I love rainstorms. I’m not quite as crazy as some old college friends who used to climb trees during storms, but my youngest girl and I sat on the front porch yesterday during a rainstorm, just to watch the sheets of water fall and smell the fresh air. Rainstorms cleanse even as they drop bits of branches onto roads and lawns. They also slow the world down. Our cars creep. Many stay safely sheltered in garages. People postpone errands and efforts. On a lucky day, we can even sit quietly on the porch.
Flashing cracks of light through the blue shades, that steady drumming sound… I read, I snack, I peek out windows. I turn off the computer. I put the world on hold.
I hate rainstorms, and mostly have for about 27 years – our first flood (the most major one) took place the week my 26-year-old son was conceived.
For long periods, I can almost forget why I hate rain – but then it floods again, and it all comes back to me. Two floods within 2 weeks – during heavy June rains, and worries now every time more than a drop falls. The window well in the basement suddenly fills and all that water spills into the lovely, pretty-new carpet.
No thanks – at this point I think I’ll take a drought.
I’ve never had a carpet destroyed. That might change my view. I’m not sure though. I just find the sound of rain soothing. It’s a sound of my childhood, rain on the roof.