At the Dew Drop

The rain was coming; we knew it. The forecast was now ten minutes away as we began to put away our chairs outside the Dew Drop and head home.

I decided to fold my chair up and sit on the ancient church pews inside the quaint old jazz hall, the oldest in America, and listen to some more of the music rather than taking my leave.

The windows were open (there are no glass or screens on the 1895 structure) and I could smell the rain in the distance, but the music and atmosphere drew me in, not letting me leave.

I drifted into a semi trance, feeling the presence of ghosts of jazz musicians past as the wind shifted, the front came through, and there was a cool breeze - so different from the stifling heat of the past few days as the deep south along the coast awaited the first named storm of the season now churning in the Gulf.

I sat there in that lovely daze until almost the end, only opting to take my leave to avoid the clash of the rain and weather. As I walked off down the dark street toward my car with my chair slung over my shoulder, I paused and looked back wistfully at this unique sense of place - on this, the last event of the season until fall.