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Like Leading a Fish to Sand

Pretty exciting!  It is getting to the time of the year when it might rain, again.

 It rained last year.  In fact, on the day when we drove into town, on our move back from Minneapolis, it rained so hard that we could not get up the hillside to our house.  El Camino del Cerro--The Highway of the Hill--had so much water crossing it that we had to wait for the dry season to begin, an hour later.  I waited at the gas station.

 In the meantime, we have not really had any rain worth noting, but we have had snow.  I took Jao outside, where a snowflake fell on him, and explained that there were places where the snowflake was several feet deep.  Ever since, whenever I say "rain", he has shrugged and given the look that says, "Oh, Jesus!  Another 'riding to school on a pony in a snowstorm' story".  


 But I am serene in the confidence that the monsoon season nears, again.  It says so right on the front page of the newspaper.  It also says that the temperature is about 105 degrees.  

 You must remember that I was born in Tacoma, Washington.  I understand Jao's incredulity.  I recall hearing stories from Watkins' salesmen who told of places where the sun shined so intensely that people's skin turned brown.  You can imagine what that meant to a kid who had fish scales on his arms, and water up his nose:  it meant that Watkins' salesmen were bald-faced liars.  It was not until I, myself, became a Fuller Brush Man that I began to appreciate how to tell the truth carefully.  

 Nearly sixty years ago, I moved from Washington State to California, and since then, finally, to Arizona (for about the fourth time).  I am not so much drawn to the desert as I am riding a crest down from a deluge.  There is something comforting about living in a place where tangible humidity is called a monsoon.  

The Santa Cruz River cruises north, scarcely a mile from our house.  All the water in the Santa Cruz comes from the the discharge pipe at the treatment plant, about two miles from our house.    

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