I woke up this morning to the sound of rain. It’s been a while. Living in town, it’s different.

When we lived off the grid and out in the country, rain meant many good things. Water in the tanks and the back creek would flow and the plants and crops would get a drink. Water catchment for the animals and for ourselves too. The sound of water flowing into our cistern meant maybe we’d make it out there another year.

Rain also meant mud and sloshing through puddles and trekking through rain-soaked weeds. The goats and pigs liked to drop kids or piglets in storms. Maybe it meant a night or morning out in the mud trying to take care of the animals.

If it rained very much, it meant not going to town for a few days because we couldn’t risk trying to get the car out. Unless we knew the rain was coming and when we did we’d park the car up the road at the front of the land.

Sometimes, if we knew we had to go to town for something, I’d feel Danielle’s hand on me waking me up. I’d hear the first squalls of the rainstorm. “Michael, you need to get the car up to the front.” I’d rush to get dressed and try not to get the star stuck slipping and sliding up to gate. Then there was the walk back down through the storm. And then, chilled and damp, perhaps I’d get back to sleep.

Later, we’d wake up and get our selves “mud ready” and we’d slog uphill along our slippery clay road, rutted and water coursing down through the ruts and sometimes the wind blowing the rain in our faces.

Up at the top we’d open the gate, then struggle to change out of our rain shoes or boots, bag them up – gooey and coated – and put them in the trunk, then we’d put on “town shoes” and try not to get them muddy as we finally slide, damp and chilled, into the car.

Today, it’s different. We’re downtown. Danielle opens up the back door and we can hear the rain and the water gushing down the gutters and the big drops splashing into the big puddle (our private lake) in the alley. It’s cold and wet, but we don’t have to get out into it. The car is out front in the parking lot. No inconvenience, just a few steps if we need to go anywhere. Zero mud. No slipping and falling in the road, or on the path down to my little office in the woods. No damp weeds soaking my pants as I walk. No water seeping into my boots and my socks. No sound of rushing waters, like Niagara, over the dam we made on our back pond out of cement bags. No thinking… “well, we won’t be going anywhere for days, even if the sun comes out.”

Now, we’re a bit separated from the reality of it. We still want our tanks filled out on the land. We want rain on the watershed so that Lake Brownwood will fill. We want our farmer and rancher friends to be blessed. We want grass. We want people to be happy. We want the land healed from the drought.

Maybe today, after the rain stops, we’ll drive up to the lake and sit out on the patio under the roof at the Wild Duck Marina and have a beer and think about the rain and our lives out in it. Or maybe we’ll take a walk around downtown, stepping over the puddles and watching the water drip from the trees, running through the gutters. Maybe we’ll walk up a little bit north where the big trench cuts through town right next to the Red Wagon and see if there’s any water in that trench. In years past, we’ve seen it when it was so full it overflowed and filled the parking lots and flooded everything. But, back then, we had to drive back home and park at the front of the land, put on our mud boots, slog back down the hill in the sticky clay mud and try to wipe our boots clean outside the door of our cabin.

Do I miss it?

Every day.

Praise the Lord for the rain.

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Michael Bunker is a local columnist for BrownwoodNews.com whose columns appear periodically on the website.