Let it Rain
Aaron Hendel ’14 Breaking News Managing Editor
I love the rain.
I know I’m in the minority, but to me there’s no better weather. It’s getting to be that rainy time of year, where April showers bring, well, you know.
When we had the first real rain of the spring this past weekend, rather than snow, I was ecstatic. Finally, some enjoyable precipitation.
Rain is the perfect temperature; it’s not too cold, nor too warm. And no two rains are alike. Drizzles can become beautiful thunderstorms in a matter of minutes. Some drops can fall with sun shining down while others can bring thousands of dark clouds. The variety is definitely admirable.
It probably goes without saying that I am not one of those people who can’t stand walking in the rain. I laugh condescendingly at those who race through the rain with their arms covering their heads, screaming in agony. I love a nice stroll with the water patting my head. If it’s pouring, even better. Nothing better than having rain stream down my cheeks, my neck, off my shoulders and down to the rest of my body.
As a former baseball player, I vehemently disagreed with those who said 70 and sunny was a perfect day for baseball. My ideal conditions consist of rain just light enough to keep the game going, as opposed to having a delay.
So in a month’s time when countless Westporters are cordially observing those roses and tulips and daffodils, they should remember what vital weather occurrence got those flowers budding: the rain.
Rain, rain go away
Ryder Chasin ’14
Web Managing Editor
I stand — dry, safe — under the awning of my front porch. My car sits in the driveway not 40 feet from me, yet we are separated by more than mere distance.
See, normally in the 40-foot no-man’s-land between the door to the house and the door to the car, there’s silent ceasefire: the sun shines, the birds Poo-tee-weet?, and all is quiet on the Westport front.
However, every now and then (most frequently in April), the skies turn dark, and the driveway battleground is pelted with an air raid of streaming, wet bullets. My only armor is the coat on my back and the hood on my head as I count backwards — 3, 2, 1 — and make the desperate run to my car door and the shelter inside.
My feet fumble through the shallow, new-formed puddles; my backpack is barraged by falling water. I finally make it to the car, slipping open the door just enough to let myself in but still keep out the incessant drops of my sky-borne enemy. The door slams shut, and the war outside muffles. I take a long exhale, remove my hood, and turn the key in the ignition. The radio comes on.
“Folks, you’re going to want to stay inside today: a storm’s a’brewin’ and it ain’t pretty.”
I hate the rain.
