Rain

I like the sound of rain. No matter where I've found myself in the world, the pitter-patter of rain on rooftops, sidewalks and trees has always soothed and relaxed me, reminded me of home, and helped me sleep. I feel warm and comforted, snuggled up with pillows under my blanket or sipping some hot coffee.

However, what I don't like is the sound of rainwater gurgling through the gutters and drains. That sound brings images of rotted leaves matted to the sidewalk; of the drowning darkness from November through April that leaves me struggling for a breath of sunlight; memories of mornings dim and damp that I walked to school, alternating which hand warmed in a pocket, while the other held on with cold and stiff fingers to the trumpet case that banged against my knee.

Winters in Oregon are long and dull. We don't get too many exciting storms, just slow and mind-numbing drizzle for months and months on end. I can't stand winter in any part of the world, though. If I had it my way, I'd travel back and forth between the southern hemisphere and this half of the planet, giving myself a perpetual summer.

Several times in the past few weeks I've thought, "this is it. The last nice day until June," but I've been wrong in nearly every case.

Monday, after my great-uncle's funeral, I decided to go on a drive and let my feet and hands guide the route. I found myself headed east through the Columbia River Gorge, one of the most beautiful parts of an already beautiful state. I think I was seeking the desert, but settled on an area near Hood River, which lies in the strange middle ground of not-quite-western-forest and not-quite-eastern-desert. I ended up parked at lookout that gave gorgeous views of both Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams. I wrote in my journal, reflected on life, and as I watched the sun start to slip to the other side of Hood I was certain that I had picked the last day of the year for such a view to be possible.

Saturday, an innocent bid to finally empty the recycling bin that had been full of bricks (don't ask) turned into several hours worth of yardwork, taking down old grapevines, raking, sweeping and composting. I haven't lived in a place that had a yard to work in (and no, shoveling snow and/or picking up pine needles off the sidewalk in front of the barracks does not count) in quite some time - six years to be exact - and I'd forgot how much I enjoy it. I was almost disappointed when everything was finished for the day. "Are you sure you don't have a hole to dig somewhere?" I wanted to ask.

Here's to nine months of soggy shoes!