Rain (By Wendi Rank)

Milli Vanilli, in their pervading wisdom, once said they can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t stand the rain.

Yeah, yeah.

I’m not one to argue with masters like Milli Vanilli, but I love the rain.

Except, you know, when I’m in it.

And boy. Have I been in it of late.

Take last summer, for example. I was due to pick up my daughter from camp in North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

Realizing I had nothing on the calendar, I headed down two days early.

I had an agenda. Beach and more beach. A few nights in my pajamas with Black Mirror.

I must have been excited. Upon opening my suitcase, I discovered a bathing suit, a beach towel, a lonely pair of sweatpants, and one shirt.

Nothing else.

Had I planned on wearing my bathing suit as undergarments? Using my singular shirt as both three days’ worth of wardrobe and two nights’ pajamas? The beach towel as a cover-up?

I don’t know – we’ll maybe dissect my inferior packing skills another day.

After eight hours of driving, I was nearing my North Carolina hotel amid a darkening night sky. In the distance, purple streaks of lighting crackled against black clouds.

Pretty, I thought.

The lightning’s aggression grew, exploding in ever brighter and bigger bursts.

I figured folks somewhere were having a heck of a storm. I appreciated the dry road before me, for the sake of those drenched souls.

That was when a fat drop of rain splattered on my windshield.

It was rapidly joined by a deluge of other drops, like a flash mob. Water cascaded over my car. Puddles grew on the highway.

The storm became too much for my windshield wipers. A puff of frustrated air escaped my pursed lips, ruffling my bangs.

The rain was heavy enough to obscure the highway. An exit was coming up. If I didn’t take it, I’d have to pull over and wait out the storm.

But this was North Carolina. That exit could take me to a warm, dry Target or an alligator-infested river flooding its banks.

I split the difference, pulling onto the shoulder just before the exit ramp.

And discovered potential alligators are not as frightening as actual tractor trailers zooming through a vertical flood of a rainstorm mere inches from your vehicle.

My car rattled with each truck. I thought of The Hitcher. I thought of Duel. I thought of Maximum Overdrive.

The rain diminished. I eased back onto the highway.

The deluge began in earnest again.

I made it to my exit. A gas station beckoned. I took the opportunity to fill my tank, gazing at the roof over the pumps. A solid wall of water poured over its edges.

Suddenly, the alligators and trucks seemed much less scary than a roof collapsing on me.

The recent nor’easter circling the area for days early in April – only meandering off once the earthquake hit – recalled my drive through that North Carolina storm.

This time, I was driving with my son.

In New Jersey.

So no alligators.

But I once read a true story about a shark in New Jersey’s riverways.

“We,” I said to my son, “are not pulling over.” I was fearful. Fearful of Jersey river sharks.

We limped along for miles. The nor’easter’s puddles were so deep they had currents.

Puddles like that – they could hold a Jersey river shark, right?

I know. I know. It’s a ridiculous thing to think.

Let’s just blame it on the rain, OK?