Growing up in Oregon, one gets used to the rain. I was nominally soggy for the first eighteen years of my life. I (mostly) never minded.
In a Northern rainforest, I was raised by a family of foresters, arborists and naturalists to love the rain. To love its sounds, its constancy, its insistence on supplying what our environment needs – and maybe just a little bit more.
As long as the gray days/weeks/months could be, the temperate Willamette Valley usually encouraged me to seek the outdoors, rather than stay confined. I remember running up and down my dead end street with the neighborhood kids, soaked but uncaring.
Some of my greatest summer memories from Girl Scout camp center on creative uses of mud.
When I moved to northern California for school, I honestly had no idea what to do with myself. I was there from September until December with NO RAIN. It almost felt like blasphemy.
Then one warm night, we heard it. Shrieking with laughter, myself and the other Northwest kids practically drug my roommate (a desert dweller from Las Vegas) out into the downpour.
We ran, we danced, we laughed, we reveled in the rain.
The Art of the Everyday, January 19 – Free association: Write down the first words that comes to mind when we say . . . home. . . soil. . . rain. Use those words in the title of your post.