THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, August 5, 1994 TAG: 9408040232
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 84 lines
Those who report the weather, the gurus of things Doppler and cumulus, take great pride in the smashing of records.
``Looks like we'll be breaking the all-time rainfall record for the month of July,'' they pronounced one after another last week.
``Summer of '75,'' I'd yell at the TV set, quicker than Dr. Duane can get the words ``afternoon showers'' out of his mouth.
``What are you doing, practicing for `Jeopardy?' '' Bill asked.
``No, just remembering the summer you left me alone with a new house, an old washer, three teenage males, a geriatric dog and a kid with a learner's permit,'' I told him.
It was a summer that would test the mettle of even the most dedicated Navy wife.
We had moved into this house in February of that year. After three years of shore duty in Washington, D.C., and three weeks of busying himself around the house installing locks, trapping field mice and planting trees, Bill flew off to join a ship that was a couple of weeks into a very long Med cruise.
Was it my imagination, or was he whistling to himself as he walked down the ramp to the plane?
``Don't forget about Bill's learner's permit?'' he yelled back over his shoulder as he blew me a little kiss.
Forget about our oldest kid's learner's permit? Not likely, not in this lifetime.
Bill Jr. had been giving us a day-by-day countdown to LP time from the moment he got his first kiddie car.
Finally the big day arrived. ``I'll drive home,'' he announced as the clerk handed him the sacred piece of paper.
``I don't think so,'' I told him as I steered him toward the passenger side of the station wagon.
``Geez, what a grouch,'' he complained. ``How am I ever going to learn to drive if you don't let me do it?''
``I'll let you do it. Only not on the toll road at 4 o'clock on a foggy afternoon,'' I told the kid whose previous driving experience had been limited to a spin on a cousin's ATV in the back pasture of my aunt's place on the coast of Maine.
I did not see the need to remind him of what happened that time. He still had the scar on his knee and the permanent knot on his head.
A few minutes later I took him to a section of Fairfield where the roads were in place but the houses had not yet been built. ``Now you can drive,'' I told him.
As we got out of the car to change places the fog was replaced by a downpour. It was a portent of things to come.
From there on in, every time Bill got behind the wheel, the rain started. May was rainy. June was rainier. And July was, officially, the rainiest ever.
Amazingly the sun was out as Bill drove his brothers and me to the Soap Box Derby race at Mount Trashmore one Saturday afternoon.
Grass was near knee-high on the newly opened slope. The ground was a mass of wet sludge of questionable lineage.
``Fancy meeting you here,'' I said looking straight at the ground. ``Who are you talking to?'' the kids asked.
``An egg shell that I threw in the garbage when we lived here back in 1968,'' I told them. ``How do you know it's the same one?'' Bill asked. ``I initialed it,'' I told him.
Being left with three sons, a dog and constant deluges while your husband cruises the sunny Mediterranean does things like that to you.
As usual when Bill got behind the wheel for the trip home, the rain began. The egg shell in question had risen to the surface, attached itself to a pile of ooze and followed us down the slope.
The rains continued until the ship came back in August, always adjusting their schedules to coincide with the time Bill and I went out for driving practice.
By then the roots of our newly planted trees had rotted and the field mice, claiming flood refugee status, had moved into the house for an extended stay.
The ship came into Little Creek in full sunshine which was, of course, destined to turn to rain. Bill Jr. was at the wheel, proud to show off his new skills for his father on the way home. As we passed the gate guard the sky blackened, the lightning flashed and the big drops began falling.
``You do well in the rain,'' Bill told our young son.
``No sweat, Dad,'' he replied. ``I've had lots of practice.'' by CNB