Innorthcounty

I grew up in the Bay Area, California where rain was plentiful; big, dewy round drops that fell from the sky and sent shivers down my damped spine. The northern folk lived in a sort of peace with the rain. They understood its necessity and adorned themselves in boots and coats and tramped around on slick sidewalks. Ever since my move to Southern California I have noticed a sort of love-hate relationship with rain. San Diegans know that they need the water, but they also treat every minor sprinkle or downfall as if it’s the next hurricane. People hole themselves up inside, pondering the notion of calling in sick. What is this wet substance that wrinkles suits and patters down on the highways causing cars’ wheels to become slightly unsteady? Many people stare out the windows longing for the sunny beach weather that occurs about 359 days out of the year.

What’s perhaps most worrying is my own metamorphosis into a creature of the sun. If it’s below 60 degrees I hesitate going outside, if the clouds threaten to open up and unleash a downpour of raindrops I wonder about crawling back into bed and snuggling with my favorite book. Since when did the rain generate inactivity? The peaceful sound of droplets on the roof and the fresh smell that wafts through the air after a good rain is a much better alternative to the heavy smog that flies in from L.A. and settles over our homes. Although we sit around humming and hoeing about those three days of insufferable rain it’s no doubt that we’ll beg for it come the sizzling days of summer as our skin scorches and burns under the glare of an unforgiving sun. So San Diegans grab your coats and hats and venture out into the wetness ala Fred Astaire. It’s time to go singing in the rain. Just don’t slip.