I remember when this song was a hit and coming into or leaving the house, seeing mom in the kitchen. Often cooking and cleaning, but sometimes she was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and the ever-present cigarette trickling smoke—pooling with vestiges from those that came before—that climbed and formed a cloud near the ceiling. Or I’d find her standing over the sink, looking out of the window onto the field and pasture that ran acres to the east and north. I wondered what she was looking at, what she was thinking, but never thought to ask. Mom was mom, and I had little understanding of how a hard-scrabble life wore on her. And she would sing this song… I remember how she’d pat my cheek with a soapy, dishwater, hand, as I got a glass of water from the tap. Then off I’d go… head full of my own thoughts and things to deal with… but looking back, I can still hear her sing her way through the rain.
“Along with the sunshine… there’s gotta be a little rain some time…”