showers of blessing

Several bloggers and commenters have mentioned that this has been a very wet December in the Mexican highlands.  When it should be cool and dry, it is cool and wet.  Some would even say cold and wet.

Because my mother raised me to show at least the semblance of kindness, I have avoided pointing out that if my fellow expatriates wanted warmth without rain, they should head down to our little village by the sea.  Most of December has felt like September.  By that, I mean it has been very hot and very humid.  But without rain.

I am glad I avoided the temptress Hubris.  Because we are once again knee deep in water here in Melaque.  The rain started on Thursday night, and it has been raining off and on each day.

You will never hear me complaining about rain here.  It cuts through the heat like relief troops at Bastogne.  Rain always brightens the locals.

But the town is filled with more than locals.  Mexicans from all over western Mexico have descended on Melaque in SUVs and buses.  All hoping to spend some Christmas time in the sun.

Instead, they are huddling in hotel foyers and restaurants, under awnings, and on the beach camping in tents that were designed for air flow, not repelling rain.  With disappointment writ large on their faces.

The rain is not that surprising.  We have had rain during the Christmas school break for the past three years.  The only surprising thing is that some of us can still be amazed at what appears to be a developing weather tradition.

But, as they do for most everything in life, Mexicans improvise.  In this case, out come the board games or the chairs to form conversation circles or the ubiquitous smartphones and their attendant games.  I suspect the tales told to neighbors when they return home will center around good times had rather than sun moments missed.

And me?  I am just being patient.  The maid hung out the towels and sheets to dry on Thursday at noon.  Each day they accumulate more water.

But the sun always comes out.  If not tomorrow.  The the day after that.  Or the day after that one.  And then I can fold the laundry and stow it away.

I do know one thing.  When the rain finally stops, my neighbors and I will be happy for the relief.  But we will then anxiously await its return in mid-June or so when our green jungle takes on the look of fire-burnt hills.

Maybe that is what keeps all of us looking forward with hope.