We had a corrugated metal roof when I was growing up at Little River, and it leaked every single time it rained — the lead-headed nails would pop loose in the heat and we’d patch the holes with tar from a bucket we kept just for that purpose.
But on a hot summer night, with no air conditioning and a box fan in the window doing what it could, the sound of rain on that tin roof was the best sound in the world. It meant the air would cool down. It meant the cotton fields would turn to thick gumbo clay, too sticky to work — which meant sleeping in.
Today I have a vacation home on the Spring River with a metal roof. When it rains there, I still love lying awake listening to it. It takes me straight back.
I’ve noticed there are apps now that let you play the sound of rain on a tin roof for people who’ve never had the real thing. I understand the appeal. Some sounds carry a kind of peace you don’t fully explain — you just recognize it. More sensory memories like this fill the pages of A Journey from the Turnrows of the Delta to the Front Rows of Higher Education [
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