Dave Edgren reads Cathy Applegate and Dee Huxley's story about a family on a drought-stricken farm. When rain finally comes after two years, the children and their dog Monroe dance and splash in the downpour. The family waits for the father to return from the bank as the storm washes everything clean.
Chapters
Hi, my name is Dave Edgren, and I'm going to read you Rain Dance by Kathy Applegate and Dee Huxley. Rain Dance. Everything is quiet. Everything is still. It hasn't rained for 2 whole years. We wait and wait and wait until we are no longer sure what we are waiting for and whether it will ever come. Beyond our desolate farm I can see the horizon where a few dark clouds cruelly taunt us with promises of rain. It never comes. And now our dam is a patch of dry, cracked mud surrounded by parched brown land. Propped up against the side of our old broken-down cart is a new sign. Its red paint is still wet. Farm for sale. The cicadas have been shrilling, calling impatiently for rain. This morning even they are quiet. The silence steals into corners and cracks, nooks and crannies. It spreads and suffocates everything like a hot, dry blanket. My mother stands on the veranda watching the distant cloud of dust swirling behind my father's ute. He's gone to the bank in town and we're not sure when he'll be back. My dog Monroe greets me as I step outside. He stretches, sniffing the air with interest. "What is it, fella? What's out there?" Suddenly I feel a gentle breeze, like a sigh of relief against my skin. I swing around to see that a mass of dark clouds has filled the sky. Thunder rolls and my skin prickles with goosebumps at the sound. From the distant paddock I can hear the cattle bellowing, crying of their thirst and hunger. Shadows disappear, melting into a world turned gray. The dust is whipped into a frenzy, and on the cool gusts of wind I can smell rain coming. I'm sure of it now. Pit pat, pit pat, pitter pitter pat. The first drops beat out a hesitant rhythm on the corrugated iron roof. Now my mother is running out of the house yelling, "It's rain! It's rain!" Next minute she's pulling nappies from the clothesline and pegs are flying everywhere. In the excitement I laugh out loud and Monroe barks and whines like a silly puppy. Then in a flurry, the rain comes. The torrent beats on the roof so loudly that I can't even hear my own voice. The rain is so heavy it almost hurts as it pelts my head and shoulders. Water is running into my eyes and ears, but I shake it all away. Wet hair slaps my cheeks. Mum is on the veranda with nappies clasped safely in her arms. She's laughing and trying to yell something above the noise. Running, running, now we're running everywhere, anywhere, madly in all directions, jumping, cartwheeling, somersaulting around and around around the house, splashing through puddles and wading in streams. See me dance! See my rain dance! Twisting and turning, spinning and swirling, we celebrate this coming of the rain. Even the frogs are cheering. They croak a raucous chorus from their hidden haunts. My baby sister has never seen rain before. She clings closely to my mother's neck. I leap up the stairs and flick water droplets onto her nose. She laughs and laughs. Come and dance, I cry. Come and dance! But she is too little to understand. At last, Monroe and I collapse on our steps, completely out of breath. For ages we sit, content to watch the water sheeting down. All day it rains, and all day we watch and wonder, until eventually it slows and stops. In the end, all that remains is the drip, drip, drip. Drip from the edges of the roof. The wind has gone. The heat has been washed out of the day. Mom puts a towel around me and holds me tight. Her smiling face is damp with tears and raindrops. Everything is quiet. Everything is still. The paint on the new sign has been washed away into a few messy red streaks, and we know that Dad will be home again soon.
