There is very little to complain about weather-wise in my desert oasis town of Albuquerque. Blue skies and sunny days are the norm. The temperatures rarely dip lower than the teens in the winter, and one hundred degrees is about the maximum in the summer. With little or no humidity, the standard phrase in summer is "It's a dry heat." If there is one thing we lack, it's rain. My town averages less than ten inches of precipitation, and that leaves us all a little thirsty.

For the last six or seven years, we have been suffering a drought. We don't get natural disasters like tornadoes and earthquakes, so we settle for droughts. Our rainfall has been more like five inches a year for the past half decade. I buy gallons and gallons of water. Not only because it tastes better than tap water, but when you become a desert dweller, the best beverage in the world becomes good ol' H2O.

This year, it's coming back around. After a near record-setting April for rain, we went into the halfway mark of the year an inch over the average. Our "monsoon" season hits in the middle of July, and we all had a good chunk of optimism that the rains would come this year. Last year, the monsoon missed us altogether, and that was just plain creepy. Don't let the word monsoon mislead you. It's not like it is in the Far East or even the Midwest for that matter. For about a month after mostly sunny days, clouds roll in during the late afternoons and decide whether to drop some rain on the desert land. We always hope, pray and dance for the skies to open up and drop down water. Sometimes it works.

On Friday, I had an all-day acting gig role at a South Valley middle school playing a quartet of discontented characters for policemen-in-training. The crazy performances ended at a quarter to five, and the skies looked dark and heavy. Maybe we'll get a drop today, I thought. We had been getting scattered showers for the last couple weeks. With years of drought to make up for, every thunderstorm was sucked up by the land instantly, and it was difficult to tell it even rained the next day.

Within ten minutes of cruising back toward Nob Hill, the rains opened up like it hadn't in years. The sprinkles turned into sheets. In most parts of the country, this is a common occurrence, but in the desert, it's a miracle. Of course, for most drivers on the road, the miracle was more of a hindrance. No one knows how to drive in rain or snow or anything other than sunshine. Add to the fact that it was rush hour on a Friday, and you've got chaos everywhere.

I had a couple things going for me. I was driving my old cop cruiser that day, and I'm a cab driver by trade. I know how to drive in rain, and I know dozens of back ways home. This still didn't make it that easy. Cars were flooded all over the road. Makeshift rivers engulfed many major and minor streets. Traffic jammed, but the cruiser performed well for me. It's good to have a beefy wide car sometimes.

Two inches dropped on my area in less than an hour. That may not sound like much where you live, but remember, it's about a quarter of our yearly rainfall. As every killjoy is quick to point out, it'll barely make a dent in the drought, but I say screw those experts. Take what you can get. I'll take being caught in the middle of traffic during the biggest rainstorm in many years if it means my thirsty land gets a big fat drink. Once I got home, I spent the rest of the watching the wetness grow.

Thanks to the big drop, we've had over seven inches of rain this year in Albuquerque. That's three inches above average. I know blathering about how much precipitation a town gets is not the most entertaining reading, but the point is this: if you don't know when to appreciate when nature is helping you out, it may stop caring about you at all. You don't have to be a Native American or a farmer to appreciate the land where you live. As much as I love my local civilization and its amenities, the bottom line is that I live where I do because of the weather. Sunny days keep me sane, but it definitely makes me appreciate those rainy moments.

For now, the mouth of my town is wide open and getting a much needed drink. The clouds are gathering again, and we could always use another gulp.

Chris Jungle does not own a raincoat.