Purple Patch

When I lived in San Francisco, I looked forward each year to the announcement of the winners of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, an event “celebrating” those who could craft the most horrendous example of an opening line of fiction.  Run by the San Jose State English Department, it is named for the Victorian author Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who, in his 1830 novel Paul Clifford, opened with the infamous line: “It was a dark and stormy night. . .”

Say what you will about Bulwer-Lytton’s style of prose; this phrase captures for me exactly the mood of many nights—and days—spent sequestered against a storm.  Growing up in South Florida, the rain and its accompanying drama played a key supporting role in my life.  There is hardly a memory from my childhood that does not involve a storm.  Whether a boat ride, a family trip to the Everglades, a high school beach party, an outdoor concert performance, a birthday, or even my wedding day, each eventually succumbs to the tropical whims of Nature’s force.  More than once, a violent thundering storm insinuated itself into the events of my life with editorial significance—providing a fitting backdrop for a reading of Beethoven’s Tempest Sonata or a dramatic clash with my father.

The rains in South Florida are like nothing else.  With the exception of hurricanes, which are a prolonged threat followed by days of rain, most of the precipitation around Miami is in brief dramatic bursts.  If the storms weren’t so ominous—dark clouds that instantly turn day into night accompanied by frightening bolts of lightning—their behavior would almost be comical.  More often than not, they provide ample warning of their arrival, moving predictably and precipitously across the sky like a dark curtain pulled by an invisible stagehand.  Sometime around 3:15pm each day, the heavens open up, drowning everyone and everything in torrents so intense that the ground—which is already at sea level—has no opportunity to absorb the water.  If you are unfortunate enough to be on a highway when this occurs, your tires may be 6 or 8 inches deep in floods within seconds.

By far the most amazing aspect of these pop-up storms, however, is their aftermath.  As suddenly as the waterfall descends from the clouds, so it stops abruptly.  There is no tapering; the cutoff valve is flipped and the sun returns to the sky.  Then, as if by Disney magic, the deep puddles become enchanted by the rays of the sun, heating at once to temperatures that cause the waters to rise up as steam.  For a moment, a soft mist is everywhere; as it dissipates, the foliage reaches a verdant hue seen only in cartoons and the Land of Oz.  Blink a few more times and everything has returned to what it was 20 or 30 minutes earlier.  There are no residual puddles, no telltale moisture on the sidewalks or the pavement, no beads of water as the final vapors ascend from the hoods of the cars.  As if to apologize for its indiscretion, Nature erases the evidence of its own misadventure, leaving behind only the unbearable humidity and other treasures of paradise.

This morning I awoke in my New England home to a dark and stormy night.  In contrast to the whimsical storms of South Florida, a summer rain in New England robs the daylight and lingers for days, often wreaking havoc with finished basements and subterranean “man caves.”  The dampness affects mortar joints and knee joints alike, as our home is no better suited to the inclement weather than I am.  I remind myself of my childhood consolations on rainy days—of how the rain simplifies the spectrum of choices, making it easier to complete housebound chores and homework.  Perhaps today I will clean the mudroom, or pick up a long-anticipated book from my stack of summer reading.