When it rains, it pours, and then umbrella sales go up

On The Bright Side

by Kay Hafner

Drip, drip, drop. Splash.

It's raining. Again.

Whoosh. Out comes the umbrella. Again.

I feel like a soggy sponge. Could someone please turn off the faucet now? New York is already 5 inches above normal average rainfall for the entire summer. Weather patterns are scrambled throughout the country, and it seems like rain from everywhere else has been diverted our way. This is the Northeast, not the Everglades. Yet we are neck and neck with places like Miami and Seattle for amount of precipitation.

When I lived in central New York I learned to expect a lot of gray days. "It always rains in Utica," was my motto when I went to college there. Even the student guide who took us on the campus tour carried an umbrella, although it wasn't raining when we left the admissions office. It's probably standard issue for the job; even on sunny days the clouds lurk, waiting for their time to unload.

Take my advice. Don't go to Utica without an umbrella.

Nevada, on the other hand, has the opposite problem. Skies are clear and, except for an occasional "Hundred Year Flood" from excess snow melting in the Sierras, the land is dry. Relatives from that part of the country recently passed through our area. For one week from the time they landed in Cleveland, traveled to Niagara Falls, Cooperstown, Glens Falls and, finally, to Boston, the skies were gray and the miles without wet pavement were few.

I think it was, at first, a novelty to them, like the sagebrush and aridness of their region is to us. Driving day after day in drips and drizzles can be irritating, however, no matter how lush the landscape.

Put four friends in a Chevy Blazer for hours on end. Add rain pouring down nonstop, and what have you got? A new definition of water torture.

My uncle returned to Reno carrying a large Saratoga Race Track umbrella, a gift from my mother. Not being a compact, collapsible model, it came with him on the plane as carry-on baggage. He carried it on but forgot to carry it off. When he went back to retrieve it, a flight attendant remarked, "You know, you're not going to need that here."

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't. With these wacky weather patterns, you never know.

I've been thinking about umbrellas lately and noticing them in different settings. Sitting outside at Sutton's one morning it was clear we wouldn't need the large table umbrella to block the sun. We hoped we wouldn't need it as shelter from a downpour, either.

Beyond being functional, umbrellas are beautiful. A city street on a gray day comes alive with their various shapes, sizes and colors, like a carpet of wildflowers. Umbrellas do look like flowers. In fact, a

related word, umbel, describes a type of plant whose stalk divides up and out, like an umbrella without its covering. Each of those stems then end in small flowers. The resulting flower cluster gives the illusion of one big bloom from a distance.

Several days ago I noticed the cute (but rather absent-minded) Morton Salt girl and her yellow umbrella. That lead me to think about the big red umbrella that represents Travelers Insurance. And then there's the term "umbrella organization," which describes one large group looking out for the interests of smaller groups and individuals. For some reason, umbrellas have come to symbolize safety and assurance in our culture.

On a more trivial level, can anyone explain those tiny paper umbrellas that come in tropical and Oriental drinks? I guess they are meant to transport us to hot, sunny places. Places where we could lounge in the sand all day, sipping cool drinks under the protection of large beach umbrellas. Places where it only rains at night, or when no one has anything important planned.

(The first time I remember seeing one of those umbrellaed drinks was at a Chinese restaurant in Wayne, N.J. It takes a lot of imagination to transport yourself from New Jersey to anywhere tropical. A 3-inch high paper umbrella just isn't going to help.)

As I've been composing this column we've been blinded by a few days of sun. Still no reason to worry about sprinkling the lawn. I'm feeling less like a sponge and more like a waterlogged "Survivor" drying out on the beach.

Don't tell me the forecast. I don't want to know.

Uh-oh. It's too late. Here come the clouds.

I'll go get my umbrella.