Honestly, I have never really seen the point in umbrellas. Perhaps if you are a done-up debutante or a clown in full make-up they make good sense, but otherwise why use one? I actually have a super stylish umbrella that I almost never use, but can't donate to a thrift store because it is too cool. When it is raining, even pouring, I love to walk and feel totally and completely soaked. I like to be drenched through and through by a good afternoon thundershower.
When we lived in New Mexico the afternoon rain storms would often create flooding as the ground was too dry to soak up the water in a timely manner. Obviously all New Mexicans knew to stay out of the arroyos. They were bone dry for 98.4% of the year and then one good storm, perhaps not even over you, but up in the mountains, could create a wall of brown water that could wash away cars. Where I lived though it was fun to walk in the street during the storm (obviously a lightning free storm) and let the water wash over me. Yeah, it was grody gutter water, but it didn't seem to matter. I always felt kind of wild and free, like filth didn't really count in a storm.
Yesterday we got a late afternoon shower. Eric and I happened to be out with the girls when it hit. Eric, ever prepared, magically pulled an umbrella from somewhere in the car. He and Cordelia took cover beneath it and enjoyed the novelty. I took Elise and we ran and splashed and got nice and wet just walking from car to door. Elise laughed as the rain poured down, saying, "Wet momma! Water (which she pronounces wah-yay)." Either way, the kids and parents were thoroughly satisfied.
When we returned home the storm finished off somewhere between dinner and bedtime for the girls. I love after the storm almost as much as the storm. If you watch you can see the birds pop out from their cover and begin chirping and hunting for (poor little baby) worms. The flowers and leaves and grass are just brilliant after a storm. I love this time of year. Can it be spring forever? I promise I won't take it for granted.
