Page 4 of She's My Kind Of Rain

We finish setting the slab a little later than planned and help clean up the tools before clocking out. We climb into my Pops’ Harbor Blue 1969 Ford Bronco, exhausted from the heat, and ready to be done working for the day.

Once situated, I turn up the Country station as we head toward the ranch. Neither of us particularly chatty because the entire day has been exhausting.

Letters From Homebegins to play and I can’t help butquietly sing along. Captivated by how the artist pulls you in before you even realize it. I get lost in the music when I hear the sound of Rhett’s phone clack shut. He doesn’t say a single word, but I can tell his attention is focused on me. His timing is perfect because the next few lines are centered around the hilarity of a thick southern accent, so I jokingly sing the verse at him. We both laugh and I turn the radio down now that I’ve had my fun.

“With a voice like that, you’re lucky your momma loves ya. I’ve heard better singin’ at a five-year-old’s birthday party.” Rhett shakes his head at my ridiculous behavior, poking fun at me. “But really though, I think I just had my best idea yet.”

I lift one brow, silently questioning what he’s talking about then ask, “And what’s that?”

“We’re goin’ to make you famous.” He says it so nonchalantly, I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

I let out a belly laugh, not expecting that to be his answer. “And why are we going to do that?”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, man, but you’re good,” he says, nodding to the radio. “Really fuckin’ good.”

“That lack of sleep must be catching up to you,” I joke, shocked by the idea. “I can’t imagine there aren’t hundreds of people walking around Nashville who have played their whole life and still have little to no fame to show for it. I would assume they are allreally fuckin’ goodtoo.”

“Not like you, man. And ya told me before that ya don’t know what ya wanna do. Singin’. On stage, in front of a crowd. That’s what ya should be doin’. Just think about it, Sawyer,” he says.

I turn onto a gravel road and the Rawlings Ranch sign comes into view. We drive through the gate and head down the two-track toward the house.

I ponder what he said. Something about music has always resonated with me, especially the songs that speak of challenge or love, and I often wish that I could spend more time singing and less time working. I consider the idea of performing in front of strangers. Never having done it before, anxiety builds in my gut. The moment I see Pop’s house—myhouse—come into view, a sense of calm returns and I table everything else when I hear Rhett whisper, “Wow.” He whistles under his breath as he leans forward to take in the scene.

After I park, we walk up the cobblestone path to the front porch. The house is rather large, with warm chestnut-toned stained wood siding and a deck that is meant for entertaining. Windows cover nearly the entire surface, allowing for the sun to light the main living spaces during the day, and a huge oak tree shades the side patio that accommodates a large exterior fireplace. Each detail is intentional and grand, just the way Pops was. The reminder of him warms my heart as we trek up the stairs and step inside.

We are met with a wide open floor plan, not common for most ranch style homes of its time. Pops was a people person, and“if we couldn’t have a bonfire outside, we sure as shit were gonna move the party inside”. His words, not mine. I silently laugh to myself, motioning Rhett toward the living room right off the kitchen.

“Holy shit, this place is nice. When ya said ya lived in an old ranch I definitely didn’t picture this. Your Pops really outdid himself.”

I nod, because he’s not wrong. The entire ranch is beautiful, including the bunkhouse and barn. Even those who aren’t into country living would be wowed by it. As grand as it is, itis still decorated in a way that feels homey. Family pictures scattered throughout, linen drapes made by hand, and rustic wood furniture made by craftsmen rather than store-bought. Everything has its place and I plan to do nothing to change that because it feels perfect the way it is.

“So, how did ya end up here?...In Nashville, I mean,” Rhett asks, examining all of the family photos lined up on the fireplace.

“Jimmy Goodall.” I say his name, remembering back seven years ago when I hit a kid who was twice my size.

He gives me a puzzled look, so I continue with my explanation. “I decked some dipshit kid named Jimmy Goodall. He used to bully me, and one day I had just had enough, and hit the fucker after he pushed me.”

Rhett laughs, his eyes widening in surprise at this little revelation about my past. Since I’m not the type to just offer up details about myself like that.

“The problem is my first hit landed Jimmy a broken nose. There weren’t a lot of school options in our area, and my parents didn’t like the idea of Jimmy being anywhere near me. Long story short, we decided collectively that living with Pops for the rest of the year made the most sense. I just ended up liking it so much that I never left.”

I think for a moment longer, considering the events that led me here. “It’s funny, most of the time you hear about situations where a kid has to move because of a bully and how it was the worst part of their life, but honestly, I’m thankful it happened. I’m thankful Jimmy never laid off on the bullshit. If he hadn’t pushed me to my limits, I never would’ve left Greenwich.”

“And the singin’? Why ain’t ya doin’ that instead of construction?”

“Singing has always been more of just a hobby. When I moved here, Pops taught me to play guitar, and then singing just came along with it.” I let out a sigh and shrug. “I think hefigured it was a better outlet for me, than it was to bottle up my emotions. I’m pretty sure that’s why my parents thought I cracked that asshole in the face. Anyways, in regards to doing that instead of construction, well, I’ve always enjoyed it and wished I could do it more often, but no one has ever really pushed the idea, myself included. I just can’t help but sing along when I hear a song I like, so that’s all it’s ever been.”

“Well that explains all the damn singin’ on site. So ya ain’t ever sang live besides just at work?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t think that anyone would be a fan or that I’m anything special.” I run my fingers through my dark, curly hair.

“Half the performance is ownin’ it, Sawyer. Haven’t ya learned anythin’ from my encores at work?” We chuckle in tandem. “I ain’t got a musical bone in my body, but that ain’t for a lack of tryin’.”

“Oh, is that what you call that?” I burst out laughing, remembering him finishing out a song I had started to sing the other day at work. His country accent made him a perfect contender to fit right into the Country music world, but the man is tone deaf. That, of course, never stops him from enjoying himself though.

He surveys the area another time, his eyes landing on the corner of the living room. “That his?” He nods to my Pops d-28 Martin guitar—with far less varnish than it had when I’d first seen Pops play it—leaning on its stand in the corner.

“That’s the one, and it was his fathers before him. It’s by far the coolest thing I own, besides Pop’s old Bronco and, well, of course this entire ranch.” I chuckle, realizing that everything I own is actually pretty cool thanks to Pops.

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