I love a rainy night

By the time I got from beneath my covered patio to my front door, a few steps, I was drenched and dripping rain. Already the floor filled with standing water, a shallow lake, half-way across the room. Not even a minute had passed.

The sky opened. No warning. Oh, sure, I’d heard a few rumblings from the mountains on the other side of town. Nothing serious. No gentle drops to precede the deluge. Suddenly, the wind whipped in circles and buckets of water fell, whipped in all directions, finally settling into a horizontal push from the east.

The storm raged only long enough for me to shed my wet clothing for dry, towel my hair, wipe down cabinets, sop up the wet floors with bath towels, maybe half an hour.

Later in the night, I heard soft rainfall out my bedroom window, gentle, light.

Rainy season announced itself a mere week ago, following a month of intense searing heat. The middle-of-the-night storm woke me with a lightning strike that lifted me off my bed, heart pounding, adrenalin coursing through my body. The special effects were more than worthy of Hollywood’s best.

And we’ve had rain every night since. I love it. Like in the song lyrics, it makes me feel good. And the average daily temperatures plunged from fry-eggs-on-concrete down to pleasurable.

Our hot season is over and done. Back to perpetual spring until next May.

There is no set schedule to the storms. This morning I have laundry on the line, wafting in the gentle breeze. I’m eyeing the lowering sky apprehensively, knowing if rain falls now, well, the clothing will be wet again, a rainwater rinse.

Generally, the rains are an evening event. Clouds roll in from both east and west around 4:00. It might rain early. It might rain late.

Last Saturday night, while apprehensively scanning the dark sky, Jim, Crinny and I went to the Plaza in the evening, after sunset. The Plaza is always crowded Saturday nights, more so this night. We had just missed a political rally, with party supporters attired in orange shirts.

We knew we might get wet. But we were on a mission. Jim had discovered that one of the food stands served crepes. He’d promised us a treat and he didn’t disappoint.

I had strawberries and kiwi in my crepe, topped with vanilla ice cream. We all chose different variations, fruits, toppings of caramel and chocolate. We argued, “My crepe is better than your crepe.” Practicing heroic restraint, we managed to resist licking our plates, just barely.

We made it home, dry and satisfied. I woke in the night to a steady hard rain pounding my roof. I woke in the morning to a sunny day with a song in my heart, with a smile on my face.

I do love a rainy night, and who cannot love the sunny days? The green is greener. All colors are more intense. If I’ve nothing else to do, I can watch grass grow. My elephant ear plants, normally huge, doubled in size this week. Weeds grow apace. The cicadas have stopped their noise-makers. What’s not to love?

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].