Movie buffs will recognize the line "sweet summer rain" that a character utters in the movie O Brother Where Art Thou? as he listens to thunder and sees lightning flash in the distance. It resonates with Southerners.
Sure, we get plenty of spring, fall, and winter rains, but it's hot and dry in the sunny South, and when a summer storm rolls in and for about 30 minutes dumps a flood of water on parched yards, woods, and fields, we might not say it, but we feel it: sweet summer rain.
A few years back during an especially hot and dry summer, a very dignified El Dorado member of the First Baptist Church confided to me, "I was about to take a late afternoon shower when the rain started, and I was so delighted that I ran out in the backyard naked and danced just to feel the rain come down." You might not be inspired to dance naked in the rain, but if you've lived through some of our dry Augusts and have been surprised by an afternoon rainstorm, you can certainly identify with this El Dorado lady. You're not Southern unless you revel in a sweet summer rain.
Southerners have a tendency to romanticize almost everything, and summer rain is no exception. We're easy touches when it comes to hungry animals and birds that have fallen out of their nests. Songs, books, and movies set in the South touch the soft spot in our souls. Gone with the Wind had Southerners lined up around the block to see it because it captured and romanticized the South we love, even with all its wrinkles, which we conveniently ignore. And since Gone With the Wind is a lament about the Lost Cause along with a doomed love story, it couldn't fit most Southerners better.
But our basic taste in music also indicates how the Southern soul views life. When you hear Patsy Cline sing "Walkin' after Midnight" or Jessie Coulter's "I'm not Lisa," we embrace those songs because they touch our hearts. The popularity of many of our most played songs is because of the wrenching sentiments that link Southerners together.
Maybe it's from the old country. It's hard to find a Southerner who doesn't have a little or a lot of Scottish and Irish soul. The South is full of descendants from those countries, and those Scottish and Irish immigrants, after being downtrodden by the English for generations, brought with them the trials and tribulations of a people who struggled.
So when you hear "Danny Boy," it resonates. You might not think "Danny Boy" is a Southern lament, but Elvis Presley did, and it was sung at his funeral. Just think of the truly mournful sound of a bagpipe or fiddle when played as a dirge; when you find your head dropping just a bit as you nod as if you're one with them, it's because you are.
That deep feeling has something to do with where we call home, and to get a real understanding of the romantic South, we must remember our roots. Many Southerners have some connection to the land where granddad farmed or where Uncle Luke went duck hunting, but it's more than where our ancestors lived. It's something deep within us that we can't describe.
In Gone with the Wind Scarlett O'Hara's father Gerald O'Hara, a broken and semi-deranged man, stood in one of his fields, sifted the dirt in his hands, and proclaimed to his daughter, "You mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, the land is the only thing in the world worth working for, worth fighting for ...."
We may not feel that strongly about the land, but as we feel the rush of spring, when all of a sudden it bursts upon us with azaleas, dogwood, and redbud and the dull brown-black trees are suddenly almost blinding green, then that feeling tugs again.
And as the seasons flow by the Spanish moss-draped oak trees, the sounds of the blues, swimming holes in secluded creeks, and kids eating swiped watermelon impart a distinct character and emotional depth to our lives.
I'm a hopeless Southern romantic, but I have a lot of company. And when Vertis and I are sitting on our wooden pergola by the small pond in our backyard and a big blue heron zooms in to pick up a late afternoon snack, it puts an exclamation point to a Southern way of life. If folks up north or out west really understood this, we would have to build a wall around the South to keep from being overrun.
Richard Mason is a registered professional geologist, downtown developer, former chairman of the Department of Environmental Quality Board of Commissioners, past president of the Arkansas Wildlife Federation, and syndicated columnist. Email richard@gibraltarenergy.com.
Editorial on 05/27/2018