parapluie

I have three umbrellas, each broken in a different way. One insists on being extended at all times and one has the typical broken spines and one lacks the strap that keeps it wrapped up. One is green but none are very pretty.

In New York I never carried an umbrella. When the streets were a sea of black umbrellas like in a movie set, I would duck and weave between them shielding my eyes. Sometimes I would take off my shoes because back then I was only twenty. It would be summer and warm and I would be barefoot and soaked, and the businessmen would stare and I would smile.

Now I’m as old as they were, but that’s not why I started using umbrellas. I started using umbrellas because I moved to Oregon where winter is cold and wet. I don’t mind the occasional yellow slicker but here the parka is a way of life, and I’ve never been a fan of raincoats. I find them bulky and hot, and I hate carrying around their dripping hulk when I get where I’m going.

Umbrellas, though, are poetic. Little portable shelters. Individual refuge. Together, a moving mosaic. So since spring seems to be on hold, since April showers have brought May showers, I’m treating myself to new umbrellas in the spirit of new sheets or new underwear. Out with the old. In with the white-and-yellow stripes, and maybe one really tall one, and one with a picture on the inside only. Time for a tiny celebration in the downpour.