Not too long ago, I wrote about memories and how they have a way of popping up when you least expect them. Maybe it’s because I’m — how shall we say — a little older now, but I find myself looking back more often, sifting through the good, the funny, and the slightly bruised. I can’t help comparing my own childhood adventures (and spectacular mishaps) with the current crop of “mischief monkeys” and their sometimes cautious attempts at making lasting memories.

The past few days of rain have left Calexico smelling like wet creosote and fresh asphalt — and I can’t help but grin every time the clouds open up. Around here, real downpours don’t happen often; most of the time, the desert sky hoards its water like gold. So when a storm finally muscles in, it feels less like weather and more like a small-town festival thrown by Mother Nature herself. Every time it happens, I’m carried straight back to the rainy afternoons of my childhood in the ’70s and ’80s, when a hard rain was a VIP invitation to abandon chores, gather the neighborhood kids, and turn the streets into our own river playground.

I remember the rains back then — the kind that rolled in without warning, turning the air heavy and electric. The first fat drops would hit the sizzling sidewalks, sending up that earthy perfume of wet dust and asphalt. To us kids, it wasn’t just weather; it was a summons. Whatever chore we were pretending to finish — sweeping the porch, picking up mesquite pods, “helping” with laundry — was instantly abandoned. We’d fling open screen doors and race outside barefoot, our soles slapping against the cool, rain-slick cement.

Within minutes, the neighborhood came alive. Kids appeared from every direction, armed with nothing but wide grins and an appetite for chaos. The shy drizzle usually didn’t last — soon sheets of water poured down like someone had upended a giant bucket over Calexico. Our quiet desert streets transformed into roaring rivers, with puddles deep enough to swallow a tennis shoe.

Of course, rain in Calexico never arrived politely. It made a glorious mess. Gutters overflowed within minutes, turning curbs into brown, churning streams. Water crept halfway up front lawns, drowning the little strips of grass we fought to keep alive all summer. 

The streets became shallow lakes where cars didn’t so much drive as sail, sending rooster tails of muddy spray over anyone foolish enough to stand too close. We’d balance on the now-invisible curbs, waving at passing cars and daring them to splash us, cheering whenever a brave driver sent a wall of water our way. Even the alleys turned treacherous, hiding potholes big enough to swallow a bicycle whole. To us, though, it was all part of the fun — proof that the storm was winning, and we had a brand-new playground to conquer.

Even the grown-ups loosened up. Moms leaned against doorframes, half-laughing, half-shouting for us not to slip and break our necks. Dads, who swore they were “just checking the gutters,” often ended up rolling up their jeans and wading right in. A few would improvise umbrellas out of tortillas or Sunday newspapers, which was pointless once they started chasing us through puddles.

Flooding? That wasn’t trouble — that was an upgrade. We dragged out anything that could float: cardboard, upside-down trash can lids, even an old ironing board once (RIP to the neighbor’s laundry day). We turned the gutters into regatta courses, racing sticks and bottle caps past the curb. Someone always tried to body-surf a current that was only two inches deep, and someone else — usually me — ended up with a skinned knee or a missing sandal.

By the time the clouds broke and the sun punched through, we’d be soaked, muddy, and happier than a pack of wet dogs (and smelled like it too). Hair plastered to our foreheads, sneakers squelching, we’d line up on the curb, comparing scrapes and planning our next adventure before the desert heat baked everything dry again.

Those stormy afternoons turned our dusty town into a playground nobody could have designed on purpose. Just a little rain, and suddenly Calexico wasn’t a desert anymore — it was a whole new world waiting to be explored, one splash at a time.

These days, a good storm still stops Calexico in its tracks, but the soundtrack has changed. Instead of a stampede of barefoot kids, you’re more likely to hear the quiet ping of video games or see the glow of a tablet screen behind a rain-streaked window. The art of turning a downpour into an all-out neighborhood expedition feels like it’s slipping away, one app at a time.

Still, when the clouds finally let loose, that smell of clean air and wet dirt drifts through town like an old invitation — a calling card for mischief. And sure enough, every so often a kid will wander out, eyes wide, shoes already doomed, and cannonball into the nearest puddle with a splash big enough to make their ancestors proud. Some instincts, it seems, can’t be erased by touchscreens; they live in the scent of rain on desert soil, waiting for the next generation to follow it outside.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.