Shelter from the storm
Sunday, July 8, 2012 at 01:42AM About five years ago, in the middle of our seemingly never-ending drought, I wrote a wistful, nostalgic article about umbrellas. This last winter, my trusty umbrella and I have become better acquainted. I appreciate my umbrella more than ever, and I still love the rain. Here's the revisited piece:
These days it seems even the grumpiest old misery guts doesn’t dare complain about rain. Not in this country anyway.
Me? I’ve always loved it—maybe the legacy of growing up in a monsoonal country. Sure, monsoons can drive you crazy, with endless days of precipitation so heavy it’s practically bruising, shoes going mouldy in the cupboard, fungus growing on books, insects and lizards swarming as though about to take over the world.
But that magic first rain after four months of dry winter followed by four more of rainless, brutal summer! The grass, growing up thick and luscious, almost overnight. Creepers eating houses whole. The crazy abandon with which not only kids, but the whole population runs out into the street, arms out, face raised to the heavens, dancing, glorying in it. The sense of generous downpouring.
These days Melbournians almost know that feeling, insulated and cushioned as we are—even now—with mains water supplies. Maybe the farmers have always known it.
One of the nice things about rain that I’ve only just discovered is umbrellas. I’ve never been a great umbrella user—tending to opt for the more practical rain jacket or japara. I was always walking or bike riding somewhere and holding an umbrella just couldn’t be juggled with everything else I happened to be doing at the time.
But japaras have their limitations. I get hot and sweaty in them the minute I work up a bit of speed. And the hood means that I can’t see cars coming without twisting my head unnaturally to one side. Being lazy, I run the risk of not seeing an approaching vehicle, swishing in all its rainy glory till it’s too late. Hoods make it almost impossible to carry on a conversation with a fellow walker. Worst of all, they give you hat hair.
These days I work in a city office. I walk to work and home again and I have discovered the humble, daggy, wonderful umbrella.
Convenient—I fold it up and stash it at the bottom of my back pack and don’t even remember it’s there till I need it. Comfortable—my head and ears are free. Cheap—$8 buys you a decent brolly, so you can afford to snaffle one from the local chemist if you’re caught short. Attractive—with its old-world, Dickensian, Mary Poppins charm. And effective.
Most of all, I love the sound it makes. When I’m walking underneath my umbrella, the noise of pattering or drumming rain mimics perfectly the sound rain makes on the walls of a tent. In my own mobile, mini tent, if I shut my eyes, I can make believe I’m where I would rather be—in the bush, far from bitumen, fumes and tall buildings.
Although I may only have just discovered it, the umbrella is one of the most ancient gadgets still in use today.
No doubt rainforest dwellers of millennia have used large leaves held above their heads to keep dry. But umbrellas recognisable to the modern person have been around for 4000 years. Ancient art from Egypt, Assyria, Greece and China show parasols used to keep off the sun—the more important the personage, the bigger the parasol. Slaves held them aloft over kings.
The Chinese were the first to use them for rain protection by waxing and lacquering. From the 16th century they were used in Europe, initially as a women’s fashion accessory, eventually by gentlemen too.
In 1852, Samuel Fox invented the steel ribbed design, claiming it was a handy way to use up his stocks of the steel stays used in women’s corsets.
And, as I’ve discovered this autumn, for all our dizzying technological advances, we haven’t improved on the basic design in 4000 years. Nothing is more effective, portable and charming.
So enjoy that rare and precious rain, from the shelter of your trusty old umbrella.
Reader Comments (1)
At the risk of taking up a lot of space on your blog Clare, I thought you might like this poem about someone who means a lot to both of us.
5.30 am by Helen Lindstrom
It's 5.30 am
God and I stand
on the verandah.
I'm surprised to see
him smoking a pipe.
'I don't do the drawback,'
he says. His corduroy trousers
are the colour of wheat-stubble
and the deep pockets of his moss-green
cardigan exude an earthy smell.
His voice seems to rise
out of his pipe-smoke
as he asks how I like the morning.
I tell him that the rosy glow
hovering on the horizon
reminds me of the liquor
I got when I poached
the white peaches last summer.
He sucks on his pipe and nods.
'What are you on about?' I ask.
He stares at the limpid sky.
The pipe gently ignites.
A puff of smoke ascends
and becomes a cumulonimbus.
'Looks like rain,' he says.
'You'd better go in.'