Along the Way

long the Way Who's Afraid of a Little Monsoon Rain?

The day of that first monsoon dawned hot and clear, and the bright blue sky gave no hint of a storm. By noon the clouds arrived, billowing into huge black thunderheads over the Santa Catalina Mountains.

When the gentle afternoon breeze suddenly whipped into a frenzy, it was clear a storm was on its way. As I pulled the toys under cover in the yard, the sky started to rumble, and the first raindrops splatted silver-dollarsize marks on the sidewalk.

My husband fell in love with Arizona while in the Air Force. After we married and had a family, he was thrilled when we moved to Tucson. He entertained me with stories about the state. Along with descriptions of javelinas, saguaros, and coyotes, he included tales about the summer monsoon storms and their sudden violence.

Having lived in southern California where summer is dry and winter storms rarely severe, I imagined the monsoons he described as sensational. We had tried to prepare our two young sons by talking about lightning and thunder. In the meantime, we unpacked boxes and waited for summer and our first monsoon.

A deafening crack of thunder announced the official arrival of that monsoon and reminded me that my husband, out of town on business, had left me manning the fort.

With my ears still ringing, I did a quick assessment. Shane, our youngest, was screaming in the crib in which he'd been sleeping minutes earlier. Fouryear-old Ian flinched with each new crack of thunder. "Are we okay, Mommy?" he asked. I wondered. And our German shepherd, who had always been a little lax on the command to "heel," was now in perfect heel position. He stuck so close I tripped over him twice as I scurried around the house closing windows.

The lightning illuminated little streams starting to flow around our house. The signs we'd seen around town at each dry wash that read Do Not Enter When Flooded now made perfect sense.

I sat in our biggest chair with a boy wrapped in each arm and the dog's head wedged under one knee. Each of us was hoping, I think, that our physical closeness would lend some comfort.

My husband's descriptions had not begun to prepare me for the most intense storm I had ever witnessed. We listened to the bathroom skylights taking a beating that sounded like a sack of popcorn exploding in a hot pan.

As we cuddled together, the thunder and lightning battled it out in the rafters, while the house braced itself for the next onslaught. Amazingly, Shane fell asleep again, and after telling Ian to wait for me in the kitchen, I hurried to put the baby down. There was no way to silence the thunder, but maybe his curtain-darkened room would help keep him slumbering. Minutes later, I became concerned when there was no answer to my call as I entered the kitchen. A gentle snore reached my ears between cracks of thunder. There, curled under the table with his head down on his knees and his arms clapsed over the back of his neck was Ian, fast asleep.

After tucking him in bed, I checked out the storm from our covered porch. The fiercest action had moved east over the Rincons. Still the sky rumbled ominously like a strange dog growling deep in its throat. The lightning now was obscured by clouds, and each flash highlighted them with an eerie greenish glow. The most outstanding remnant of the storm was the fragrance of the wet desert. The The pungent spiciness of creosote bush was like no other I had ever smelled. They say that smells are one of the most vivid memories we carry with us, and I am sure that, like the aroma of my grandmother's kitchen, the fragrance of my first monsoon will stay with me all my life. We've come a long way since that first storm. I was reminded of this when a monsoon hit the other evening, and the boys counted the seconds between the lightning flashes and cracks of thunder. "Nineteen, 20, 21!" my older son yelled. "Can we go out now, Mom?" With my nod, both boys dashed to don their rain gear. Undaunted by the far off crashing and flashing, they cavorted in the driveway and splashed in the quickly forming puddles. Smiling at their enthusiasm, I turned from the door and tripped over the dog, firmly attached to my left heel since the first clap of thunder. Oh well, two out of three isn't bad!