There are places in this country where people respect privacy, mind their own affairs, and refrain from discussing their neighbors’ business. I have read about such places in books, which is where I suspect they remain.

Our neighborhood is not one of them. In our part of the county, a man can sneeze behind closed curtains and have three casseroles, two medical opinions, and a prayer chain organized before supper.

We know who bought a new lawnmower, who forgot to pay the water bill, and who claims to be on a diet while conducting midnight negotiations with a chocolate cake. At the center of this thriving intelligence network lives old Mr. Silas.

Mr. Silas possesses a collection of rain barrels that borders on a religious devotion. He has large barrels, small barrels, oak barrels, cedar barrels, and a few mysterious specimens that looked as though they had survived both the Civil War and a disagreement with termites. The collection occupied so much space on his property that visitors often assumed he was preparing either for a drought or the end of civilization.

As it happened, we were already enduring the drought. For months, the land had baked beneath a pitiless sun.

Lawns surrendered first, then gardens, and finally people’s dispositions. A prolonged drought does strange things to human beings.

After a while, every conversation sounds like a complaint disguised as weather analysis. Then one evening, the clouds finally arrived.

They rolled over the hills with all the drama of politicians arriving for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. The wind picked up, the air cooled, and folks stepped onto porches and stared at the sky with the cautious optimism usually reserved for lottery tickets and campaign promises.

Sometime after midnight, the rain began. Now, rain itself was a pleasant enough sound, but what happened next was something altogether different.

The drops struck Mr. Silas’s collection of barrels, and the barrels began to sing.

One produced a deep gurgling note like an old preacher clearing his throat before a sermon. Another answered with a soft plink-plink-plink like a nervous pianist searching for the correct key. A third boomed with a hollow rhythm that might have passed for a drum if the drummer had been drinking.

Together, they created the most peculiar orchestra I had ever heard. The sound drifted through the neighborhood and awakened everyone.

Ordinarily, waking a neighborhood at midnight is an excellent way to create enemies. Yet instead of slamming windows and muttering insults, people emerged onto porches wrapped in blankets and carrying coffee mugs.

It was as if the rain had issued invitations and everyone felt obliged to attend. I joined them myself, though I confess I was not entirely awake.

At my age, rising suddenly from bed carries risks usually associated with mountain climbing. By the time I reached my porch, I had forgotten why I got up and was halfway through a conversation with a flower pot.

Across the street, Mrs. Bennett waved. Down the block, the Wilsons sat quietly listening.

Two houses over, old rivals who had not spoken in nearly a year found themselves sharing a thermos of coffee while pretending they weren’t enjoying each other’s company. The rain continued its performance.

Every barrel contributed its own voice. The larger barrels carried the bass.

The smaller ones handled the higher notes, and together they produced a concert that no committee could have organized, and no government grant could have improved.

It struck me as an important lesson.

Human beings spend a great deal of time trying to force harmony upon one another. We establish committees, hold meetings, circulate petitions, and deliver speeches.

After all that effort, we succeed only in creating fresh grievances and additional paperwork. Yet one rainstorm and a collection of old barrels accomplished more in a single night than years of neighborhood diplomacy.

As the hours passed, conversations began.

People spoke about gardens, grandchildren, fishing trips, and old memories. They laughed at stories that had grown funnier with age.

Grudges that once seemed substantial began looking rather foolish under the steady rhythm of the rain. It is difficult to maintain righteous indignation while listening to a cedar barrel perform percussion.

By dawn, the storm had passed.

The barrels stood full and silent, their concert concluded. The neighbors returned home carrying empty coffee cups and lighter hearts. New friendships had begun, and old disputes had shrunk to manageable size.

The entire neighborhood seemed somehow repaired. Mr. Silas emerged from his house and inspected his barrels with the satisfied expression of a conductor after a successful performance.

He never charged admission.

Looking back, I suspect the rain taught us something valuable that night. Hard times, like droughts, leave cracks everywhere, in fields, in gardens, and in people. We become impatient. We grow suspicious. We forget how to listen.

Then sometimes life sends a storm.

Not the destructive sort, but the kind that fills empty things. The kind that reminds us that even battered old barrels can make beautiful music when given enough rain.

As for me, I spent the next morning considering whether I possessed any hidden musical talent. After several experiments involving a trash can, a watering bucket, and my wife’s wash tub, I can report that I do not.

Some instruments are meant for rain alone, and some musicians should remain in the audience. Fortunately, the rain seems to know exactly what it is doing.

Human beings rarely do, which is perhaps why we enjoy the concerts so much.