“It’s raining cats and dogs.”

My alarm just went off 15 minutes ago.  At 5:45 AM, so I’m understandably still groggy.  I could really use another half hour of sleep.  Still, I’ve quickly tugged on as many clothes as I can scrounge up at this ungodly hour.

The weather forecast provided by my cellphone app looks terrible.  As confirmed by the heavy drops of liquid which relentlessly pelt the bedroom window.  But there’s work to be done.  As the primary breadwinner, primary caretaker, and primary organizer, of this household, there’s a lot on my plate.

Kicking traditional gender roles to the curb, I’m a powerful female, with lots of confidence, charisma, and clout.  But, those privileged skills only extend so far.  Right now, I’m headed out on a menial task, before the sun even rises.  Doggy duty.

My teenage twins are supposed to be taking care of these animals.  However, during the ongoing Christmas and New Year’s holiday break, these freeloaders have resorted to their old ways.  Sleeping in, not studying, and ignore chores.  Essentially, they’ve devolved into the default slacker mode.

As a result, this pair of pooches would have run off, or died of hunger, if it wasn’t for their parents.  Specifically me.

In some ways, I’m to blame for the acquisition of these pups, and their subsequent neglect.  Growing up in the upstate NY countryside, there were always dogs, and horses, in my life.  These lively critters were a fundamental element of my upbringing: riding, snuggling, chasing, and petting.  As such, I figured it was my obligation to provide the same pleasant experience to my offspring.

Which has turned out to be quite foolish decision.

It doesn’t help that we live in a high-rise residence in Manhattan, with nary a terrace, let alone a real yard.  A far cry from expansive fields and forests to meander through, which personified my rural upbringing.  I feel bad having these dogs cooped up in our condo all day long.

As an investment banker, working on Wall Street, financial resources are not a concern.  It’s just that I’m locked into a city lifestyle, required to be in the office every day.  Apparently, money can’t buy everything.  What happened to the “own a cabin on 40 acres” promise of pioneer lore?

Once outside, it doesn’t take me long to determine the weather is even more miserable than I anticipated.  The precipitation is traveling sideways, as opposed to downward, and closer to snow than rain.  I think “sleet” is the correct meteorological term.  Which may as well be a synonym for “unpleasant”.

Hood up, head down, sweatpants already soaked, I examine the pair of charges in my custody.  Which doesn’t improve my mood.

We ended up with one large and one small dog.  A male and a female.  One energetic and one lazy creature.  A vocal and a shy participant.  Our newest additions to the household match our pair of twins perfectly.  All 4 mammals are incredibly high maintenance hassles. 

As evidenced by this frustrating morning walk, poor conditions and poor behavior conspiring to incessantly annoy me.  One mutt tugs, while the other barks.  They never want to walk in the same direction.  Every sidewalk puddle, however dirty, demands tongue inspection.  My slender arms, each grasping a taut leash, are not ready for such aggressive physical exertion this early in the day. 

The last straw comes when this duo of winners spots a stray cat, simultaneously.  The Irish Setter’s hunting instincts immediately take over, which stirs his Dachshund compatriot into a tizzy.  My small frame, operating on a platform of slippery sneakers, nearly hits the deck.

On a rare positive note thus far this morning, this excitement fuels the canine bowel movements which necessitated this entire wet trek.  Finally!

If my annually bonus materializes, I’ll be over seven figures this year.  I’ve leveraged my substantial mental capacity to work my way to the top of the financial food chain, conquering one of the most cutthroat industries in America.  Yet, right now, I’m picking up excrement off the ground, deposited by an inferior creature. 

What did these animals eat?  At least the big guy’s loads are sizable and solid.  Meanwhile, the little lady has the runs again.  Scooping up runny poop on wet grass using a biodegradable bag is impossible.  The obligatory task finally complete, we can now head home. 

A few hurried minutes later, we’re back at the complex, and completely soaked.  The challenge with these residential towers is that you can’t keep any personal items in the lobby.  Not even a towel. 

I naively think that our troop can sneak into the building without causing a scene, considering the early morning hour.  A false delusion, as the primary goal of the security guards here is to monitor comings and goings, at all times.

Normally, I give the doorman a nod, and sometimes even engage in small talk.  I try to keep these employees straight, and learn their names, but the revolving door of large, middle age, African American men makes individual recognition difficult.

Our crew’s current presentation is decidedly shabby.  My raincoat is completely soaked through, with water beading on the surface.  Not to mention the duo of dogs in tow, both mangy mutts dripping with moisture.  Too bad there’s not a back staircase in this complex.  Which would obviously completely negate the safety protocols.

We tip-toe gently across the silent and sterile lobby, it soon becomes clear stealth is an impossibility, with soggy shoes and dirty paws.  Slippery splotches and muddy footprints follow in our wake.  Our entrance and trajectory couldn’t be more obvious.

Phew.  We made it into the elevator, without any major issues.  Aside from the harsh glares of the hall monitor.  Good thing I remembered to bring my wallet this morning.  I’m not sure I would have gotten past the gate in this sketchy state without an ID.

As the lift door closes, excruciatingly slowly, I breath a deep sigh of relief.  Pressing the desired button, a double-digit number near the top of the tower, I settle in for a slow vertical progression.  This momentary relaxation is immediately disrupted.

