n a t b s

The younger people found ways to blame the older generation, who had borned them into this mess; the older people blamed the churches. The churches, not to be outdone, put it all at the feet of the Lord: “Oh yay-us, now! Haven’t I been saying so? Havn’t I now! again and again, warned you to stand up in His light now and live by His laws now and not chance His awful wrath? Yay-is now! Now look: the Arm of the Lord is on its way; the floodwaters chastiseth!”

Which is just another way of blaming, and perhaps the best way, because there is solace and a certain stoical peace in blaming everything on the rain, and then blaming something as uncontrollable as the rain on something as indifferent as the Arm of the Lord.

Because nothing can be done about the rain except blaming. And if nothing can be done about it, why get yourself in a sweat about it? Matter of fact, it can be convenient to have around. Got troubles with the old lady? It’s the rain. Got worries and frets about the way he old bus is falling to pieces right under you? It’s the ruttin’ rain. Got a deep, hollow ache bleeding cold down inside the secret heart of you from too many deals fallen though? too many nights in bed with the little woman without being able to get it up? too much bitter and not enough sweet? Yeah? That there, brother, is just as well blamed on the rain; falls on the just and unjust alike, falls all day long all winter ling every winter every year, and you might as well give up and admit that’s the way it’s gonna be, and go take a little snooze. Or you’ll be mouthin’ the barrel of your twelve-gauge the way Evert Peterson at Mapleton did last year, or samplin’ snail kiler the way both the Meriwold boys did over to Sweet Home. Roll with the blow, that’s the easy way out, blame it on the rain and bend with the wind, and lean back and catch yourself forty winks — you can sleep real sound when the rain is lullabying you.