letter to nora - part 3

     "Go ahead boss," Juan said, answering the radio right as we climbed back into the cab of the pickup. With the defrost on high, wrapped up in my plastic rain gear, I felt like a drowned rat sealed up in a ziploc, except for my feet, which were more like a couple of scumpond catfish wrapped in wet newspaper and shoved in Uncle Marion's icebox next to the jar of peach moonshine in South Carolina.

     Maybe I'm exaggerating.

     "Yes boss, we cleared the drain and there is no more flood on the road." Juan spoke loudly, slowly, his hispanic accent thick, into the radio.

     "Great!" the boss squawked back, his voice adding another element to the aural chaos of heavy rain on the windshield and the accordions blaring from the local latino radio station.

     He continued, "I want you guys to me at 9:30 at Cafe Strada. With this terrible weather today, I'm buying coffee for everyone at break time."

     Score, I thought. Free coffee and a new baby. Aside from warm feet, this day couldn't be better.

     It wasn't but 30 seconds later while Juan was still on the radio and we were driving along the row of sycamores by the Valley Life Science Building that I felt my phone begin to buzz in my pocket. Sorting through the layers of raingear, flannel, and polarfleece, I wondered if this would be like every other time your mom called me over the last two weeks. No fault of hers, she always seemed to call as I was running some heavy piece of machinery, or was up 14 feet in the air on an orchard ladder, or was in a department meeting with one of the university bigwigs. And every time, the panic and the excitement was the same - could this be it? Were you finally coming? Up until now, the voice on the other end of the line always said, "No news."

      I yanked the phone out - mama was indeed on the horn:

      "Hey, I think you should come on home. I think this is it. I think the contractions are coming more regularly."

     "I'm on my way home," I said breathlessly as I stepped out of the truck.

     I told Juan, "I'm going to go home..."

     "Go!" He said, his eyes grinning, "Ok! Go! Good luck! Hurry!" His accent still as thick as the rain.

     I walked off quickly, detouring back again five minutes later when I remembered he had the keys to the room where my bike was locked up.

     Another interminable walk back across Lower Sproule Plaza, a stop by the the gardener's room at the edge of campus, and I was finally back on my bike again, again riding the 2 mile stretch between home and work in the newest, heaviest rainfall of the new year...