The smaller mutt, apparently sensing she’s finally indoors, and starting to dry, initiates a shaking regimen, characteristic of any pouch.  In isolation, a small animal with minimal fur, isn’t that much of a cleanliness disturbance.  However, this wriggling sets of a chain reaction of events, which I’m unable to control, despite being intimately involved.

Apparently, some of the spray from pet #1 has landed on pet #2.  For this beast, with long red fur which is already waterlogged, these few extra droplets are the coup de grâce.  What ensues is one of the most aggressive twisting gyrations ever witnessed.  This soggy Setter twists and turns, rocks and rolls, as if being electrocuted.  The result is inevitable, an explosive shower of water, dirt, hair, and who the hell knows what else, being unleashed in all directions.

I still have both animals on leash; I can’t trust either of these mongrels on their own, let alone together.  A swift tug on the studded collar should help rein the big beast in.

However, before I can confirm the obedience skills we’ve been working on, and paying good money for, I become incapacitated.  On multiple fronts.  Microscopic bits of pollen or dander sneak into my nasal cavity, inciting an inevitable involuntary bodily reaction.  A massive sneeze.  One of human’s natural defense mechanisms. 

This health response results in a much more dangerous bodily motion.  The stiffening of my body: head thrown forward, back bent deeply, abs tensing up, knees inevitably bucking.  My usually grippy rubber soles prove no match for the slippery slurry that has build up on the smooth and polished floor.

Within seconds, I’ve gone ass over tea kettle.  Still holding the larger dog’s leash tightly, this rangy monstrosity is forced to come down with me.  In a sloppy, stinky, soggy mess.   

The interior of the elevator now resembles a monochromatic Pollock piece, dark hues smudged on a reflective silver canvas.  Good thing I already pressed the appropriate button, since the digits on many of these numbered circles are now impossible to discern.

Again, how hard would it be to keep a few rags in the lobby?  With a simple preparatory scheme, this entire mess could have been avoided.   

I briefly contemplate making a quick destination audible to the 5th floor pool area, a denotation which is conveniently rectangular as opposed to round, then wisely decide against it.  White tile, white towels, and white toilets will not match well with this muddy brown crew.

The less collateral damage I inflict on the public spaces of this facility the better.  The lift interior is already soiled, with employee witness and corporate video camera footage to prove my guilt. 

I’ll have to clean up these hairy beasts in bathtub of our place.  Maybe I should use my kid’s bathroom, and leave it soiled as a reminder of their neglected obligations.  That seems like a useful parenting message. 

I’ve never been so excited to leave home and go to work.  Good thing I don’t work in building construction or road maintenance.  This damp day, with no rest from this relentless rain in the forecast, would be a miserable time to toil outside.

I’ve put in my outdoor exertion for the day, and not by choice.  After a warm shower, on my own, I’m happy to take my car, with seat heaters, to the climate-controlled office, where I can sit in front of a computer, and stare out the window at the rain.

“A great day to play two.”

Holding the paper cup with both hands, I carefully raise the opening in the plastic top to my mouth, and take the deepest sip I deem safe.  This acrid black liquid, heavily supplemented by sweet sugar, goes down harshly.

But provides a much-needed bodily boost.  I’m damp and shivering.

I usually take my coffee with lots of cream, but currently don’t want to risk minimizing the warming properties of this elixir.  As the liquid courses through my system, the stimulative effects are twofold, initial internal warming, along with a slightly delayed caffeine stimulation, both sensations conspiring to wake me up.

Which is decidedly needed.  Who schedules a children’s soccer tournament starting at 7:30 AM on a Saturday?

While we were running late on the drive over here, I knew a quick stop at the local artisan cafe was mandatory to keep me functional for the remainder of the day.  Sure, the coach’s wife brings a carafe of coffee for these early morning affairs, but there’s no way I’m drinking that instant swill.

Based on the sketchy spread she serves the kids between games, I’m not getting anywhere near this awkward lady’s concoctions.  Neither is my son.  Both of us are strict vegetarians, me by choice, and my boy by default, as I do all the food purchasing and preparation.  In contrast, my former husband considered himself a real meat eater.

Which was one of the many reasons we drifted apart.  The amorous courting phase, transitioned to a combative relationship, and the inevitable separation.  All assets were split evenly.  Except for one entity, that unlike money and housing, is impossible to divide.  Our lone offspring.

Turning my attention back to action in the field, I attempt to focus in one player.  My son.  Who proves more difficult to spot than usual.  The formerly bright branding of this youth soccer team has turned into a muted mess.  Thanks to the adverse atmospheric conditions. 

In this era of inclusivity, everyone gets the same number, “1”, on the back of their jersey, along with their last name.  In this case, my maiden title, which I never changed.  Another point of contention between my former partner and I.

Currently, between the foggy air and the mud stains, I’m not even able to determine the color of the uniforms, let alone the letters and numbers written on them.  Despite the fact that these fancy outfits are, or more accurately were, neon green and navy blue, paying homage to several local pro squads in this Seattle, WA area.

It’s absurd how much a single customized outfit costs, not to mention the fees for this elite coaching experience.  This kid’s going to make me broken before college even starts.

