The smell of the rain on the hot blacktop. I could be Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things.” When I smell that smell, I am transferred back in time to sitting in my Mema’s house in the summer. The windows would be cracked open and the blinds drawn. Outside the rain would slam onto the ground, creating a low deep blur of noise. The room would be dark and the smell of the rain would waft through the semi-open window with the breeze. The world had a tint of darkness, but the smell of the fresh rain, of rejuvenation, transformed the gray. Occasionally you would hear a car pass, slowing down at the stop sign. Its wet tires would only briefly be there, before it was gone again. The house would be completely silent. Occasionally a rumble of thunder would shake the house ever so slightly and young me would be excited. Is it that memory that makes the warm weather rain one of my favorites? While everybody else complains of its mugginess or of their hair frizzing, I make a cup of coffee and I sit on the porch. Just like when I lived in the mountains. The storms were always so much worse the higher up you were. We were high. The sky would get a malicious color and the clouds would spin and twirl as if trying to warn us. The tree’s leaves always fascinated me when they blew. One side was vibrant green and the other a dull mint color. The lightening would strike in beautiful streaks right in front of us. The power would be out and we would light candles and retire to the porch where we would sit on the rocking chairs and just watch. It was terrifying. I could feel the earth shake under my feet, but I never looked away. There were always rainbows afterwards and my sister and I would climb the trees, the bark squishy and wet, just to try to see the end where the pot of gold surely sat waiting.