The Unfettered Critic – July 2023

(In which your Unfettered Critics attempt to convince Our Readers that meteorology can be a form of entertainment.)

“Sure hope it doesn’t rain on Ringo,” we recently took to saying. Our concerns weren’t so much for our favorite drummer as for ourselves. Sir Ringo would stay dry on the covered Britt stage, no matter the moisture. And we’d be in the audience, excited and entertained, no matter how damp. But admittedly, our pleasure would be tempered with a touch of humidity if it rained on Ringo.

Our concerns certainly were justified. Southern Oregon’s most recent run of meteorological eccentricity had delivered day after day of huge fluffy clouds towering on the horizon in all directions, ultimate explosions of lightning and thunder, and—depending on the region you lived—the dousing of residents under “buckets” of water.

Yes, we know that rain is good, and that everyone’s freshly planted tomatoes need the moisture. But dang it, we didn’t want it to rain on Ringo!

In order to stave off our increasing anxiety, we recalled one of our most cherished, rain-soaked, memories: a trip to the National Mall in Washington, D.C. We’d just left historically touching visits to Olde Abe and the Viet Nam Veterans Memorial when we started hearing distant cracks of thunder.

The word “distant” is relevant; we continued our unconcerned saunter up the center of the parklike green expanse, and got about as far the Washington Monument. You may be familiar with this piece of architecture: a gigantic obelisk, or, if you prefer, a tall, skinny pyramid. And like all pyramids, it tapers tighter and tighter as it reaches into the sky.

It was at that point where and when our afternoon changed dramatically, when those “distant” signs of weather transformed into an “Oh No” situation. In short, the heavens opened. Not with flights of angels, but with a deluge surely comparable to the one that drove Noah to drink.

Desperately looking about for cover, for any port in the storm, we gazed upon the only structure within reach, and saw…the aforementioned pyramid. A rising decline of disappointment. With no overhangs. Or ledges. Or horizontal surfaces. The Washington Monument offered no refuge for your tired, your drenched, your huddled couple yearning to be dry.

Watching the water drip off one another’s noses, we started laughing. And laughing. What else was there to do?

And so, giggling still, we clasped hands and walked slowly to the nearest taxi stand (which looked to be at least an open mile of drowning distance away).

You must understand, dear friends, this is a treasured memory. (And for added value, we had learned an important geometric axiom: When looking for sanctuary, don’t rely on a pyramid scheme.)

Back here in Southern Oregon, we’ve recently experienced an all-too-similar drenching, brought on by one of those meteorological eccentricities. We’d seen the huge cumulonimbus clouds, knew that they could at any moment shift to nimbostratus sea monsters. But we trusted in our luck, and, besides, the dogs were reminding us that their inner clocks knew it was walking time. We’d be back in a few minutes. What’s the worst that could…

Then it happened. We don’t have to explain. A deluge beyond any expected by even the most diligent of sky watchers. We could have gotten angry. We could have gotten sad. Instead, we just got wet, as did the dogs. And as we took in our sappy, soggy state, we just laughed.

In the end, at the Britt, it didn’t rain on Ringo. Or on us.

But boy, did it rock.