Rain is a staple of the Pacific Northwest weather profile.  And April is a high precipitation month, like all of them, aside from June through September.  This recent run is starting to get absurd.  It’s not the quantity of rain, or the rate of deposition, but instead the relentlessness of the liquid onslaught.

As a result, a pig sty doesn’t even begin to describe the current conditions on the field.  It looks like someone left the sprinkler system on overnight, then a pack of teenagers came by and did some doughnuts on the turf with dirt bikes.  There’s now no differentiation between dirt and grass, mud and seed.

Speaking of doughnuts, that unhealthy sustenance is apparently the fuel driving these crazy kids across the pitch.  While most teams use the snacks as a reward, our group wolfed down a bunch of baked goods before the contest even started.  Plus, that chemically infused powdered orange drink concoction in the shared cooler.  Which is a real sanitation liability.

The sugary influx will only last a short while for the miniature hellions, with a pending crash coming by the 3rd game.  If we make it that far, with this inept coed squad that has been amassed.

Fortunately, my son is on a strict diet.  There’s no lack of fiber or protein; he just gets his nutrient intake in a different manner.  Homemade whole wheat bread, organic peanut butter, fresh carrots from our garden, and droplets of omega-3 rich fish oil.

Not exactly a standard children’s sandwich combination, but all things healthy are an acquired taste.  Like the mint and cucumber water my boy gets to sip, from his personal squirt bottle, on during down time.

If all goes well with this young team, they will link together a series of wins, and continue competing all day.  If all goes well for me, the bumbling band will lose their first few matches in demoralizing fashion, and decide to bow out of this tournament prematurely.

Only time will tell.  Worst case would be a string of close tallies, on both the winning and losing sides of the ledger, which keeps hopes alive, and our crappy crew in the bracket.

As the miserable first game winds down, I contemplate my options.  This downpour is relentless, now forcing even the most ardent viewers to begrudgingly open their umbrellas.  Except for one crazy mom next to me, who continues to eschew any head coverage: hat, hood, or otherwise.  I will give this parent credit for spirit, considering the relentless shrieking which emanates from her mouth during even the most mundane plays on the field. 

Some of the local PNW born and raised heathens are delusional.  And love the rain. 

Meanwhile, I’ve had my tall, broad, hemispherical, fabric dome of protection open since the moment I left the car, completely oblivious to any visual obstruction or physical imposition forced upon those around me by this massive canopy.  It’s survival of the fittest in these harsh conditions.

Even though the deluge continues, there’s not much to be done from a maintenance standpoint, with no cover to deploy on this expanse of grass, and no sign of levity with this dreary storm front rolling in from the Pacific Ocean. 

While professional baseball is boring as hell, at least America’s official sports pastime uses tarps to keep the field dry, and cancels games when it rains too hard.  No such luck in soccer, or football, as they call this athletic pursuit in Europe. 

It would be great if my boy could play well enough to earn a spot on the travel team, and maybe even a trip overseas.  I’m sure that opportunity would come at exorbitant cost, considering how much I pay now just to be part of this local operation.  However, a glance back to the sloppy pitch suggests this fabulous feat is unlikely for my little guy.   

On the field, a quarter the size of a normal pitch, a dozen 8-year-olds are moving in a generally cohesive mass, tracking the spherical object of interest.  This organic motion resembles an ameba, growing and shrinking in size, with a pulsing flow.  The gameplay could be confused for choreography, if viewed from above.  Aside from one distinct outlier. 

My offspring, who is barely even letting the chalky white field boundary lines confine his movements, while completely ignoring the goals at both ends.  It seems like my boy is trying to find the largest puddles on the field, as opposed to actually chasing after the ball.  Understandable performance, since his mom is a bit of a space cadet as well.

Even if we are done after this morning’s round of fixtures, I’m still going to be doing laundry all weekend.  The worst part are the shoes, which get very stinky, and never dry out.  Maybe I should just have my son play in rubber booties.  It’s not like he kicks the ball much anyways.

“When it rains, it pours.”

A steady drumming resonates, crisp and lively, with minimal variance in cadence or volume.  What this percussive sound needs to create truly compelling music are some complementary horn and guitar notes. 

Unfortunately, due to the current inclement weather, all the live bands are on hold.  There’s a marginal rooftop structure over the main stage, mainly designed to provide the performers with shaded relief as opposed to rain protection.  The ancillary venues have no covering at all, as this is decidedly an outdoor concert event.  

The persistent bass beat is coming from large droplets of moisture perpetually pelting the thin plastic roof of my vendor cart.  From my privileged post, along the right side of the grassy amphitheater, I’m usually able to hear, and sometimes even see, the musical acts.  Right now, there’s nothing to observe, except the splashing of liquid from above into increasingly large puddles throughout the grounds.

The pending tropical storm has been on the radar, both literately and figuratively, for several days now.  Especially since it’s over a month early from the normal window for these atmospheric anomalies.

Despite modern day meteorology, including oceanic beacons, Doppler radar, and pressure gradient simulations, the path and timing of these major hurricane events is still relatively unknown.  One thing is clear based on the current conditions.  This system is pulling some substantial moisture from the nearby Gulf of Mexico.

