Today was a do-nothing day, and nothing much inspired me to write. But I got nostalgic.
I slept in and could hear the gentle rain falling on the ground outside. Rain against window is a storm; rain falling straight down to the ground is a farmer’s rain. That last reminded me of the wet summers of childhood, and although a rainy summer is the pits, it was nice to hear a familiar sound from way back.
The gentle sound of steady rain transported me back to childhood: To a friend’s barn, sitting in the hay as the drops hit the ground and the roof at the same time; to another friend’s treehouse, carefully assembled used planks and plywood keeping us dry; to the carport and our car, dashing from one shelter to another to keep dry; to our outhouse and woodshed, where our pet cat had six kittens, her purrs blending in with the rain on the roof; to my bedroom in the attic, sitting under a slanted ceiling, either drawing or reading, the gray light through my window cheered up by my orange curtains.