Rain
I don’t know about you, but when it started raining this winter, I got excited. As a native of California, I appreciate water coming from the sky: Rain? Really? Hooray! We need rain.
My family went for hikes in Armstrong Grove after one system moved through, marveling at the streams burbling along, reveling in the damp earth, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the dripping leaves. We trekked up to Foothills Regional Park and eyed the ponds, gauging the levels and pointing out the landmarks we had passed high and dry a few weeks earlier, now much closer to the edge of the water. We eagerly watched the rain gauge outside our breakfast nook window, checking it against the newspaper’s account of rain amounts. A whole inch of rain. Really. Hooray!
At school the preschoolers stood transfixed at the window, puzzling over this phenomenon: rain? What’s that? We’d see the kindergarteners and first graders marching along behind their teachers on the way to the multi-purpose room, the teachers carefully leading the way through the driest path, and the kids – 90 percent of them – darting here and there, purposefully aiming for as many puddles as they could. Puddles became playgrounds, and dashing through the light mist became an adventure.
And then it rained some more.
Rain? Really? Wow, OK. Now it became more challenging to stay dry. I have always maintained that when the forecast says scattered showers I can tell you exactly when Windsor will get wet: 9, 11, 11:40, and 1. Do you know how I know that? At 9 and 1 we herd small people out of a classroom or conveyance to a classroom or conveyance. At 11 we have a chance to go outside and run off some energy, and at 11:40 I head to the cafeteria to retrieve lunches for our kiddos. You try balancing a tray with five lunches and hold an umbrella at the same time.
Besides the to-and-fro challenges of rainy days, we face a long stretch of hours with no hope of an outdoor break to run off energy. We pull out play sets and games and puzzles and art supplies, but after a few days there’s a frenetic energy that can’t be distracted by Duplos and Hot Wheels. Scooter boards and tunnels and teeter totters are energizing on a dry day and hellish on a rainy day. I’m convinced the clock slows down when it rains … how can it take seven hours to go from 9 to 1?
The little systems became storms, and we watched as drizzles became deluges. Puddles turned into lakes, and trekking between the bus and the classroom left you drenched. The newscasters got excited and sent reporters to stand in the wind and rain to tell us it was windy and raining. Storm drains roared, creeks swelled, and the river rose, and rose, and rose. We emptied our five-inch rain gauge more than once, impressed in a stunned sort of way that this much water could fall. Roads closed. Trees came down. Creeks and rivers overflowed … and still it rained.
After two unrelenting weeks my rain boots finally gave up the ghost, cracking across the part of my foot that bends when I walk. My umbrella lost a spoke, and my coat struggled for the ability to repel water. I was reduced to wearing boots I had waterproofed with spray, hopping dementedly over the deepest puddles, and hoping the faster I walked through the rain, the less wet I would get.
One afternoon I was congratulating myself that I had made it through fairly unscathed – damp, yes, but not drenched. I drove across town to pick up my afternoon childcare friend and promptly stepped in a small lake that had taken up residence across the walkway to his class. My boots realized they had no chance to be waterproof and my socks became sponges. My hood tried to blow off my face, so I had to hold it, which invited the water to run down my arm and soak my sweatshirt sleeve. Wind blew fat drops against me, soaking my jeans and dripping off my bangs. I could almost feel the exact moment my sniffly cold became a full-blown sinus infection. Sigh … rain? Really?