Sometimes, harsh weather can be a boon for concession sales.  Hot and humid temperatures, common here in New Orleans during the summer months, increase frosty dessert and drink sales.  Chili and chowders sell well on cooler nights, during the debatable wintertime period.     

My fancy fare, while not capitalizing on any specific climate, is appropriate for all customers in all conditions.  My operation specializes in a menagerie of fried sweet treats.  Elephant ears, churros, fried dough, and of course, the local favorite, beignets, are all on the menu.  In addition to the standard starch and sugar, hungry folks can add on ground cinnamon, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and even sliced fruit, depending on their preference.

Today is Sunday, the end of the week-long summer Jazz festival, perennially held at the beginning of May.  This final day is typically dominated by families; young kids and happy adults enjoying the celebration of the Big Easy’s melting pot heritage together.  Dancing and singing.  Listening and playing.  Most importantly, eating and drinking.

Unfortunately, that idealized scenario hasn’t materialized this time around.  Thus far, my sales have been abysmal: a combination of low festival traffic, competitive food options, and, most detrimental, the inclement weather.

Unlike some street vendors, with only use their stands as a means of supplementing income on weekends, this is my full-time job.  I have a husband, three kids, and a pair of grandparents to support on this entrepreneurial endeavor.  A classic home situation for a second-generation immigrant with strong creole roots.  It’s a very streaky profession, often with just a few big jubilee gatherings accounting for each month’s income.

I’m required to pay a substantial rental fee for this space.  The Jazz festival is one of the most important, and thus costly, dates on the calendar.  At this point, it appears I’m going to be in the red for this entire event.  And won’t be selling much in this torrential downpour.

Even if I could somehow cook and coat my sugary snacks, there’s no way they could be handled or eaten as desired.  Dampness turns a delectable, dry, doughy meal into a sticky, soggy, sloppy mess.

While liquid is necessary for making a functional pastry, it’s crucial to carefully control the moisture content.  Plus, I use equal parts milk and water, a combination that doesn’t typically fall from the sky.  I make my mixture a few hours ahead of time, giving the yeast time to do its work, which is the key to an incredibly light and airy final product.

Preparing and managing this dough is just as important as the actual cooking process.  Carefully measuring and mixing dry and wet components separately, then combining them with vigorous kneading.  My fingers and forearms are quite toned after years in this pursuit.  

I’m so busy tending to my new batch, trying to mitigate the organic aquatic contributions falling from above, that I forget about my larger stockpile of finely ground ingredients on the cart, which are equally sensitive to liquid infusion.  Hastily opening the storage cabinet, I find standing water in the bottom of the metal shelf, apparently sneaking in though the wide seams of my hand-me-down rig.

Confectioner’s powdered sugar and unbleached bread flour, both housed in brown paper, don’t keep well in this moist environment.  Crouching down, I can see the rogue liquid already starting to soak in from the bottom, discoloring the outer packaging, and undoubtably soiling the contents within.  Merde!

I need to move these large sacks.  But the paper will likely rip if I try to lift them up directly.  Panicking, as the water level seems to be rising before my eyes, I grab one of my industrial-size garbage bags, and start transferring these parcels of powder into this impermeable barrier.

It’s a delicate process, using a wide spatula to support the soggy bottom, while my other hand grasps the still dry, and thus quite pliable, top section.  All these raw ingredients will need to be transferred into new containers.  Ideally, robust plastic tubs, to avoid this issue in the future.  There will definitely be some loss; hopefully, I’m at least slowing the relentless moisture infusion process.  

There’s another brutal element associated with this storm front, which now becomes the primary transgressor.  In the form of gale force winds.  An exceptionally violent gust tears the corrugated clear covering of polycarbonate entirely off my cart.  Clearly, I need to batten down the hatches. 

As any home cook knows, hot oil and water are not a good combination.  Unless you’re looking to create a cascade of molten spheres, or even worse, a full-on fire.  I should probably try to hold an umbrella over the now-exposed cooking unit.

However, if the wind is strong enough to sheer the roof off, then the beach umbrella I put up for patrons to eat under on calm, sunny days won’t stand a chance.  I’ll just toss a few metal trays over the grease opening to be safe.

Seeing the rain pouring down directly into the fryer bins, I’m actually surprised that more explosive fireworks aren’t already occurring in this cauldron.  Upon further inspection, the lack of explosivity is quickly explained.  The fryer oil is lukewarm at best, as I can hold my bare hand just above the greasy surface.

Apparently, the water inundation has tripped the breaker to which my extension cord is plugged in.  I don’t require a lot of power to run my rig, but with no way to keep product offerings cold in the fridge, or hot using the fryer, this food cart operation is essentially incapacitated.

Everything that could go wrong this weekend has.  I may as well just pack up and go home.  The umbrella is already down, the remaining dough isn’t viable, and the cooking oil cool.  Time to concede defeat; this weather cannot be beat.

“Red sky in the morning.”

Fumbling around blindly in near-complete darkness, my fingers finally find the desired protrusion of plastic, which I manipulated upwards.  Let there be light.

The illuminated incandescent bulb throws a yellow glow into the enclosed space, bright in the center of the room, directly below the ceiling fixture, with substantial dark shadowy regions, prevalent in the corners.  Which is completely packed with gear.  How did we amass all this crap?

