The sound of rain on a tin roof is something you never quite forget. Because I grew up in one of the most love‑filled, secure childhoods a kid could hope for, I came to love rainstorms — especially the ones that drummed their music across our old tin roof.
We lived in Flat, Missouri. And every house had a tin roof.
Ours was rusty, patched in places, nothing fancy at all. But to me it was perfect. Every drop of rain had something to say. That roof wore every storm proudly until I was in third grade, and even now I can hear the way a summer downpour would come alive above us, turning the whole house into an instrument.
At first, the sound scared me. I remember pulling my grandma’s handmade comforter over my head, hiding from the thunder. But time has a way of teaching you what’s safe. Before long, that same sound became my lullaby. I’d lie there, wrapped in the warmth she stitched with her own hands, and drift off to sleep feeling completely held.
I was home. Totally secure. Snuggled under my grandma’s comforter with the rain singing overhead. Everything in my little world exactly as it should be.
Our kids didn’t grow up with a tin roof. In Decatur, Indiana we had an asphalt roof. But we had a front porch. And our kids had the same sense of total security I’d known. When a storm rolled in, we’d grab blankets and head for the porch chairs, settling in to listen as the sky tuned up its familiar song.
Some memories stay with you because they were loud. Others because they were full of love. The rain on that tin roof was both.
Books by Mo Hodge
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