One of the real benefits to living in this idyllic Pioneer Valley is the frequent weather changes. I recall when I moved from Illinois to Fresno, CA in July 2006. I asked a colleague after a few weeks, “Does it ever rain?” Her response, “Certainly. In November.” Now, granted, I did grow up in California, but I guess I never really paid too much attention to the weather patterns. I do recall some sort of drought when I was in junior high, I believe. I recall my dear Mother with those words of wisdom for toileting behavior: “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.” [Sidebar: is that proverb being heeded in California’s current plight?] But I moved away from the Golden State in August 1991, and didn’t return full-time for 15 years. So you will excuse me if the perception tendencies of that particular environment had slipped from my memory.
But here in Massachusetts, summertime rain is plentiful. I recall reading at the start of this season that we were in a moderate drought. I have to think that is no longer the case. I can’t get enough of the rain. I love seeing our fields a permanent green, without the benefit of sprinklers. I also love that the vegetable garden along the side of our house and our hanging flowers do not require a hosing. Mother Nature does its best. There may not be a better herald to start my morning than to walk out to get the newspaper and find the driveway wet. Give me an overnight rain and I will rejoice at the new day arisen.
And so I began my walk to campus, armed with my umbrella, a book in hand, and, without question, a boater perched at a jaunty angle. [Aside…I should keep a running count on how many times the word “jaunty” appears in this blog. Any guesses what the early morning line will be on proposition?] And did I mention a smile on my face? The pitter-patter of rain warded off by my umbrella; no force shield generated from the nearby forest moon of Endor could do better in protecting my straw hat prize, or the words of Mark Twain in my hand. Furthermore, underneath my umbrella haven, I could look out and see the handiwork of water fallen from the sky (and again, my apologies to any California readers; believe it or not, it is a natural phenomenon. Not that I am unsympathetic to your plight. I lived 5 years in the Central Valley. And I have seen the prices of almonds and pistachios. I’m “all in” on hoping for your upcoming wet winter. Pistachios are a Hell of a drug…particularly with salt and pepper). The drops dangling from the leaves and branches. The little pools in the potholes on the street, souveniers from last winter, and that general “fresh” smell. I can’t really put into words what that smell is; it would be like trying to describe what Brahms’ First Symphony means to me. I just know I like it, I welcome it, it makes my life better.
So there I was, sauntering through my neighborhood, a spring in my step. How could one not smile, with a boater on head and rain about? This revelry lasted roughly seven minutes, when it was replaced by a new sensation. It started gradually, it wasn’t an immediate rush. Are any changes that drastic? Surely, there were signs of the Russian Revolution before 1917. It couldn’t have just been, “Hey, we’re the Bolsheviks. You’ve never heard of us before. But we’re in charge now.” No, it must have been a gradual build. Well anyway, at first, this was a mild irritant. But with each passing minute, I became more aware of a discomfort. My ship was not sinking…but it was getting wet. Though my umbrella kept my upper half dry, the bottom part of my slacks were not. With each step, the moisture increased. More disturbing, I was not yet halfway to campus! If ever there was a situation where it was going to get a lot worse before it was going to better, this was it.
Now, I know wet leggings are not the end of the world. Take a look at that iconic photograph of Gen. Douglas MacArthur returning to the Philippines. He and his men are damp up to the knees. Yet the tops of uniform stay dry, and MacArthur, whose eyes are hidden behind those iconic aviators, seems undeterred by wet pants. I am not Gen. MacArthur though, and my wet navy Docker slacks will not just fade away. And yes, I know…there are much more major problems in the world. There is reason Sen. Sanders, Mrs. Clinton, Mr. Trump, and the others are not trumpeting a need to protect the pants. But I will say this…an umbrella may be a false sense of security. Yes, the boater is dry…and my, what a disaster that would have been, just two days in! But the pants…those guys are going to be damp for a while. What to do? I am open to suggestions.
So, next time when I am about to leave the house, on a morning when the rain greens the land, I should hear a voice not unlike Roy Scheider, advising in my head….”You’re gonna need a bigger umbrella.”
guyinaboater 