Rain

     There's something about the rain, the way it holds your hand and safely walks you back to a certain time or place in your life.  The way it smells, fresh and clean.  The way it naturally bathes the earth of the dust and urine. The way it lulls you to your third nap of the day. The way it pairs so peacefully with a cup of chamomile. And the way it gives you a well-deserved excuse to sleep in or to stay in your pajamas all day and research your trip to Italy, the one that is still a year off.
     Sorry Karen Carpenter. Rainy days and Mondays or Wednesdays or any days have never gotten me down.
     We were stranded in Crate and Barrel the other day while mother nature dumped the first of many days of this rain, the rain that is inspiring my love of writing today, and the same rain that began New York City's cooling trend.  So dozens of shoppers, runners, skate boarders, tourists, church goers, children, even a man with wet tatoos and a dog ran into the store taking refuge from the summer happenstance while the security guard passed out umbrella bags.
     Have you ever watched the movements and facial expressions of wet people?  You should try it sometime. They tense up their shoulders as high as their earlobes and squinchel their faces in distress. They shake their hands and arms and wipe their noses. And then as if needing some reprieve, they seek out eye contact in anyone who will connect, shake their head, and exclaim,  "Whoo!" Some, particularly the unprepared, simply look as if it were the worst experience, possibly worse than death. So their "Whoo!" is more of a four-letter expletive. 
     I have to admit, I'm not usually a fan of that torturous drip pelting my bare arms and shoulder blades on hot summer days.  I don't like to be cold, and so it can be somewhat of an annoyance.  But when I think back to my fondest memories of rain, well, suddenly mother nature is more of an old friend than a foe.  Kara Brady and I used to walk home from Stratfield School together.  We were in the third grade.  She was my best friend and my leader.  And no, our parents didn't walk with us. Times were different then. We were safe.  So one day, we left school for the short walk home to her little cape on Ridgeview Avenue and decided to take the long way.  It would be more fun while the rain showered us from the skies and pummelled the roads. Deep puddles soon began to form, and clogged drain pipes purged their waterfalls.  We tipped our heads back, stuck out our tongues and tasted every clean drop, our eyes blinking for protection and our hair dripping down our backs.  I don't remember if it was Kara's or my suggestion that we roll in the puddles and shower under the drain pipes. But we both agreed.  Why not?  We'll dry. We're eight.
    Her mother's reaction wasn't exactly what we expected. I don't think we really thought about it.  "Oh honestly, girls," she cried out.  "What in the world....."   Mrs. Brady never became truly angry about anything, however.  She was filled with too much love for that.  So our clothes went into the dryer, hot chocolate bubbled on the stove, and we played school in Kara's sweatpants and t-shirts until it was time for me to go home in my once again dry clothes. 
     Rain translates a little differently for each of us.  Whether it offers an excuse, a nuisance or a nuance of nostalgia, it certainly adds a little something to the day.  Today, I plan on staying in my soft pink robe, eating leftover macaroni from last night's dinner, finishing my book and listening to the rain.