(From Book 1)

As a kid in Norman, you knew that when it rained, it poured.

I remember water gushing out of our new house's downspout so hard that it ripped up the Bermuda grass.

Sometimes, the rain and hail would overwhelm the gutters, and sheets of water would come over the side. If you ran underneath, it was like having a pitcher of ice water poured down your back.

Cloudbursts would sometimes cause Nebraska Street to overflow its curbs, even past the water meters.

When that happened, we'd put on our grubbiest cut-offs and go water-biking in the dirty street water. If our Moms' weren't looking, we'd sneak all the way over to Flood Street.

Whoa! The water there would come to the top of your bike tire, maybe even up to your banana seat.

If you built up a full head of steam and rode straight into Flood St., it felt like a giant had grabbed your bike and stopped it dead in the water.

If you managed to stay on your bike, that was good fun. If you flipped over the handle bars, out onto Flood St., it was even better, if you didn't get run over.  

That sounds more dangerous than it was, because we had "spotters", and cars had to drive really slowly when Flood was at high tide.

After an hour or so of this, we’d head back home. But first, we had to get all the incriminating mud off our bikes and ourselves. 

We'd get down on all fours and stick our heads into the wall of water that cars kicked up when they chugged past.  

We got a lot of worried looks from Mom drivers. Dad drivers just laughed. They'd probably done the same thing themselves, and they knew why we had to clean up before going home.

Otherwise, our angry moms would have hosed us off in the front yard, right in front of God and country.

Moms could be so insensitive about stuff like that.