Over the weekend, last night, and this morning we've gotten quite a good dose of rain here in Baltimore. Most of it has been in short intense thudershowers, but overnight seems to have been a pretty steady soaking rain. The reason I bring this up and that it seems such a novelty to me is that for once it seems that all of this rain has remained on the outside of my house.
I woke up this morning to the light pattering sound of rain tapping against the bedroom window. I very nearly did not get out of bed. I summoned the courage from deep within and forced myself to get out of bed. It took, what I would like to believe is, a heroic level of courage to then venture down into the basement.
I closed my eyes as I got to the top of my basement stairs and took a deep cleansing breath in anticipation of what may lie before me at the foot of the stairs. I opened my eyes and slowly, but with great apprehension, descended the stairs and turned on the light at the foot of the stairs.
Lo, and behold the floor was dry.
I know that for most people, waking up on a rainy day and finding the interior of your home to be dry really isn't that much of a life affirming or miraculous thing. But given my recent track record with internal moisture problems of various origins, my expectations have been set very low. Very very low. So this morning's dread and loathing of what may have been down there turned into near elation at the fact that things were ok.
It is somewhat akin to what it must be like in an abusive relationship or to be a mis-treated animal. The days that you are kicked are so frequent and common that the simple act of just not being kicked makes it a better day. That's sort of where I am with my house.