Yesterday it finally rained. Today it will rain again. The house is dark. Last night I lit all the white lights in the living room and the pepper and clam lights in the kitchen. I am comforted by the coziness the lights give the rooms.

I love the sound of rain, the way it pelts the windows and the roof. When I was a kid, on a rainy day, I’d lie in my bed, read and listen to the rain. It surrounded me. Out my window I could see the slant of the rain. If some drops came through my window, my mother always made me shut it. I did, reluctantly.

I had my uniform for every summer day. I wore a sleeveless blouse, shorts and sneakers. The sneakers were originally white. I’d dress in the morning, eat my cereal then spend all day exploring. I remember once we happened upon a small pond and a handmade wooden raft was beside it. We launched the raft and used a stick to pole it. One end of the raft was under the water so we all stood crowded at the other end. I was Huckleberry Finn rafting down the river. My sneakers got soaked, and I cut my hand on the stick pole, but I didn’t really mind. It was an adventure. I’d explore not only the familiar woods near my house but also the woods further on, foreign lands. Sometimes because of the heat and the distance, I’d get so exhausted I’d just fall into bed still wearing my clothes. My mother never objected. I did take off my sneakers.

Summer has such bounty. Sugar corn on the cob was my favorite. I’d slather the ear with butter and sprinkle on the salt. I used the typewriter technique to eat the corn, to go from row to row. I’d take a short breath and keep moving. I’d clear the cob with award worthy precision.

The traveling I have done has taught me to try new things. I eat local dishes. Some of them had ingredients I never imagined I’d eat. One was Guinea pigs in Ecuador. I ate the traditional dish at a small restaurant in a little town. The meal was delicious once I got beyond it was Guinea pig. I have eaten goat so many times it is now just a regular food for me. I find it bony. Mostly I have eaten it in soup. I ate reindeer in Finnish Lapland during midnight sun time. It was domestically raised so it didn’t have that gamey taste. I’d mention the blinking red nose but that sounds a bit sacrilegious. It was in Africa where I palate got so expanded food was a great adventure.

My dance card is uke heavy as usual. I have practice tonight, the John Denver book, my lesson tomorrow morning and two concerts, songs of the sea music. Our first Monday night outside concert is next week. It is getting summer busy.

This is my annual Father’s Day post, long but not even close to being long enough to tell you about my father, my amazing father, my funny and loving father. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me laugh and smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day, and the memories came flooding in

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today all my memories are of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm morning he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father always said he never snacked, and my mother would roll her eyes. He kept chocolate, those miniature bars, under the couch, hidden from everyone else, but, we, everyone else, knew. He loved Pilot Crackers covered with butter. Hydrox was his preferred cookie. His vanilla ice cream was always doused with Hershey’s syrup. That man did love his chocolate.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain with butter. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the frying pan on the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we’d one up him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid instead. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day.