Our theoretical 2-car garage, provided with all the homes in this suburban community, hasn’t housed an automobile since we moved in 3 years ago, just before my youngest daughter started kindergarten.  I felt bad displacing our two older girls, but, according to my wife, the school district here is much better.  Plus, this will be our forever home on the outskirts of beautiful Lansing, MI.  OK honey, whatever you say.

With a full-size SUV, and an extended cab truck, there’s no way I could park either of our vehicles inside, even if the footprint was completely empty.  Anything taller than a basic sedan risks scraping the garage door entry height, and you would have to be a skilled parallel parker to squeeze even a pair of VW bugs in the allotted width.

Now, with the benefit of sight, I slide my hand slightly to the right, and press the raised button on the wall.  This single act immediately initiates a loud mechanical grinding sound, corresponding with the motor struggling mightily to raise the overhead door.  Some natural light will help with my garage tasks.  Plus, it’s quite stuffy in here.

Shuffling along the wall sideways, maneuvering my substantial girth carefully, to thread through bike handlebars, soccer goal netting, and doll house toys, I make my way to the newly established opening.  Looking out, first straight into the driveway, then skyward with increased interest, I survey the outdoor scene.

There’s a heavy fog in the air, substantially denser than normal morning dew.  Also, it’s still quite dark, not the full blackness of nightfall, but more of an eerie crimson glow coming from above.   I check my watch, thinking maybe I’ve got the time confused.  Nope, 8 AM.  Which is well after sunrise this time of year in central Michigan.

Taking a few steps out from under the cover of the eaves, I feel my feet squish in the softened gravel of the drive, and sense moisture beading up on my face, a combination of high humidity and microscopic precipitation.

This isn’t the full sun and mid-80°F temperatures called for in the forecast last night.  Right now, it’s completely socked in, and can’t be much over 60°F.  Not to mention that very odd red tint to the sky above.

If this weather persists, we’re not going to need much sunscreen today.  Still, I have a beach bag floating around somewhere loaded up with 5 different offerings: spray and lotion, various SPF levels, facial specific, waterproof, aggressively aromatic, and who the hell knows what else.  The gaggle of ladies in my family is a picky bunch.

Which reminds me, I better get packing.  Shrugging off the odd weather as an AM anomaly, I turn my attention back to the task at hand.  Getting all the gear loaded up for our aquatic adventure.

It’s amazing how much equipment is required with 3 kids, not to mention my high maintenance wife.   The girls are all different ages, with different personalities and preferences, so each needs their own curated collection of crap. 

We don’t go to the lake often enough to have the various toys and tools, totes and towels, neatly organized, and ready to load.  I would prefer to head up north every weekend in the summer, when the weather is cooperating, and have even floated the idea of camping, so we could stay overnight once in a while.

However, my wife prefers the comforts of a real bed, and the older my girls get, the less interested they become in any activity that doesn’t involve perpetual access to electricity and cell service, both essential ingredients for fueling their social media addiction.

Thus, we’re limited to day trips, fighting the hordes of traffic, all with the same idea, in both directions. On the rare weekend when none of the ladies don’t already have other commitments that they need to be delivered to or chaperoned at.

If I had my druthers, I would be fishing with my buddies, leaving my daughters to their own devices.  The oldest one has recently become a teenager, and the others are not far behind; pretty soon they will all be self-sufficient.  Heck, in just 3 years, my eldest girl will be driving.  That’s a scary proposition for an individual who can’t even operate a riding lawnmower proficiently.

However, I don’t get to make any family planning decisions, especially on the weekends, when my assigned duty is entertaining the kids.  Their stay-at-home mom always seems to need a break from parenting.  Hence, we’re headed out to the lake to do some boating.

Occupying the majority of the interior space in my menial garage is my prize possession.  An aquatic craft, 24 feet in length, with a pair of outboard motors powerful enough for all manner of towing activities, from slalom skiing to treble tubing, wakeboard to wake surfing.

Some folks in our community store their boats outside, relying on the theoretically waterproof cover provided by each manufacturer.  However, considering the monetary outlay for this vessel, I prefer to keep it as safe as possible, protected by a solid structure. 

It’s amazing how fickle the console controls are to moisture, especially for a piece of equipment designed to operate on the water.  Even with garage storage, I had to replace several pieces of electronics this past spring, coming out of annual winterizing.  Now, she’s functioning like a dream.  Though I haven’t ventured out in moist air conditions quite like today.

Hitching the hefty boat hauler up to the oversized pick-up is really a 2-person job.  Assuming I had a rational and useful human to help out.  Briefly considering the options, distracting my spouse as she slowly eases into the day, or waking up one of my perpetually cranky daughters, I decide to go it alone.

I crank the threaded rod which raises the hitch on the trailer. This is a hefty physical exertion, but one of the easier parts of this delicate mating procedure.  Content the mount point is high enough, I climb into the tall cab of my truck, and gently ease the vehicle backwards.  This is where a helper could really come in handy, since my mirrors don’t provide any direct vision of the sturdy post attached to the rear bumper frame.  I need one of those fancy back-up cameras.

