Tuesday, September 20, 2005. Seventh Period. Last fifty minutes of the day. The weather is fright'ning,
The sun is almost completely obscured by the clouds that have been forming all day. The air is brisk–but not cold–and one can almost taste the water in the air.
Suddenly, a loud clap of thunder sounds. The floodgates of Heaven burst open, and water pours down, falling steadily past the window. Intermittent bursts of thunder punctuate the class discussion–fittingly, we are talking about Chapter 7 of The Great Gatsby. All around, students are bewildered and upset by this aberration; we are in California. It doesn't rain until November, at least.
At first, I, too, complain. But as the bell rings, and we are dismissed, I feel an urge to run outside and twirl in the rain. Of course, the gargantuan backpack weighing me down prevents such frivolity, as well as Micky's presence right beside me. She's probably the most vocal of all the protestors; she doesn't even appreciate the droplets of water spilling from the sky onto the ground surrounding us.
It is the best sort of rain, the light drizzle with hints of something more powerful to come. The crashes of the thunder and the flashes of the lightning only add to the charm. High above, the sunlight creates a brilliant golden lining for a gap in the pale gray clouds, distinctly discordant with the occasional rumbling of the thunder. It is the kind of rain in which you could stand forever and hardly get soaked–the cleansing, purifying rain. It speaks of new beginnings, of life starting anew, of beauty to come. Puddles are slowly forming, tiny pools scattering the school campus, a hazard for all those wandering around after class. I suddenly feel a longing to be three again, in my yellow mackintosh and galoshes, running all around outside and jumping in every puddle I see...
And still Micky protests that there should be no rain, that I did not come to California from New Jersey just for it to rain in September–and especially not this rain. No; to her, the only decent rainstorm is one where the rain is falling in sheets so thick that you can hardly see, and you are standing outside with your significant other, huddling with them for warmth as you both get thoroughly soaked. I make a reference to Little Women–which, sadly, she does not catch–about being Under the Umbrella, and yet she disagrees with that, too.
Jokingly, I start to sing.
The thunder and lightning
Seem to be having their way.
But as far as I'm concerned, it's a lovely day.
The turn in the weather
Will keep us together,
So I can honestly say
That as far as I'm concerned, it's a lovely day...
And everything's okay.
Isn't this a lovely day
To be caught in the rain?
You were going on your way;
Now you've got to remain.
Just as you were going,
Leaving me all at sea,
The clouds broke, they broke and oh,
What a break for me.
I can see the sun up high
Though we're caught in the storm.
I can see where you and I
Can be cosy and warm.
Let the rain pitter-patter,
But it really doesn't matter
If the skies are gray;
Long as I can be with you, it's a lovely day.
Micky then smacks me–I'm still unsure why–but I don't stop. In fact, I don't even stop as I walk home, come upstairs, and turn on that very song.
So here I am, sitting at my computer, the rain beating a light tattoo on the roof, the thunder sounding occasionally, and Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong singing about being caught in the rain together.
Oh, yes, it's a lovely day.