icebox door, quietly in pursuit of the jar of dill pickles hidden in the back. Glass knocking gently against glass, I’d twist the lid and take a long swig of the salty, lime-colored brine.
“Dennis, get out of there now. Drinking that pickle juice will dry up your blood… besides, we’re fixin’ to eat—you’ll spoil your dinner.”
As we sat down, she’d pause.
“Damn, I forgot the onion.”
Rocking her way out of the chair, cane in one hand, table corner in the other, lifting her 5’10” frame upward.
“I’m stove up,” she’d say.
“If you finish your meal, there’s a cold slice of lemon pie in the icebox we’ll share… it’s my favorite.”
Once the plates were cleared, washed, and put away, we’d “retire” to the living room so Grandma could watch her stories, promptly at one.
I’d lay on the floor in front of the window fan, trying to get cool. The old live oak would rustle outside, Spanish moss dancing in the wind. The sky would darken, and a softness would settle into the room.
“Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives…”
The distant sound of thunder would begin to build. The wind whipped the moss back and forth. I’d stand directly in front of the fan, lips against the grate, talking and singing, listening to the vibration of my own voice.
“Sit down—you’re driving me insane.”
I was waiting for three o’clock, when the television would become mine. Until then, I endured another episode of Another World, watching Ada talk to her plants as she watered them.
Just as the closing credits rolled—my anticipation building for Ginger and Mary Ann—a crash of lightning shook the house.
“Cut off that TV set before it gets hit!”
I’d rise slowly, protesting.
“It always rains when it’s my turn…”
Golf ball-sized drops began hitting the roof. The wind picked up, blowing a fine mist through the window fan. Another crash—and the power went out.
“If this keeps up, we’ll have to draw down the windows,” Grandma would sigh.
The sound of rain on the roof, the cool breeze—it all became a lullaby. Perfect conditions for what she called “resting your eyes.”
We’d drift off.
And wake to:
“Ancient Chinese secret, huh?”
As I stood up, there was a knock at the door.
“I bet that’s your mama… Gaynell, is that you? Give me a minute—I’ve got to get my bearings.”
“Are you tired? I cooked a pot of limas today… there’s some sliced ham and a few pieces of sour cream pound cake left over from Sunday supper. Honey, get some of those oleo bowls down and take this home—you won’t have to cook. I know James will like it.”
As the evening rain continues, I realize these memories have carried me back to another time and place… as my hands type the words on the page.
A place so special. So quiet. So complete.
A place of love, nurturing, nourishment, and safety.
Just an ordinary summer day, some fifty years ago—
that, looking back,
was anything but ordinary.
It was extraordinary.
Written on my front porch on May 3, 2026 at 6:30 pm. The sound of the rain hit me in a way, jolting this from memory and I had to get it on to the page.
An elderly woman keeps vigil beside the grave of someone she still remembers. Long after the world has moved on, love returns in flowers, candlelight, and quiet presence.
An elderly woman keeps vigil beside the grave of someone she still remembers. Long after the world has moved on, love returns in flowers, candlelight, and quiet presence.