Charlie Pattinian
Some friends claim they love the monsoon season. Really? To me, it feels like Mother Nature’s idea of a sleep deprivation boot camp. The thunder claps seem to be timed to mock my REM stage. The lightning flashing in the bedroom makes me think there is a burglar casing the place with a flashlight. The rain gushing through the gargoyles feels like subliminal waterboarding. (Pretty sure that wasn’t in the real estate brochure.) By morning, my eyes look like roadmaps that had been designed by a confused city planner.
Several years ago, a monsoon hit while I was driving. My windshield wipers were trying to do the job they were designed to do in Germany but couldn’t do here. The howling wind and the splatting rain on my roof drowned out the Creedence Clearwater Revival song “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” I had playing in my mind. Stranded with no phone signal, no radio, and a smidgeon of gas, I discovered my only in-car entertainment was editing an old guest list to my funeral. For variety, I stared at a “Do Not Enter When Flooded” sign twisting in the wind, the very sign that I saw every day when I didn’t need it. My ironic stupidity needs to be reassessed.
During another monsoon, we didn’t own enough pots and pans to catch the leaks in our kitchen. At the end of the storm, the kitchen looked like a cookware convention. The torrential rain made our expensive plants flow into the same graveyard heap with the weeds.
Over time, I’ve learned to take the monsoon madness with the perks. Sure, the internet drops, the phone cuts out, and the roof leaks. But, hey, the lightning helps me find the bathroom at 3 a.m. I now get a sense of what celebrities endure when the flashes light up like paparazzi cameras. Who needs night lights when you’ve got free strobe lighting? Some nights, the thunder claps sound like there is a bowling tournament above our house. The reflections light up my face, and the rumble of the clashing clouds rocks my soul. The jolt is like a body stone; I feel and see the ecstasy of the weather around me, but I can’t control my reaction to it.
And yet, the rewards are undeniable. Farmers dance. Car washers dance with the farmers. The mountains ditch their dreary brown coats for bright green capes covered in wildflowers—like they’re headed to a ‘60s love-in. Waterfalls appear out of nowhere, roaring down into old arroyos. The construction dust takes a vacation, and the air smells so fresh you want to bottle it. Even the irrigation system sighs in relief. One soggy evening I realized: I’m not here to change Arizona. I’m here to embrace it. Would I rather be back in New York listening to clients bark about -20-degree winters? Not a chance. Arizona is our adopted home—monsoons, lightning, thunder, leaky roofs, cancellations, car washes, cookware conventions in the kitchen …
Bring it on!