It forms out ahead of me as I pass between low green walls of soybeans, the rain. I try to convince myself that the grey haze marching toward me is the sweat smeared on my glasses or maybe fog, but I know better. Up ahead on the left side of the road at a break between bean fields I see a small house with an open carport. I struggle to rise from the saddle and pedal harder to reach the carport before I am smacked in the face by the frog strangler fast approaching. I carry no raingear, since wearing it while vigorously riding a bicycle in Mississippi’s September would be like doing aerobics while wearing a thick black trash bag. What will I reach first? The line of rain? The house? The line of rain? A few big drops splat on my forearms and thighs as I come even with the driveway. I turn hard left onto the gravel, dismount and lean my bike against the faded aluminum siding of the house just as the noise of the rain beating down crescendos. Photo: Jason Shearer I cautiously knock on...