Rain Dance Anyone?

Wahoo!  A 20% chance of rain for a parched PTown. Bring it! 
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I have some experience in this area.  When I was a kid, my dad headed off to Montana each summer on a flyfishing trip.  He always returned with something fun.  One summer, he really knocked the cover off the ball. Real indian head dresses . They were extraordinary. Real leather. Real feathers. And beaded belts with our names on them. My brothers and I put on our mocassins from the prior year's trip, donned our head dresses and conjured up the best rain dance we knew how.  No doubt copied from a Donald Duck episode.  We couldn't consult Wikipedia How To for step-by-step directions because Al Gore had not yet invented the internet.  Our backyard baseball diamond, with a flat rock for first base and a tree for second, became the wide open plains. We danced for quite awhile under clear blue Sierra skies and moved on to the Slip-n-Slide.  A few hours later, a classic thunderstorm began to bloom over Plumas County. Then it became legendary. First came the lightning, thunder, and a soaking rain.  We were pretty proud of ourselves.  Until things got a little crazy.  The hail started.  And it got bigger by the minute.  At the peak of this awe inspiring response from the weather Gods to our little rain dance, hail the size of quarters was pounding everything everything in sight.  Including my poor father who we commanded to harvest some hailstones for the deep freeze.  Turns out one of the local ranchers was moving cattle across the valley  that afternoon. He was none to pleased with our attempt to move the needle on the Smokey The Bear Fire Danger sign from Extreme to High.  The hailstones lasted for years in the deep freeze.  Until another legendary weather event left Plumas County without power for nearly a week one winter. The hailstones sacrificed themselves to keep the venison frozen.  The 6 foot snowbank in the back yard doubled as a refrigerator and a complex series of forts for the local cavalry.  We somehow managed not to die of carbon monoxide poisoning as mom and dad cooked dinner on the camp stove in the kitchen each night.
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The following summer, dad decided we were old enough for the two day journey to Montana.  We had a white Pontiac station wagon with vinyl bench seats. We were grateful for the relatively straight road through the Wild Wild West of Nevada.  You see, in those days, dad didn't believe in seat belts.  He said we had a much better chance of surviving a tumble into the Feather River, or any other river for that matter, if we weren't wearing them.  WHAT?  We were too terrified to argue on trips through the Feather River Canyon.  Fear often gave way to motion sickness. Free of the restraints that other kids our age were subjected to, Barney Oldfield accelerated out of every corner on the twisty road. Three little keesters slid to and fro across the precursor to fine corinthian leather. Mom and dad were always prepared for emergency stops with lots of 7-Up and millions of moist towelettes in their little foil packages. To this day, the aroma of either turns me green in the gills.  Anyway, the trip to Montana included only one super twisty stretch and it was all downhill.  Dad distracted us with some chatter about about the brakes overheating and motion sickness gave way to pure terror. In the end, the trip was less than scenic. It rained the entire week and we didn't see a single bear in Yellowstone :-(
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But, we got the most awesome fringed leather jackets to go with our Daisy rifles!
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Dressed in our new jackets, games of  "cowboys and indians" became much more realistic the rest of the summer.  Especially when dad  decided we were old enough for real fire.  Burning-At-The-Stake was a favorite passtime of ours. Previously, these rituals had been conducted around campfires made of construction paper.  But on one special pitch black night, my dad and uncles made us a real campfire and went back to their BBQ.  Or so we thought. We Tribal Elders tied the two youngest kin together back to back with lots of rope.  Curious neighborhood tribe members joined in our sacred ceremony, circling the campfire, whooping and spinning as real tears trickled down the faces of the terrified toddlers tied to the stake.  Then, out of nowhere... an attack!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Dad and the uncles had snuck up on us with handfuls of firecrackers.  You know... those itty bitty little things that scare the holy bejeezus out of you.  Thank God the stake the youngest kin had been tied to was the spring loaded plastic rocking horse, corralled a safe distance from the licking flames.  Lest it melt.  The tribal elders became whimpering idiots as the terrified toddlers tried desperately to waddle in opposite directions under the burden of their restraints.  I honestly don't remember how the imaginary gun battle ended.  I have a tendency to block out traumatic events.
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Well, I sure got a little carried away with that little tale. I guess I'm still a little giddy. Being a little out of step politically with most of my extended family members, I'm still riding a wave of optimism following yesterday's inauguration.  And by the way, I feel vindicated.  Last spring, I painted my kitchen cabinets the exact shade of lemongrass yellow that Michelle Obama chose for the dress she wore to the Inaugural festivities yesterday afternoon.  The shade was previously known as "what exactly do you call that color?".  Now it is "lemongrass yellow"... the color of optimism.  And it's all the rage. 
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Next time The Pearls become stagnant  remind me to tell you about the time dad decided all us kids should understand just how flammable gun powder really is. Fascinating.
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As I sit here and marvel at my occasional ability to predict the future, I hear itty bitty raindrops on the skylight.  Bring it on Rain Gods!