The sound of rain

I hope you'll forgive this blogger if he waxes poetic today.

It's raining right now. Twenty-five feet above my head is a roof, and directly above that there's rain. Ten months ago, that roof got thrown onto Norfolk Avenue like a comforter kicked off the bed in the middle of the night. The rain came in. It soaked the small collections room, it condemned two offices, a conference room, and a bathroom, and it cost $156,000.

It's hard not to think about that when the rain comes down. We all sneak our eyes upward to the ceiling to look for leaks, drips, seepage, or damp spots. Our new roof is nearly finished -- they're hoping to finish it this week. After that, there should be no reason to look up. In fact, in this part of the building, the roof was largely undamaged, so there has been no reason to look up. And yet, when the sky darkens and the temperature drops, I find myself watching the ceiling, as if my keen eyesight might detect a problem in time to do something about it. What I might do, I don't know. This is akin to the guy driving down the road with a mattress strapped to the top of his car with his hand out the window holding it down. What exactly does he think he can do? What could I do?

Nothing.

And right now, I can do nothing but sit and listen to the sound of rain, still scanning the rafters for trouble.

Look for a big post later this week about the staff's field trip to the North Carolina Transportation Museum. Stay tuned and stay dry.