The old tin-roof house

I heard the wind howling outside as the night heads into the wee hours of the morning. I was reading my assignments next to a make-shift lantern–diesel in a beer bottle–struggling against hardly visible words. The lantern waves strange shadows on the page and the wall as I take deep breaths to redirect smoke away from my nostrils.

The stormy wind outside signals an impending rain as gusty winds knocks off branches on trees and coconuts nearby. Then came the sudden thunder of rain-driven wind from the east. I know that the rainstorm would be preceded by lightning, followed by powerful thunder from the dark skies of paradise.

The loud rain dance on the tin roof signals the end of another day. I would blow off the make-shift lantern and shove it to a corner so no one trips it during the night. The steady drip on the tin roof turns into music, some making it through window holes landing on my beaten face, a nighty night sprinkle. I’d pull my Navy blanket over my head, say my prayers, and call it a night. I’d follow its rhythm until I fall asleep.

Super typhoon Jean (June 1968) not only pulped tin-roof houses throughout the island, but forced the local populace to build concrete houses for safety purposes. My mom’s house survived it all. It was in 1971 that I last heard rain drops on my folks’ tin-roof house.
I honestly miss the rain music and the breezy nights as an impending rainstorm gathers strength to cool and nourish flora and fauna.

Today, I live in a concrete house with such expensive amenities as air-conditioning. It builds an air-pack that shuts off noise from without. The musical rain drops that land on the concrete roof are muted. It is replaced by the heavy thrust of jet planes taking-off from Saipan International Airport or heavy decibels thundering off speakers from a young punk’s truck. I never knew modernity has its own price, too, yeah?

Gone are the days of our simple ways who may not have the luxury of modern amenities then, but were happy with a lifestyle where cooperation and a sense of community was once a forte. I no longer hear raindrops nor the happy voices of neighbors who care about each others’ welfare. The loss of our sense of community was further exacerbated when new families fled to homestead subdivisions to once remote places.

Those were the days when the only cooling system was a surveyed Navy fan. Yes, you play with the switch and hope it turns on. If not, then you toy with it some more in hopes that it won’t burn the entire house wiring system as it threatens to turn on like some stubborn mule. It usually turns on after several minutes. Through the night, it rattles as it hits the wire frame designed for safety. In the same breath, it turns on and off, voluntarily, as though it is equipped with a “sleep” button.

I miss the musical raindrops that crash land on old tin roof. I no longer hear the wind bristling through coconut fronds. To make up for it, I bought a CD of teeny waves crashing on the shore or raindrops that induces a rainy night snooze. The latter mixes well with sleep. As an insomniac, I had to purchase this contraption. It brings nostalgia of a simple life when most of us had the time to pause and listen to the rhythm of the rain. I hear it, NOT! Take charge! Si Yuus Maase`!