I got caught in the rain Tuesday. Actually, that's a ginormous
understatement. I got caught in what
could be more aptly defined as a torturously painful monsoon.
It was 6:50 a.m. The
trash had to go out the curb before 7:00 a.m., and I was on track to be out of
the house by 6:55 when I heard what sounded like the trash truck barreling down
the side street. The recycling was
already to the curb (a task I prefer to do the evening before just because it's
time-consuming and often messy), and this week's trash haul was reasonably
light - one heavily-packed trash bag, packed inside another trash bag, packed
inside a plastic handle bag, packed inside a brown paper bag. Yes, I like to make sure my trash isn't going
to break open or smell when I wing it onto the sidewalk, and I like to make it
more of a challenge to squirrels and local river rats that have re-infested the
neighborhoods near the train station (such as mine).
So I quickly threw on any shoes that were handy and ran the
one bag out to the lone barrel my landlord had set out, smooshed the bag into
the top of the precariously stuffed container, and ran back in to finish
getting ready for work. Now that I had
packed all my junk for the trash men, I had to pack up my own junk for work.
No sooner had I shut myself back into the house when a
horrific noise set upon the premises. It
sounded at first like a freight train hauling-ass down the tracks. It also sounded like a hurricane-force wind
gust (we just survived Hurricane Sandy a week ago) kicking up every leaf pile
in the neighborhood and rustling it past my windows. It wasn't until I actually looked out the
windows that I realized it was raining.
No. It wasn't just
raining. It was pouring. It was pounding. It was hitting the ground with such furor
that it was literally bouncing up about two feet back into the air. It was roaring against the screens and coming
sideways from who-the-hell-knows where.
I mean, I had just been outside, and it was warm and dry and quite
ridiculously comfortable for New England mid-November. And now, mere moments later… squalor.
I managed to find a quick break when it was only pouring and
not pounding, and I ran to my car to head to work. I drove eight miles through four more
downpour-drizzle-downpour-drizzle cycles and arrived at work during a full-on
downpour outburst. I sat in my car for
about three minutes then made a mad run for it, only getting partially soaked
in the process. After work I had to go
shopping, bring in the groceries, and bring in the recycle barrel, all during
more rain. Just ten minutes ago, I went
outside to get the mail and it was still raining hard.
Now, finally, when I am sitting down and don't have to leave
the house for another hour (conferences tonight), I notice orange and pink glowing
ominously through the windows. It's
almost as if a fire is burning off in the distance until I realize that the sun
has come out for its final hurrah just as darkness descends at 4:30 p.m.
What's truly amazing is not that I survived the rain and didn't
melt ala Wicked Witch of the West.
What's amazing to me is how I didn't know this was going to happen. There was no rain on the radar nor on any
computer models, at least not due until this evening sometime, and even then
the map only showed one drop, which usually means sprinkles or drizzle. I didn't expect typhoon-force storms all day,
but I should have. I truly should have
known. After all, I washed my son's car
for him on Sunday, and I washed my own car Monday. If that isn't a guarantee for major bad
weather on Tuesday, nothing is.
Wait until I finish raking the leaves, kids. That's a sure sign of a blizzard coming.
