When I was growing up in New Jersey, the kids would sing a song, “Rain Rain Go Away, Come Back Another Day.” We meant the first part, but not the second. Rain was a pain in the butt. When it rained cats and dogs we would have to stay in the house which wasn’t half the fun of playing outdoors. You couldn’t play stickball in your living room.
The worst season for me was spring. Just when the temperatures moderated the rainy season would commence in earnest. I remember having most of my softball games cancelled in college because of what was euphemistically called inclement weather, a fancy expression for rain.
Rain was not reserved for spring. We often had thunderstorms throughout the summer, and when I returned East this past October it rained more in one day than it has here in Malibu since I arrived last January. And, of course, winter was not precipitation free. The wet just came down as white snow flakes.
I tell you all this because I love the sun and promised myself I would not become a typical southern Californian hoping for rain. Years ago when I was saturated with rain back East, a friend of mine visited me from San Diego. As soon as it rained, he rejoiced. I have rarely seen such a happy bloke. I could have knocked his block off. I was wet to the bone and there he was as happy as a clam. I haven’t a clue why a clam should be happy.
I tell you all this because Friday I was awakened in the middle of the night by an unfamiliar sound. I could not quite place the sound, but my wife explained to me it was the sound of rain. Ah yes, the sound of rain drops hitting the roof and windows. Quite remarkable indeed!
My first instinct would have been to curse my bad luck, but then I remembered I was a Malibuite. My flowers and shrubs desperately need this water, and the risk of fire will diminish from very high to low. My house and I might not burn to a crisp, and that is something to be thankful for.