I have a confession to make: I have not been a fan of the monsoon season.
Don't get me wrong; I appreciate the need for the precipitation the season brings. I also understand where all of you who wax poetic about the summer rains are coming from. I get it; I just don't feel it.
My first couple of years in Tucson, I enjoyed the monsoons well enough. The thunderstorms' theatrics were enjoyable, and the intense rains didn't bother me (although some of the reckless idiots I encountered on the roadways during my evening commutes home did).
Then I bought a house--a house with a leaky roof, failing gutters and a backyard that's an inch or two higher in elevation than the house itself.
After the back rooms of the house flooded a time or three during our first monsoon season in the house, we fixed the backyard (at least in terms of the flooding) and the gutters. We also had a new roof put on before last year's monsoon season. Too bad the roofers were incompetent: The new roof leaked worse than the old one did. After having the roofing company come out 8-10 times to make fixes that didn't take, and after seeing rainwater pour into my kitchen too many times, I'd had enough. I didn't think I'd ever enjoy a rainstorm again: intense rains equaled stress and work.
But after a credit-card charge protest and a Better Business Bureau complaint, the roofing company redid the roof, and (mostly) did it right. This monsoon season, the house has not been much of an issue.
All this was on my mind as I was standing in right field during the Weekly's softball game on Monday. I was captivated as a storm rumbled in from the northeast, off the Catalinas. The distant rumble led to a light rain that eventually, and rather suddenly, turned into a torrential downpour that had us sprinting off the field and into the dugout. The umpires soon called the game.
When I got to my car, utterly drenched, I was not upset or cranky about the sudden storm. I was actually smiling.
Maybe I'll get to like the monsoon again after all.