When I was a child, I lived in a rainy place, the kind of neighborhood where low-income families made do with what they had. The rain was always there, sometimes a drizzle, sometimes more, but it didn’t matter. It was the backdrop to our world. We lived in a row of two-story apartments, and our unit was on the bottom floor. The walkway above gave us shelter from the rain as we played outside, building go-karts from whatever we could scrounge up.

The junkyard down the road was our treasure trove. It was where the wrecking crew crushed old cars into neat little squares and loaded them onto trains. But to us, the real treasures were the scraps. On weekends, when the yard was empty, I would venture out in the soft rain and find wheels for the go-karts. Plywood and 2x4s were never in short supply, so we made do with what we had. With simple tools, we cobbled together those wooden contraptions, piecing them into crude go-karts with nothing but nails, old wheels, and our imagination.

The thrill came when we dragged those makeshift karts to the top of the hill in front of our apartments. It was a 100-meter hill to the parking lot below, and we steered them with nothing but a rope and a front axle that was nailed to a 2x4 with a center pivot point under the plywood. There was no precision, no safety—just the rush of the ride, the rain misting our faces as we careened down, laughing so hard it felt like the drizzle was laughing with us.

It didn’t matter that we were soaked or that the karts fell apart more often than not. We were kids, and we were happy. The rain wasn’t something to be feared or avoided—it was part of the fun, part of the memories.

Now, decades have passed, and I live in a place where the rain is a rare visitor. Most people here dislike it when it comes. They say it ruins everything or darkens their mood. But I miss it. I miss the days when the rain was a part of life, a companion to our laughter, a constant backdrop to our simple joys.

The go-karts we built were my version of a red wagon, a symbol of those carefree days. And the rain? The rain was where the memories lived, soaking through the wood and wheels, blending into the laughter. I will always cherish the rain. It was never just weather—it was when life was at its purest, and the world was ours to play in.