It was a beautiful day – salubrious weather, a gentle breeze, quiet, empty streets – the calesas have all gone. Most of the produce merchants have sold their vegetables, fruits, and root crops. The fishermen have sold their catch.
The only folks left in the open market place were the vendors of clothing, blacksmiths from Sinait who locally made and produced machetes, and kitchen knives. In the mix were some folks from the north who handcrafted clay pots for cooking, and hardwood pieces of furniture. They were packing their wares ever so carefully and loading them into Conestoga-like wagons pulled by oxen.
The skies remained clear. Not even an errant sliver of cloud marred the bright rays of the sun. Oppressive heat waves radiated from the simmering surface of the asphalt road.
Then, out of nowhere, droplets of water fell from the cloudless sky. At first, just a few tentative drops.
But with increasing intensity and volume, the staccato beat and sound of raindrops overwhelmed the immediate surroundings.
Even a tin can littering a ditch hit by dense raindrops rang out a syncopated note… a nice counterpoint to the rhythm of the falling rain.
I loved to watch the roiling muddy waters race through the network of ditches.
The fine dust that covered the hot road surface doused by the rain gave off a unique scent of cleansing.
The memory of that smell stays with me to this day.
I’ve traveled the world. I could never find a place that emitted and gave out such aromas, smells and scents – in the rain – as those I smelled as a child growing up in my hometown of Tagudin.