Like Rain
I didn’t smell the rain till I was somethin of 7 years old. I didn’t even taste the rain till I was maybe 7 and a half because it scared me so bad, on account of never even seein the rain till I was somethin of seven right after I smelled it. I know now that the smell of rain comes just before it hits the ground, but that first time was a magical and intoxicatin thing. The smell of the dry earth and dust mixed with the cow patties and became bigger in my nostrils, filled them up to the brim with the kinda smell gunsels must notice when they step on a ranch for the first time, but the kinda smell ranchers get used to always bein on ranches all their lives. On account of there bein’ no rain till I was 7, I never really smelled my daddy’s ranch till I was that same age, at least not consciously. It’s a good kinda smell, one that takes you back home even when you’re not. Like your daddy’s cigarettes bein smoked in some train station, or your ma’s perfume on another lady. It’s not as if you have some monopoly on those home smells, cause there’s other people might have the same home smells as you do, but they make you sad all the same. Cause they come up on you fast, like rain, and fill you with that kinda nostalgia that you’re always smellin but just don’t know it till something brings it on a little stronger for you, and then you know you’ll be missin it bad again soon after cause you can’t conjure it strong up for yourself when you want to. Like rain.
I was born on January 16th, 1950 in Tom Green County, Texas on my daddy’s ranch, which had been his father’s before him, and his father before him was a real waddie, made from nothin. He came up from nowhere ridin high on his bronco (I like to think from the heart of Mexico) and went everywhere proving he was the most forked cowboy to ever step foot in Texas. And he was, old Dusty Castillo, and that’s my name too, and I’m proud. In 1949, Pa was the most successful cowman in Tom Green County and maybe even wider on, with 500 glossy brown Hereford’s to his name, a whole stable of horses, a sizable ranch house, and my beautiful ma, flower of Texas, who can wrangle just as good as any cowboy if she wants to. Boys in San Angelo spoke of Dusty the 3rd as not only the best twister in Texas (break any horse you name it) but also the fairest, most honest man a guy could work for. The Castillo’s had it pretty good. Then I was born, and that is where the sorrows begin.
The night of January 13th, 1950 and on into the next morn brought a strange rain down upon Texas I’m told. Like girls at dances who wink and let raucous laughs tumble out as they lift their skirts only so high in your dry mouth direction, this rain teased and trickled. It hesitated that night with the promise of more, and the ranchers looked forward to when the clouds would stop their flirtin and give way heavy to the thirsty fields. At 11:38 on the 14th, after a hard 15 hours of labor, my ma birthed me to this world. I came out wailin like any other baby, but not a little water even welled up in my eyes, though I sure was tryin for some tears. And 6 minutes later, those indecisive rain clouds gave up their tricklin and cleared out, lettin the sun beat down hotter and fuller than that late January morning warranted.
Local rancher’s used to tease Pa that I, my birth, brought on the drouth. Seeing that I was born on the 14th, and the last rain for a good time was on the 13th, it seemed a pretty funny proposition to kick around for that first year. But after a few more years, the jokes turned into superstitions. And there were other strange things about me during those first 7 years of my existence and no rain that gave way to those superstitions amountin, which I’ll list here as the evidence of my much begrudged wizard powers.
1. I sucked my ma dry to the bone when I was a babe. I was a special kinda greedy when it came to thirst: Ma’s milk, cow’s milk, water, lemonade.
2. My hair, no matter how long, took less than a minute to dry after bathin.
3. I never sweated a drop, even chasing the chickens in the middle of summer. My skin was dry like the dessert Texas was becomin.
4. I never whizzed more than once in a day. Not even for very long too.
5. I had been christened Dusty, and even though that was my Pa’s name, his Daddy’s name, and his father’s before him, it didn’t help my droughty predicament.
6. And maybe the most confirmin when it comes to wantin to blame me for the somethin that could never be a child’s fault, or even a man of god’s, was that I never shed a tear, not at my birth and never after. Not for scrapes, burns, cuts, bumps, bruises, twists, chickenpox, fevers, colds, hangnails, beggins, wantins, scoldins, spankins, and even the death of my favorite layin hen, Sadie, by hawk, did I cry. I think this did almost as much unnervin for my pa as the drouth did.
So you can see why ranchers and folks started to think and rumor, given the timing of my birth and the true facts listed above, that I sucked all moisture from a room, kept the liquids to myself. That I caused the drouth. I know now that this wasn’t the truth, but the rumoring and whispering and the mean glares ranchers gave me when they visited daddy to talk finances and sellin cattle before the cows dropped dead, got into my young self more than I’d like to remember. But I do remember, vividly.
