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Soggy Fest

They dance across the lawn like two garden fairies, through the flooded grass, bathed in weak moonlight. Who could be angry as these two sprites twirl into view? No one. That’s good because they are our ambassadors, selected to go first. The rest of us follow. We’re crashing a party.

But before we do that we’re laughing in the rain. It’s the return of the annual Labor Day picnic after last year’s COVID-induced hiatus. This is an event my father dubbed long ago as “Sausage Fest.” I can’t recall the first year the fest was held. I just know it started as a big cookout with everyone asked to bring a different type of sausage to grill. Hence the name.

This year just after the traditional Sunday cookout, the sky begins to drip, then to pour. This is the story of Summer 2021. The weather gurus have been saying it all along. First it was an abnormally wet June. Then it was one of the wettest Julys on record. Then one of the wettest Augusts on record. The meteorological summer ends on Aug. 31 and this year’s has been declared, naturally, one of the wettest on record. September begins on a dry note, but that first Sunday the clouds come, gray and heavy. We all know what’s going to happen next.

By the time September rolls in, we’ve gone from feeling damp all the time to feeling downright soggy. I picture my body like a slab of cardboard left in a basement too long. I’m swelled and squelchy like a toad. I don’t weigh any more than I always have, but I feel heavier. Waterlogged.

My sister-in-law, her sister, and I are sitting outside, talking and laughing as the sky begins to leak. Instead of going inside, we decide that we’re not going to let the rain spoil our outdoor fun. We put on raincoats and pop open umbrellas.

Eventually, the kids (who are now 18 and older and really no longer kids), come out and join us. They hear us laughing and decide they have FOMO, a term I’d never heard before. Fear of Missing Out.

It’s stopped pouring by now and as we’re hanging out talking, we realize that there’s music playing somewhere down the block. Not only that, but we also hear people laughing and singing along to the songs.

And now we all have FOMO.

“Let’s see what’s going on over there,” someone says.

We debate, but not for long. Is it okay to crash? Is that rude? Who goes first? Send the girls first. See how that flies. No one could possibly get mad at them.

So, after the girls do their fairy dance across the lawn, we all wander to the outside party area. The partiers are gracious and friendly. Thank God. We chat under the stars and explain how it sounded like a good time was being had. We’re empty handed and I don’t like going to a party empty handed, so once I establish that we’re welcome to hang for a bit, I make a back-to-the-house run for some booze so that we aren’t taking from the hosts. We don’t stay long, but while we’re there we have a blast singing like we’d heard them doing. No more FOMO.

The next day the sun has returned and it’s back to summer warmth. Time for a dip in the lake, which is only a short stroll away. We all grab tubes and find to our shock that the water has been chilled by the previous day’s shower. Rain has been this summer’s recurrent party crasher. It feels nice and warm in the sun, though, and I soon get used to the temperature.

As we’re lounging on our floats a boat swings by. It’s the people whose party we crashed the evening before. They wave to us and say hello and say how fun it was that we’d stopped by. So they aren’t angry at us. Relief. We wave back and thank our new friends for their hospitality.

Then we look up and let the sun’s rays soak our faces.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.