Rain brings us back to normal.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

THE BLESSED SOUND came from the basement, the first time I'd heard it in seemingly forever: The sump pump had kicked in.

We live in a house built in 1939, a house with a "wet basement." When enough water soaks down to a certain level in the ground, it seeps into the basement and collects in a concrete corner trough. That triggers a mechanism like the floating ball in the back of your toilet and - whoosh - the water is pumped up and out to the street.

I love that sound. It's a reassuring sound suggesting that things are as they ought to be.

When I heard the whoosh of the sump pump the other night I felt like the Dust Bowl farmer who'd finally felt a drop from the sky.

I felt like Oregon was Oregon again. All was well with the world.

In terms of rain, you see, we just haven't been ourselves lately. And I've missed us.

If it feels the same way to you, there's good reason: Eugene got more rain in November than in any month since January 2000 - 22 months ago.

Last November, we got a pathetic 1.61 inches of precipitation. This November, we had more than 6 inches, most of that since the day before Thanksgiving. Even so, November marked the 18th straight month we've been below average for precipitation.

"Everybody's coming up to me and saying how wet it is all of the sudden," says George Taylor, the state climatologist. "It's been so long since we had a normal winter - basically two years - that we've forgotten what it's like. This is what is supposed to happen."

In essence, we're returning to the way we were, to our Oregon-esque selves after traipsing around the last couple of years like a band of normal, sun-fed people.

Why be normal when you can be an Oregonian?

In Los Angeles, it sprinkles and people cancel their trips to the spa. Last Saturday, in a seemingly endless downpour, I saw a guy washing his car and a woman running - and said to myself: Is this a great place or what?

I recently received an e-mail from a Snow Bird. "We'll be watching (the Civil War) from down here in Tucson where we're basking in the sun now," she wrote.

I imagined that - basking in the sun in late November - and thought: There but for the grace of rain go I. Indeed, without our changing weather and seasons, I, too, could be condemned to the dreary life of sunshine, day in and day out. Fine for others, to each his own; but a year of sunshine would turn me into a bitter, brooding, basking man.

To bask, you see, means "to warm oneself pleasantly." I admit, I have basked before and I will probably bask again. But continually basking would parch my soul.

I need seasons. I need change. I need that look toward the Coast Range and seeing the dark clouds and wondering what's in them - then, half an hour later, getting a thunder-clapping, hail-zapping answer.

OREGONIANS, you see, have the privilege of not only basking come summer, but - now that we've returned to our normal climatological programming - burrowing come winter.

To burrow means "to take refuge ... to delve or search ... ' It conjures up the huddled masses, yearning to read a good book in front of a fire. It suggests a turning inward to self and others, as opposed to just lying there in the sun, basking - as if you were nothing more than a french fry under a fast-food heat lamp.

Rain, on the other hand, offers challenge. Rain offers resistance, not ease. And just like exercise breeds stamina, resistance builds character.

You run across a parking lot, dodging puddles, getting soaked and throwing yourself into a suddenly steaming car - and you're a stronger person because of it. You come home to a problem child and think: I can get through this crisis because I made it to my car without drowning.

That's why I'm glad the rain is back. Because rain is the Oregonian's solar energy; it's what empowers us, steels us, makes us who we are. You might not like some of your fellow Oregonians, but you have to admit: They rarely lack character.

All because of the rain. Because they run across parking lots and because they improvise ways to do things outside when it's wet and because they burrow. They throw themselves into an indoor project and appreciate the snap of a fire and consider how soothing is the sound of rain on a roof.

So on this first Sunday of December - statistically, the best chance for rain in any given year - I'm glad we're back where we belong, back to our normal, soggy selves.

The winter rains have come. The sump pump is sounding. Time to delve and search.

Bob Welch can be reached by phone at 338-2354 or by e-mail at [e-mail].