I’m forced to turn my head, and look through the back window, which is streaked with rain, orienting the middle of the tailgate with the keel of the craft, which gives me a decent sense for directionality, but doesn’t really help with distance.

Sensing I’m close, I put the rig in park and hop down, then scurry back to check.  Another 6 inches backwards, and a slight tweak to the right is needed.  After 3 successive iterations, winded from repeatedly climbing up the running boards, clothes damp from a combination of sweat and dew, I finally get the required alignment.

At least the linkage point is under the garage awning, providing me with much-appreciated shelter from the developing rain.  Lowering the hitch, this time cranking the handle in the opposite direction, is much easier, aided by gravity, instead of fighting against it.

Via some gentle coaxing with a rubber mallet, I eventually get the ball and socket to mate, as confirmed by the satisfying click of the locking tang.  The ancillary safety chain, and electronics wiring socket for the lights, prove much easier to connect.  Solo mounting procedure complete.

After 45 minutes of further preparation, I’m finally feeling like everything is loaded up.  I make a slow, pensive walk around the boat and truck.  It’s important to make sure all the gear, especially in the exposed pick-up bed, is tied down, so it doesn’t fly out.  A foolish mistake I’ve made in the past, resulting in a few lost life preservers and inflatable tubes.

It’s an hour and a half drive to the lake, so hopefully the sky clears up by then.  Content with my packing, I conclude we’re ready to head out.  Time to load up the crew.  Which will take a while, if past ventures are any indication.  How hard can it be to throw on a swimsuit, a sun dress, and some sandals?   

As I head to the front door, the sprinkle increases to a drizzle, causing me to hasten my pace toward the cover of the house.  Definitely much better weather for fishing than watersports.  But the wheels have already been put in motion on this family hangout plan. 

“Take a rain check.”

We’re waiting in line.  Again.  Which seems to be a recurring theme on this vacation.  We’ve definitely spent more time standing, shuffling along slowly through lengthy rope corrals like lemmings, as opposed to sitting, enjoying the diversity of high-action rides at this theme park.

All this down time gives me a chance to take in the landscape.  If you’re into people watching, this is the place to be.  The range of cartoonish costumes, adorned not just by the employees, but also the patrons, are vast and impressive.

Currently, in just our own row of 20ish folks, I spot a unicorn and a moose, both easy to identify, even in a straight line, by their tall horned head presentation.  Adjacent to our stationary post, another level back in the progression, are a pair of ducks, stylized as opposed to natural in plumage.  Meanwhile, a shimmering mermaid, covered in sequins, presentation completed by a forked tail, passes by us in the flow of opposing traffic.

The snaking maze loops back on itself 3 more times, before access is finally granted to our desired destination.  The wave pool.  Not sure how these yahoos plan to swim or tan with those clown suits on.  To each their own, I guess.   

My observational musing is interrupted by a loud boom.  This facility, with all manner of crazy performative shows, offers up a multitude of random sounds.  But that echoey retort didn’t match any known activities here: concert bass, reenactment cannons, construction work, fireworks display.  All sounds which have been heard during the short course of our stay.

The next crash, a powerful shutter that reverberates, emanating from the sky as opposed to the ground, confirms my fears.  This is an apparition that I’m intimately familiar with, having spent my entire life in a region known for corn fields and tornados.  Thunder.  A storm is brewing.

I knew rain was common in Florida during early afternoons over the summer, but this is a little absurd.  Granted, the past few days have been sunny and beautiful, with highs approaching 90°F, accompanied by a pleasant breeze, which helps cut the heat.

Now, the weather is apparently turning for the worst.  Why does this potential electrocution risk have to occur right when we’re scheduled to explore the extensive waterpark zone at this amusement park?

Hailing from the Midwest of the United States, classically dubbed the fly-over states, we have the luxury of starting our youth education calendar later than our neighbors to the south.  Understandably, students in Arizona, Texas, and here in Florida, begin classes early, so they can finish early, thereby hopefully avoiding the oppressive June and July heat.

As a result, all the locals are already stuck in school, and many others across the country have just finished their allotted vacation.  We’ll have the place to ourselves, I thought with a smirk, when I booked this family trip at the beginning of this year.

How wrong I was.  This global destination apparently never has off days.

I’ve plunked down an absurd amount of money on this vacation, so will not be thwarted by a little inclement weather.  It’s not just the admission tickets, purchased in advance, which cost a full week’s wages on my union carpenter’s salary.  The real kicker on this adventure has been the concessions and merchandise.

The park’s owners are incredibly savvy with their product placement, utilizing sales ploys that are clearly targeting kids.  A wise business move, as my own children, like all the others in this throng, can’t resist the stocked sugary snack stand on each corner, or the extensive stuffed animal wall behind each game.

The offerings presented are decidedly more refined than the traveling carnival which came to our rural town when I was a boy.  No stringy and cloying cotton candy.  No cheap plastic trinkets from China.  No paper tickets, wooden tokens, or plastic cups.

This amusement park is fully stocked with quality goods.  Which explains the exorbitant prices, but doesn’t justify them.

I’m amazed how unphased most in line are to this impending storm.  A few individuals looked up briefly, noting the aerial sound and darkening clouds, before going back to their familial chats, cellphone scrolling, or blank stares at the person in front of them.  It’s like being in a line of possessed robotic zombies.

