We’ve had a series of gully-washers for the past few weeks here in the South. For my Northern Friends who may not understand, a gully-washer is usually defined as a short, yet torrential downpour of rain. The term was coined by farmers who experienced the run-off from a large rain washing small “Gullies” in their freshly plowed ground.
I love that phrase along with many other southern colloquialisms, such as (but not limited to): Yonder, Reckon, Ain’t, awe Hell, Shit far, Skeeew Doggy, Hissy fit, Makes as much sense as tits on a bull, That dog’ll hunt, and Well Butter my Butt and Call me a Biscuit.
I love the phraseology of “Gully-Washer”, but I don’t necessarily care for what it stands for. See, when I was a kid I loved the rain because every time it would rain, My Nanny Sue (My Dad’s momma.. she watched me every day while my folks were at work) would get me and put me in her car. We’d drive around Mountain View and she’d get a tire on every puddle she could find. I loved watching the water cascade over her white Buick. It was as close to a wave as I’d see until it was time for family vacation in Florida. As long as I was laughing and smiling, she’d keep driving. She’d drive through those puddles until she wore em dry.
I think about her every time it rains and I see a puddle. What used to make me so happy now fills my heart with sorrow. It’s a happy memory, no doubt, but I’m merely stealing a smile from the past. What I wouldn’t give to have her drive me one more time through that asphalt ocean of joy. She’s been gone over 20 years and thats still the first thing I think of when it rains. I miss her. I always will.