By David Stabler, The Oregonian
June 2, 2010
Down came the rain. Drip went the leak. Over came the roofer.
Again.
Portland’s Yellow Pages contain no entries for “rain,” but eight pages of roofers. One of them stood in my bedroom Wednesday morning.
Together, we regarded the leak, which started after one of those monsoonal downpours last week. We craned our necks at the ceiling. We peered into the bucket by my wife’s side of the bed. We looked up, we looked down. The cats slept on the bed.
“Wow,” I said. “A new roof?”
We can run, but we can’t stay dry.
Rain, rain, go away. On Day 18 of relentless rain, Sophia Capetz, 5, and her dad, Marty, of Woodburn, wait on the Steel Bridge for a fleet of ships to arrive for the Rose Festival. After three months of wet, including the third wettest May — wetter than Astoria! — and a record-breaking start to June, I’m beyond mad. Beyond incredulous. Beyond shaking my wet head.
A leaking roof is perfect for what’s happening, right? The slow, relentless disintegration of hope, optimism, faith in what’s right and fair. That sinking feeling things will get worse before they get better. I don’t care that rain made this place — the blessed forests, the fertile fields, the brilliant blooms. I don’t find it comforting. I hate it from the bottom of my cold, wet heart.
My leak isn’t new. We’ve patched it about five times, and each time, it held — for a while. Once, convinced of success, we had our son cut out the discolored ceiling, repatch it, paint it and texture it.
The leak returned a month later. I’m being stalked by a leak.
Now, I’m looking at the cost equivalent of a new car, or six really nice bikes. Bikes I can’t see, can’t ride, can’t show off.
But you know who else is in a good mood, along with all those roofers? Tyree Wilde. Wilde is crazy about storms, as you will understand from his title, Warning Coordination Meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Portland. They’re all giddy over there.
“We like active weather patterns,” he says from “Waterworld,” on a break from warning citizens of rising damp. “It’s exciting for us. You can understand that.”
Not for one moist minute, Mr. Happy Pants. In three weeks, the days start getting shorter again.
Wilde can’t explain why the rain. He can describe what’s going on — “a very strong jet stream stretching across the entire Pacific Ocean,” “aimed directly at Oregon and Washington,” “moisture heavy” — but he can’t say why us, why now, why, why, why? He did say our rain is unconnected to El Niño or global warming or Icelandic volcanoes or a butterfly fluttering its wings in China.
“It happens periodically across the globe,” he says, helplessly. “It’s an energetic jet stream similar in strength to winter.”
In June.
Before I can stop him, he’s reeling off stats: All-time streak is 34 days, in January 1950. Yesterday was merely Day 18.
Someone else who is enjoying this is the “Rain Lady.” This person — we don’t actually know if it’s a he or she — writes anonymous letters to The Oregonian every time a story appears bemoaning the rain. She likes rain because it makes Oregon green and gives us mountains of snow and streams of fresh water, which we don’t get from the “stupid hot sun.” She also likes rain because it makes things dark — no fan of light, he/she.
We haven’t heard from the Rain Lady for a while, which is worrisome. Maybe she’s been too busy singin’ in it.
The rest of us are like the monkeys they found in Costa Rica a few years ago. It rained so much, they just sat in the trees, waiting and waiting and waiting. They starved.
We best get moving:
1. Learn to row.
2. Make your own watershed.
3. Rent, don’t buy.
4. Friend Tyree Wilde.
5. Ride your bike. I went riding after work Tuesday. In the rain. Didn’t feel it.
Right now, I’m staring at the dark, lowering skies that Japan is sending our way. I see glistening trees, dripping branches, pools everywhere.
I’m a monkey.
