The Perfect Rain

It has, as they say, been raining cats and dogs.

We've had a rain pattern that has not disappointed since the 1st of December ... it rains in the day. It rains in the night. It rains in the afternoon. It rains in the morning.

But never all at once ... there is rarely a day long rain. I can't figure it ... you'll see the clouds brooding, usually to the west, northwest, or north; they march along like death and taxes. Eventually, they move across town as if a grey curtain was being drawn across the horizon.

Today was perfect. On my way home, I saw the Iron Curtain moving inexorably south. I ducked into the Nalumba just in time to avoid the deluge; killing off a beer and chatting with an old comrade from Senanga, the rain had a physical presence, blowing wafts of cold air in the building and dripping through the usual leaks in the asbestos sheeted roof.

No one begrudges rain here. There is such a dichotomy between the dry season and the wet that rivals the arrival of spring in the Midwest ... people seem far happier, far less sullen, much more optimistic about the future.

I reflect on the rain as I get home, staring at my now-soaked New Balance; it's a welcome memory to feel wet socks, transporting me back to the days of leading canoe trips in Northern Ontario. Wet feet from stumbling over rocks in the rapids; wet feet from the cold rains that dominated the summers of the Nineties, trench foot from the continual wet socks.

So tonight is the perfect rain. Steady. Ominous. Heavy enough to batten down the mosquitoes. Good sleeping weather.