You're a Wet One, Mr. Grinch

We had a drenching rain this afternoon. A spectacular, thunderous, good for the earth deluge.

All of the soaking, however, overwhelms some of the sewer drains in the old streets of our town, especially at the larger four way stops, which tend to "pond" and become temporarily impassable. 

Strolling with the min pin by one of those underwater intersections this evening, Hubs and I enter the splash-happy realm of a gaggle of puddle loving kids, ranging between 5 and 10 years old. Three of them are doused in wetness, wearing rainboots in fancy colors - kumquat orange, tulip pink, and a sassy patterned pair with bright citrusy-hued circles. Child number 4 is mucky, soiled and barefoot and his feet, as he sprints and somersaults, grow dirtier by the second. 

It does my heart good to see these kids racing about and pretending to swim in the calf-deep water. They throw their hands in the air, playing what we immediately recognize as the rock/paper/scissor game. Apparently the loser amongst the foursome has to dart back across the street to check in with a small and patiently watching crowd of parents. These kids, full of life and joy, are 100 percent pure, unadulterated glee, with messy hands and scuzzy feet. They will surely eschew the foot pull. 

Have you seen the foot pull?

I stopped at Target to pick up a to-go order of pet food and coffee. It's safer for me to place Target orders at home and then claim them at the counter immediately inside the door. You might think the safety to which I am referring has to do with Covid, but no. In actuality, I am talking about the safety of my credit card. A quick two item pick up at Target without this courtesy can easily turn into an expensive cart full of nonessentials like individually wrapped organic almond butter pouches, ceramic cookware, sunscreen made from pulverized cornhusks, and seven dollar bottles of Mojito mix. 

Ridiculous, I know. 

Speaking of ridiculous, I noticed from the corner of my eye that someone was entering the rest room while I stood in the pickup line on my red, carefully placed 6 feet apart circle and that person was using her foot to unceremoniously yank the door open. 

Her foot. 

To yank. 

After being handed my single brown sack and avoiding the delicious bags of Sour Patch Kids placed so cleverly next to the register for our sugar-addicted convenience, I strolled over to the bathroom to see what people were doing over and over with their feet at this suddenly very busy ingress. What I observed as I got closer is that we no longer use our hands at Target to enter the rest room. Instead, we place a foot in something labeled a "foot pull" so that we avoid all tactile contact with said door. Covid safety signs placed just so remind us that this is for our own good. Our feet are part of our protection. 

I walk away hating how Covid has robbed us of our sense of touch. I hate that I am supposed to wipe every handle of every cart and avoid using cash because of its tendency toward germy grossness. I hate that I am now expected to use my foot to open a door. Heading to my car, I work to flip my thoughts and concede that maybe a foot pull might be of benefit to someone without arms. It's the only way I can spin the weirdness into something of good measure, necessary and useful in its newness. 

But here I am in the city hearing these kids singing their high pitched songs while slapping the corner light pole to bring out its hollow metallic clang; clomping and sloshing through Lake Macadam, hair plastered to their faces with the backs of their necks soiled and resembling the color of dingy fish scales in their slimy abandon, and my spirit soars.  

Screw the foot pull. 

Coming toward us, we see one of my favorite neighborhood moms tethering a damp, chubby cocker spaniel which is desperately pulling to gain close proximity to the min pin. Trailing behind is her youngest son, a pint-sized towhead wearing, despite it being June, a long sleeved red and green thermal shirt showcasing the original Grinch holding a Christmas star.

"He was ready for bed," she said. "But we got a call that his friends were playing in a huge puddle so of course we came right down."

Our Seuss fan's name is Augie. He quietly stoops down to pet the min pin's head even though his pals are less than 50 feet away doing the backstroke in the middle of the street. Sporting nylon shorts and stoplight yellow rubber clogs with little jibbitz placed randomly in the holes, I giggle and confess that I would dress exactly like him if I were five years old and making my way to the largest neighborhood puddle around. He smiles. Mom smiles. The cocker spaniel coughs and wheezes from having been held still while Augie spent a minute of sweetness with the min pin. We exchange goodbyes and part ways. 

Meandering through the streets, Hubs and I cannot avoid the water. My socks and sneakers absorb the gritty runoff. It's muggy and I squish but I do not complain. Several streets later and circling back, we spy Augie, his Mom and Chester the cocker spaniel once again. Augie's Grinchy pajama top is a soggy green ball wound tightly around Mom's hand and his bare little chest is puffed out like he's the Grand Marshal of a town-wide parade while he swings his arms, plunking his crocs down heavily upon the sidewalk and stopping beneath low hanging branches to shake them free of all their drops of water, providing a surprise makeshift shower for his family. His precious laugh shatters the quiet in the most beautiful way. It is a burst of cherubic amusement set against the placidity of dusk. Hubs grins and we squeeze hands.  

We know how lucky we are to have been part of this evening of dirty water and the troupe of kids who rightfully relished it. We love walking around and seeing such enjoyment in the simplest of things. Buoyed by something that feels like a combination of hope that we might collectively be getting back to normal, and a silly desire to find more places to bespatter our calves with the kicked-up mud of the place we love, we promenade down the back alley on our way home. 

Bring on the Target bathroom door so I can grab the damn handle. I am not afraid.  

#mushroomtumbler