When I was about seven years old, my dad cut three holes in a Hefty trash bag, one for my head and one for each arm. He carefully cut the bag up the center. When he was done with his dad-made creation, he guided my arms through the holes, then made the same plastic vest for himself. He grabbed the large black umbrella and we headed out the front door with my mom standing inside, arms crossed in front of her, tapping one foot.

“What are you doing?” she shouted. “It’s pouring out there!”

“We’ll be fine, promise,” he said with a wink, and he closed the front door.

My dad and I were buddies. When he fixed the car, I handed him tools. When he mowed the lawn with his goggles on, I walked behind him with sunglasses on. On this day, I followed him out into the rain, grinning as I stomped into the deep puddles, which was strangely satisfying.

“Where are we going?” I asked. It didn’t really matter; I would follow him anywhere.

“Up there.” He smiled and pointed to the roof.

In front of our house was a courtyard with a stone arch. Inside the arch was a gate that latched in the middle with no lock. I always thought it was pointless, because even at seven years old I knew that anyone could simply walk around the wall and get inside the courtyard.

Dad unlatched the steel gate and it screeched as it opened. There was a rod that usually went into a small hole in the cement. Dad opened the gate as wide as it would go and pressed the rod into the dirt of the planter with Mom’s rose bushes, which she would not be happy about. He picked me up and stood me on the top rail of the gate and I held on tight to the steel arrows that pointed to the stormy sky. My dad climbed up behind me and led me, one step at a time, up the gate to the top of the courtyard arch and onto the first level of the roof. We sat down about six feet from the edge and the umbrella popped up with a sound like it had not been used in years, which it hadn’t. Later, I would learn that we had been experiencing a drought that was going on its third year. I guess that was why my dad was so excited about the rain. We sat on the roof and watched the lightning storm that was miles away, and even though we were under an umbrella, the rain hit my face with cold droplets. I leaned against my dad and he put his arm around me. We sat there in our Hefty bag jumpers under a rusty umbrella, and it smelled like cut grass and Old Spice aftershave. From that day on, I loved the rain.