Now & Then: It’s raining, where’s my umbrella?

OK, we need the rain. I get it.

No rain means no water. Farm crops die, lake levels drop and cities issue water restrictions.

I remember a few years ago during a drought when High Rock Lake became Dry Rock Lake and boats were resting on the ground.

Admit it. Back during the winter when the Piedmont was covered in up to two feet of snow, nobody was thinking about droughts.

But since then we’ve enjoyed day after day of sunshine. When weather guys and gals warned about the lack of rain, we just thought, “This is North Carolina. Rain always comes.”

After all, places like Phoenix and Las Vegas don’t get much rain and they’re growing like weeds.

Then we started seeing on TV the maps showing that we’re in severe drought conditions. Everybody started checking the long-range forecasts to see if there were clouds in our future.

Finally, last Friday the rains came. I was in the midst of it all day.

You see, Ginny and I went to a college reunion in the Piedmont Triangle. I drove for 75 minutes in heavy traffic, made worse by the spray from big trucks and buses, making visibility near zero.

We were happy to be getting a drenching rain but concerned that it could affect my ability to see my way through. 

But we made it to the large hotel where the event was being held. It proved to be a popular occasion since we had to go near the end of the enormous parking lot before finding a space.

Not to worry. I had my umbrella.

We walked what seemed to be a mile before reaching the ballroom doors. Inside the entryway, I saw where others had leaned their umbrellas against the wall.

I set mine down with no small amount of concern. It reminded me of a day some 60 years ago.

I was a student at that university which was now holding the reunion celebration. I remember vividly that long-ago day when it was raining and I had to take an exam in one of my classes.

You have to understand that college students tend to think that it rains more on campus than anywhere else. The reason for that persuasion is that we’re pedestrians relegated to walking great distances to get from our dorm rooms to our class buildings.

So, when it rained, we were the victims. In fact, during periods of precipitation, the student stores made a killing with umbrella sales. 

That particular day when I was walking to my exam in the rain, I held my books in one hand and my umbrella in the other. It was really nice, basic black in color and practically new.

My umbrella kept me dry on my walk to class. I entered the building and walked to the classroom. Lined up in the hallway outside were other umbrellas. I carefully placed mine among them.

During the next hour, I answered the test questions. It must have been a struggle for me since most all the other students turned in their papers and left.

Finally, I finished, checked over my answers and placed the exam on the front desk. Now I could find more fun things to do.

Looking out the windows, I saw it was still raining. I went out into the hallway and looked for my beautiful umbrella.

A quick scan told me there was only one left. And it wasn’t the one I had left leaning against the wall.

I reached down and picked up the leftover, because to call it an umbrella would be a stretch.

As I stepped out into the weather, I opened up what once was a useful umbrella. There were ribs hanging down leaving one side of the canopy flopping.

The good news? One of my classmates had a really nice umbrella.

That’s why, when I arrived at the university reunion, I wasn’t sure if I should leave my umbrella, decorated in the school colors, out there with the others. 

After all, the student who took my umbrella 60 years ago could be there at the reunion, waiting to grab a nice rain protector.

Fortunately, when Ginny and I were leaving, we found the last remaining umbrella and it was mine. It kept us dry on the long walk back to the car.

It turned out to be a nice reunion, even with the rain.

■ Larry Penkava is a writer for Randolph Hub. 

Contact: 336-302-2189, larrypenkava@gmail.com.