Paper Boats
Every August of my childhood, I waited for the evening rainstorms. Dark clouds blossomed suddenly over the western mountains, sweeping across the Salt Lake Valley to the cul-de-sac I called home. Each storm announced its arrival with rapid pah-lunks on our roof. My brothers and I rolled our denim over our knees, kicked off our sneakers, and ran out into a world we thought was eternal. How could we have known otherwise?
Sometimes, I stood at attention on the sidewalk next to the largest puddles, waving at cars to drive through and drench me. Other times, I gathered up pine needles to dam the gutter, playing Goddess as I formed lakes and diverted rivers and waited for the flowing water to deliver treasures from up the road. Once, I spent a storm collecting fat worms off the sidewalk, carrying them away from the aggravating teenage neighbor (who routinely swallowed them whole) to the safety of our compost box.
But my favorite rain activity was floating paper boats with my brothers. We left muddy footprints on the way to Dad’s desk, then dug through his recycling for the perfect materials. Scrap paper became pirate ships as our chubby fingers performed clumsy folds. We raced them down the gutter — or the center of the street, if it was pouring hard enough — to the swirling storm drain. Then, “Again! From the top of the hill this time!” until the soggy paper gave way under the current.
We thought the rain came just for us, to lift our paper boats and carry them away. Life played out under the storm’s mournful gaze — watching over our magical, vivid little adventures. And when the light disappeared and bedtime came, we curled beneath our blankets, certain the storm would visit again.
***
Summer, and the end of the world, felt like being ironed smooth. The earth hissed as its moisture disappeared. Oppressive heat — oppressive impending doom — left little room for tears.
In elementary school, we learned about the Great Salt Lake, whose rapid shrinking exposes the poison lying in wait on the lake bed. When the water dries up, toxic dust will cover my cul-de-sac, crusting over the little worlds I once built.
Grassy lawns stood browner and crunchier every summer as drought restrictions tightened. You could tell who was paying attention to the water crisis — who cared about our dying lake — by the color of their lawn.
Paper boats forgotten in the flattening haze, my brothers and I helped Dad fill two blue barrels of water for storage in case the pipes ever cut out. The artificial pond downtown, where we once rode rickety paddle boats and fed ducks with leftover hot dog buns, was drained to save moisture. We stopped playing limbo with the water hose or setting up slip-n-slides on the hottest days. Water wasn’t eternal anymore.
And yet, when the sky finally opened, our water-saving efforts seemed absurd. Great sheets of rain would drench the landscape. Bolts of lightning ignited the valley in apocalyptic flashes. Cars slowed to a crawl to avoid hydroplaning on the highway or pulled to the roadside to gape at the sudden wrath.
For the drought-stricken Utah desert, rain is anything but peaceful. Clouds streak from sky ceiling to valley floor and window panes rattle as heaven tears itself apart. The ground is forgetful — after a few dry months, she’s flustered by the torrent of rain and can’t hold onto the precious moisture.
The paper boat floods were carving away the land underneath our feet without us realizing. The local news in August began to read “Flash flood kills two in national park” or “Home swept away in mudslide.”
***
I stopped making paper boats around the time I learned to ride a bike. I could go further from home on two wheels than my bare feet could take me. For my summer adventures, I biked to the empty crater downtown — the one that once held water, before we learned the drought was here to stay. Now, it holds stray trash and unkept nostalgia.
Usually, I biked through the desert heat, kicking up dust behind my wheels. Once, though, a summer storm clawed suddenly over the mountains and unleashed its fury just as I rounded the park to turn home.
Water ran off my helmet and into my eyes. I leaned against the gusts to avoid veering into the street. Cars inched by, splashing my already-drenched clothes with wave after wave. The childhood ecstasy was there, of course, but as I listened to the great, heaving sobs of the sky, I soon felt my own tears streaking down my cheeks. Maybe I cried because I used to send paper boats down the gutter without wondering where that water would go. Maybe I cried because storms used to be magical — not ominous, political, or increasingly rare. Maybe I cried because, for the first time, I knew the planet was weeping.
The storm carried me home, rolling forward as the world slipped down the storm drain.
***
My first weekend in Boston, it rained for 48 hours straight. This rain was foreign — drizzling and calm, moistening the air so my hair got wet even under a hood. I watched for lightning but never even heard thunder. The Yard, with greens so vibrant I had to squint, was otherworldly.
On the outside, I must have looked strange, face turned to the sky and umbrella hanging uselessly beside me. Inside, I was unfurling like a leaf — soaking in every droplet. I wanted to cup the moisture in my hands and carry it back to my home, to my cul-de-sac, to my paper boats. But my clumsy fingers — which had forgotten those origami folds — always let the water slip away.
– Associate Magazine Editor Kate J. Kaufman can be reached at kate.kaufman@thecrimson.com.