This is my chance to utilize tornado alley early prepping skills to our advantage.  I’m sure a Florida rainstorm has nothing on a Kansas twister, but don’t want to risk it.

Time to corral the family, which shouldn’t be too hard, as we’ve been literally inseparable since arriving.  By utilizing a length of clothesline, looped around each child’s left wrist, with the front end attached to my wife’s backpack, and the rear noose secured to my beltloop.  There’s no way we’ll lose any of our charges, regardless of how chaotic the crowds get. 

My quartet of children are almost perfectly spaced in age, each 13 months apart.  Christian beliefs, a farming lifestyle, the toils of childbirth, and God’s will, conspired to achieve this consistent distribution.  My spouse is my rock, and our family’s boss, as evidenced by her privileged position as the rope line guide.

Unable to afford any fancy outfits, even for Halloween, our entire crew is clad in identical, cheap, red, t-shirts, with “Disney For ME!” inscribed in cursive letters on the front, using silver glitter paint.  Homemade items by my crafty wife; this garb was provided to my kids last Christmas, as a future promise of this epic summer trip.

My offspring, especially our only daughter, the eldest at 10, has worn these tops at home so many times since then that the text is already starting to crack and peel in spots.  Like my own back, which is nursing quite an aggressive sunburn from yesterday’s poolside pass out.  It appears the sunny portion of this vacation has now concluded.

Another thunderous crash perfectly aligns with the inevitable atmospheric complement.  The skies open up, depositing huge drops of clear liquid.  We need to find shelter, fast.  It seems that everyone else also has the same idea.

Apparently, the flashes of light from the heavens above weren’t sufficient to induce panic, but a little moisture deposition gets everyone scurrying like they’re the Wicked Witch of a West.  Which a few visitors may actually identify as, considering the stripped socks and pointy top hat costumes being worn.

The public warning announcement, which just blared over the sound system, via hundreds of speakers positioned throughout this sprawling complex, wasn’t a great way to calm the masses.  So much for capitalizing on my early warning intuition.  If we weren’t stuck in this cattle corral, I would have been able to maneuver the crew quicker.

Sure, this facility is equipped for some precipitation, as any outdoor venue would be.  Large pop-up umbrellas.  Stretched fabric awnings.  Wooden slat terraces.  Sloped metal roofs.  In reality, considering the southeast U.S. locale, these coverings are more valuable for providing shade from the relentless summer sun, than protecting against brief soaking showers.

Surveying the landscape more broadly, I realize how sketchy the current situation has become.  Lightning is crashing all around us, as if the sky is on fire.  These bolts of electricity always seek the highest point to discharge their energy.  There’s no shortage of tall structures for mismatched polarity to be unleashed.  Multi-story buildings.  Mature palm trees.  Metal and wooden rollercoasters.  All plausible targets.

We need to head indoors for some proper cover.  The closest visible option, through the wall of rain, is a squat erection of cinder block and cement, covered with a roof of orange clay tiles.  That should be a sturdy and safe sanctuary.

Pointing and yelling vigorously to the lady leader, our gaggle eventually starts moving in the desired direction.  It’s a slow process, a 6-year-old at the head of the pack struggling to keep up with his mom on short legs.  Meanwhile, the rest of the kids, along with me, forge ahead intermittently, rope connection compressing then tightening, like the motion of an accordion bellows. 

As we approach the building of interest, carried along in a sea of bodies, the nature of the destination materializes.  Public restrooms.  Which explains the simplicity of the unit’s construction, in this land where glamor and gaudiness are the norm.  And explains the fact that movement through the entrances have halted, on both the assigned men’s and women’s sides. 

Visitors are packing in like sardines to a tin can, inundating a confined space, which smells much worse than pickled fish.  No thanks.

Improvising, I tug the rope, now slippery, and the message to halt and turn is eventually transferred down the chain.  Forgoing the door access, I lead my posse to the back of the building, carefully treading through the horde to avoid getting my family, or anyone else in the crowd, entangled in the connective cord.

Luckily, on the back side of the building, as I anticipated, the eave of the roof extends out 18”, providing some modicum of protection from the downpour.  The wind is even in our favor; the 6 of us, with our backs against the concrete wall, are essentially out of the atmospheric onslaught.

I knew knowledge gleaned from two decades in the construction industry would pay off at some point.  This will have to do, considering all the indoor spaces of this massive amusement park are likely already full.

Aggravated by Mother Nature’s cruelty, I try to look on the bright side. At least the kids have their swimsuits on.  They can’t get much wetter than they already are, after spending the past hour tubing the lazy river.  And a little precipitation will help cut the humidity.

This might be a good time to go check out the aquarium; the marine creatures housed there should be impervious to rain.  Considering all the wavers and forms I signed digitally when purchasing the park passes online, I’m sure there’s no way of getting a refund due to inclement weather.  As such, I’m resolved to get my money’s worth from this cutthroat corporate entity.      

“Under the weather.”

My slumber is disturbed.  Sleep apnea has gotten the better of me, again.  I must have passed out in the recliner.  This seems to be a recurring theme lately.  Not exactly the best throat angle for deep rest.  Especially in my diminished physical condition.

