An "and one" rain...

An "and one" rain...

Lest you think I actually understand anything about the sport of basketball, let me make it clear. Anything I know comes from watching each of my five children play the sport at some level; I never played myself. (And, yes, I am tall. That does not give one the ability or the desire to play that sport. I preferred softball.)

However, I know enough about basketball to recognize an "and one" when I see it. Just last week, my son went up for a shot, got it, and drew a foul, which meant he went to the free throw line for an extra shot. His two-point shot "and one" at the line earned a total of three points for one play. (Yes, I am a proud mama.)

Last night, when I was awakened by heavy rain, I got out of bed and penciled my thoughts during the deluge. My first line reads, " 'And one' rain..."

After 12 hours of rainfall and cloud cover, sunlight allowed a view of our yard to reflect on the mirrored surface of this tray filled with rain water.

After 12 hours of rainfall and cloud cover, sunlight allowed a view of our yard to reflect on the mirrored surface of this tray filled with rain water.

At the time, despite my delirium at being awakened at midnight, "and one" rain made perfect sense to me. In the evening prior to sundown, when the skies looked far from bearing the rain the forecasters had said was 100 percent likely, I murmured a prayer:

"God, it doesn't look like rain, but I sure would like the forecasters' prediction to prove true."

Tada!

As if in answer, God sent a heavy storm and woke me up to make sure I noticed. It was rain and then some. "And one" rain.

It made for fitful sleep. Rain. Heavy rain. Lightning. Sporadically vocal thunder. But it was the rain that awakened me. The gutter outside sloshed water from 12 feet above onto a concrete slab without the muting effect of a rainspout.

I was awake enough to know that those sheets of rain would make it impossible to stay dry while walking across the parking lot to and from the health club. I must have voiced this, because my husband replied, "It won't be raining like this in the morning."

It felt like morning. What time was it? Ah. Just midnight. I got up for a bowl of cereal; the buzzing of the fluorescent light in the kitchen and the rainspouts down this end of the house subdued the sound of the rain.

At the side door window, I listened and watched the sudden slowing of the rain. It seemed ominous, especially as the thundered worsened. My cat seemed nervous, tucking into my body to stay as close as possible. Suddenly, the sound of a rumbling truck rounded the curve near our house, but rather than staying the road, it made a beeline for the house. The resulting crash was no vehicle, merely heavy rain, once again enveloping the house in its powerful onslaught.

It was the type of rain that washes away debris rather than leaving a mess. Filling buckets and leaving puddles and other evidence well after it had taken its leave. It wasn't the calming rain that typically helps me sleep. As I attempted sleep again, I was well aware of this rain -- wild, loud, powerful, aggressive. Rain that goes for a shot and draws a foul -- and my applause -- in doing so. "And one" rain.

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