It’s been raining a lot here in Skokie, the village I now call home since we moved a few minutes north of Chicago’s north side to gain more space and a backyard for gardening. And by raining, I mean, a lot. First there was a freak blizzard, which dumped a ton of precip on us and then all melted the next day, soaking the ground. Then, it’s rained almost every day since, and apparently overnight last night, monsooned. That’s why my backyard looks like this today: Those wooden boxes on the right with the stone base are going to be my garden, and you can see the water has risen well into that area. (But the wood is made for this, so it should hold up, at least for a few years.) And that patch in the center is where we’re amending the grass, so I guess it’s good that the rain is fueling those little seeds. But that water. All the water. It’s effing horrifying. See, I have lingering PTSD symptoms from a traumatic storm experience more than a decade ago. At that time, I lived in a condo with my first husband. On a normal day in August, I was working in my home office when my friend Dee called to say she had just heard a tornado warning for my neighborhood. “What? That’s cra-” was all I got out before the lights all went out, the phone died, my ears popped, my stomach flipped, and then the sound of a freight train pummeled me. I ducked and ran for a closet, only to find it was too shallow for me. I found another closet and secured myself, holding the doorknob as tightly as I could. Minutes passed. Things quieted. I peeked out. It didn’t look so bad, some minor damage in our bedroom but nothing big. I ventured into the back of the condo, and — I can only describe it as a waterfall. Water poured out of every corner joint in every room. The kitchen addition built by a rehabber, was pouring rain into our kitchen and dining room. Debris was everywhere. My brain went upside down. I decided I could just mop up the water with linens, and gathered everything in the house to line the walls and floors. I called my then-husband but all the lines were busy. I panicked. I sobbed. I gripped my fists. I kept hunting for linens. Then I looked outside and saw the devastation. Our patio furniture: Twisted like a pretzel. A car in the parking lot had a telephone pole through its windshield. Commercial air conditioner units had been tossed around like a kid throws Legos. (They...