Good timing though.  It’s almost 7 PM.  Time to watch the local news.

I could really care less about what’s happening around this small town, or in the world at large.  However, there are two elements of the evening broadcast that I tune in for religiously.

First, details on sports developments across nation, with specific focus on the SEC collegiate matchups and machinations.  On Channel 9, my preferred station, information is conveyed through guttural remarks from the sturdy son of my linebacker teammate from college.  Second, the Knoxville, TN regional weather forecast, which is quite engaging.  Not specifically due to the movements of the sun and stars, but because this climate content is delivered by the cute Latina meteorologist. 

Rubbing my groggy eyes, I pick up the remote, and flick to the desired channel.  With just a rabbit ears antenna providing reception, there aren’t many options, even when the weather is cooperating.  On this stormy evening, the pixelated image displayed on my 28-inch tube screen is even more spotty than normal.

Even with my diminished hearing, I sense large rain drops pounding on the old tin roof, and even my limited sight allows me to perceive water streaking down the cracked window behind the entertainment center.  I have my chair positioned so that my marginal faculties are optimized to intake content from the television.  Provided the volume is turned up to the max, and room lights are off to provide color contrast.

The precipitation patterns here in Eastern Tennessee are remarkably consistent year-round, averaging between 3 and 5 inches of rain every month of the calendar.  I know, based on my diligent commitment to watching the lovely local weather forecaster.  And occasionally even listening to what she says.

Before the engaging sports and weather content, I’m forced to suffer through lame news content.  Tonight, the lead story is about volunteering at the local food bank, an activity which becomes increasingly publicized around the holiday season.

Thanksgiving is coming up next week.  My lovely wife did all the cooking, God rest her soul.  Those profound skills in the kitchen used to draw in our extended family, at least for a few hours of feasting and fighting.  Now, all my siblings have passed away, and my daughter, son-in law, and grandchildren, rarely come to see me.  Which explains the general state of disrepair in this home.

I’m sure I’ll spend Thanksgiving Thursday, along with the rest of that typically festive weekend, the same way I have the past several years since becoming widowed.  Watching football and eating TV dinners, in this same worn recliner.  This malleable unit is perfectly molded to my form, so I can’t change the furniture now.

Removing my wrinkled feet from my worn orange slippers, I press the calloused pads to the bare wood floor.  There’s a slight but still perceptible rumble, just as hoped.  Good, the sump pump continues to crank away in the basement.

This important piece of equipment has been down there since a pipe froze and broke over the long, cold drudgery of the past winter.  Repairs were quickly made by my handy neighbor, as I’m too old for such physical labor endeavors.  In fact, I’m not sure I can survive another chilly season of solitude.  That dark and dreary time of year is nearly upon us again.

This has been a very wet fall.  We surpassed the magic 5-inch mark in October, and are on pace to exceed this tally again in November.  Who knows, maybe that value will be achieved tonight, according to my Latin lass.  Her evening forecast is clearly proving prescient, as the drumming atop the roof amplifies another level.

It looks like there will be rough weather all weekend long.  Which should make for a great Tennessee Volunteers game, hosting interstate rival Vanderbilt, drumming up all the angst and attrition that comes with these clashing combatants.

I loved playing in the rain.  The sloppier the better, when pass rushing in the trenches.  Any advantage, mental, physical, or even environmental, must be found, and exploited, in football.  The natural elements have a cruel way of crushing confidence, and reinforcing resolve.

I was much stronger back in my teenage years.  Now, half a century later, that youthful spunk has left me.  Which explains why my old shanty is in such a sorry state of disrepair.  Broken windows let cold air and flies in with ease.  The porous roof allows moisture and bugs to sneak through.  Plus, there’s trash on every flat surface of this living room, including the side table next to me.

These microwave dinners must be designed for a much smaller human.  Per usual, I was able to polish off two full trays earlier tonight, Salisbury steak and fried chicken, with all the standard sides, before my impromptu nap.  Taking the last long sip of iced tea, I push the folding table away with a large paw.

I’m too full, lazy, sore, and old to clean up tonight.  Maybe my aching and deteriorating body will feel better in the morning.  It’s been through a lot over the years.  At this point, all I can ask for is to hang one more rotation of the earth.  Hopefully, my leaky roof above, straining pump below, and spotty wiring throughout this ancient house will make the same commitment.

Pulling the wooden lever on the right side of the chair, it takes a few gyrations of my back and hips to get the rickety footrest to flip up.  Redonning my slippers, I stretch out my legs, then pull a dingy blanket, which used to be the same vibrant Volunteer orange hue, over my legs, then lie back, and cover my torso.

Like most things, this repurposed towel covering is too small for my bulky frame.  But this approach requires a lot less effort than stumbling all the way to the bedroom.  Since my wife died, I’ve never felt completely comfortable sleeping in our former sanctuary. 

Just as I’m about to doze off, this time for good, I feel a droplet of water strike my bare ankle.  I don’t need a blanket, I need a tarp.  It’s going to be another long night.  Too bad I don’t drink alcohol anymore.  If there was ever a time to regress, this would be it.  A risky proposition.  As all addicts know, when it rains, it pours.  Right out of the whiskey bottle.