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Isn’t it about time we cleared the air?


What do you mean ME ... where the heck have YOU been?

I don’t know about you — well, that is, beyond the details in the dossiers I’m cc’d on from the lizard-people at Vast Global Conspiracy Inc. — but being left alone with my thoughts for any extended period of time can be exhausting.

“What’s it like in there?” a golf partner asked this week on the back nine at Stone Ridge after I said I’d been spending too much time cooped up in my head space over the past month.

“Crowded,” I said, after missing another putt, “and there’s a lot of sturm und drang.”

Now, of course, there you are and here I am, so the voices competing for attention from the depths of my subconscious will just have to talk amongst themselves for a little while longer … as I need to share the experience of an unexplained phenomenon the other night.

No, it wasn’t the comet that shot across the northwest skies; if I want to look at a deteriorating, misshapen heavenly body dispensing gas, I’d look in a mirror.

Rather, and I wonder whether you were as stunned by this as I was, water apparently fell from the sky at some point between the time I went to bed Thursday night and when I woke up Friday.

Evidence of this intrusion was splatted on the driveway and spritzed across the window panes of the house.

I considered all the most-likely suspects — sprinklers, dogs on their morning constitutionals, a restroom discharge from a passing aircraft — but none would account for the spray patterns I encountered … unless one of my neighbors has an exceptionally coordinated Shih Tzu.

Plus, the added oddity of a yellowish ball of freakishly bright light in a sky that displayed an unusual blueish tint had me wondering whether we were undergoing something Biblical in scope … you know like the frogs that fell from the sky at the end of that documentary “Magnolia.”

Just as the murmuring from the multitude of voices within started to encroach on this thought process, however, the mystery water had evaporated and yellow light and blue sky had disappeared behind that comforting blanket of brown which greets us every day.

You know, the sort of invasive, illness inducing atmospheric particles — since they can be seen and smelled — for which even the horse-paste whisperers don’t mind donning a mask rather than risk exposure.

(I’ve missed you, too.)

The once-in-a-gray-brown moon celestial happenstance, however, did remind me of its other recent occurrence before my eyes … which, as happenstances often do, also involved momentarily wondering where the effluence from the airplane restroom in which I was standing would land once my tissue-covered finger pressed the “FLUSH” button.

This magical “sky water” — not the type jettisoned from a plane — was seen in the suburbs of Nashville, where a week was spent reconnecting with members of the family we hadn’t seen since I avoided airplane travel … even should my entire body be tissue-covered.

As vacation trips go, it was delightful — if you don’t count the plane trip, or that it involved visiting relatives … or the fact we were stuck for a week in Tennessee.

My brother and I were missing putts on a golf course there, when I looked up and saw the bluish sky and the yellow ball of light … this time joined by enormous popcorn pieces and cotton balls, some of which displayed a threatening charcoal-colored hue on their lower halves.

“It’s going to rain later,” he said, as we searched to no avail for errant tee shots.

He saw that I looked even more stupefied than usual by his words of warning, all of which sounded like Greek to me.

“You know … rain,” he offered. “Water is going to come down from the sky. The ground is going to get wet. The temperatures will cool off.”

I studied his face to see whether the whites of his eyes has been replaced by a golden lizard-like tone … but it was clear he believed all this nonsense he was spewing.

He had, I reasoned, undergone some sort of transformation since relocating to the Athens of the South, and I quickly looked to affix the nearest mask as to not catch anything in the wind.

Sure enough, though, the early evening found the skies opening and water come pouring down — although, despite the protestations of our hosts, it did not arrive in buckets and did not include cats and dogs … or frogs, for that matter.

The ground did indeed get wet and not only did the temperatures cool, but the air seemed to have an aroma that was described to us as being called “clean.”

I don’t know about you (with exceptions, see above), but it sure would be nothing short of a miracle to experience a few days like that around here.

Particularly since it would mean not having to go back to Tennessee.

The voices arguing inside columnist Robert Galvin’s head can be reached at rgalvin@rosebudmedia.com