The mister and I spent the weekend camping on the shores of Lake Belle Taine in northern Minnesota.
I mean, it was sunny for enough of the weekend that we didn't pack up the tent and head for home, but it rained. We're talking deluges of biblical proportions. It rained so hard that you couldn't hear the individual drops tap-tappitying on the tent. It sounded instead like someone was flinging five-gallon buckets of water at us.
The mister and I can end droughts when we camp. Desert hasn't seen precipitation in 6 months? Oh, well, we'll plan a trip and pitch a tent and fix that drought for you. Northern Minnesota facing drought? We'll roll out our sleeping bags and produce 3 inches of rain in an hour. No worries.
Despite the dampness of the weekend, we had a good time, getting in some fishing (the mister), some book reading (me) and a shameful amount of bacon consumption (both of us).
"Papa, I'll help roll up the tent!"