When I woke up this morning, the day looked the same as the two days. It had been raining. Everything is newly wet. The grey covering the sky looks entrenched. The wind is sometimes heavy. I’ll be home today. My energy has returned so I’ll finish putting away the Christmas stuff from the living room, the only place left with any, and put the tree, covered by a bag, outside to wait for its dump trip. I brought laundry down here, not all of it but enough to make room in the basket. I’ll intersperse doing the laundry with bringing bins up and down stairs. I hope this burst of energy lingers all day. Tomorrow will be dump day, and if I’m successful today, my only chore.

When I was a kid, we had a boxer, Duke. He was a bridle. Because he was the runt of his litter, he wasn’t very tall, but he was strong and muscular, and he was stubborn. Boxers are known to be stubborn, and Duke epitomized the description. He used to drive my father crazy. There were no leash laws back then so dogs could just take off, and Duke did. My father would yell. Duke would stop, look at him then take off again. My father would yell louder than would jump into his car and chase Duke if he was headed to the East School, where Duke was an unwanted guest, an official unwanted guest. Most times my father caught Duke.

If Duke followed us, we’d stop, turn around and tell him to sit. He’d sit. We’d tell him to stay. He’d pretend to stay. We’d start walking again, and in a bit, we’d turn around to see Duke no further back than we’d left him. Smart boy! He only moved when we were walking and stopped when we turned around.

My school was mostly tolerant so my father never chased Duke when he was following us, but after a few too many visits, the nuns had different reactions to him being in the schoolyard with us. When I was in the third grade, he just slept on a mat under the clock in my classroom in the garage under the rectory. I remember the wall with the clock was a bumpy white plaster wall. When I was in the seventh and eight grades, the nuns’ responses changed; instead, because I was the oldest of my siblings, I got the directive to walk Duke home when the nuns wanted him gone. It was wonderful. I left school, walked Duke home, had a bit of a snack and walked back to school, all sanctioned by the nuns. I dearly loved that dog and our walks together, but even his trips to my school had to end. The poor boy watched us through the storm door, imprisoned by my father. I know it is because of Duke I always have boxers.

The rain started last night, a slow rain at first then it got both heavy and loud. Neither dog would go out before bed. It was late or early, depending on your perspective, before we all went to bed. It was after 3, maybe even closer to 4.

While I am with Jack for my long visit, Henry stands outside the gate watching me and wagging his tail in anticipation of the treat he knows he’ll get when Jack is done with me. Nala is uninvolved and is usually asleep on my bed in my spot. She lifts her head for her treat and chomps slowly. That’s when I first try to move her. I am not very successful. It takes a while. Finally, she gives me a scorned look and moves.

It is still raining. I am glad for that. Even when I was a kid, I loved rainy days. I found them comforting in a strange way as the rain was all around me. I was inside my house but I could see the rain and hear it. In the summer I could smell it coming. In the summer I could go outside during a soft rain. I’d run and dance and get wet. I’d feel a sense of joy.

During my Peace Corps training, (I know! Not another Peace Corps story you think, but this one is different), we lived by the ocean for the first two weeks. It was the rainy season there. Just about every day a gentle rain, almost a mist sometimes, fell. That was my first introduction to a rainy season, and I was led astray. Where I finally lived in Ghana, after training, was in Bolgatanga back then the capital of sorts of the Upper Region. We had two seasons, rainy and dry. Of the two, I survived the heat of the dry season, an accomplishment of sorts I was told later, but I loved the rainy season. The storms early in the rainy season were the most amazing storms I had and have ever seen. The sky would darken with the most menacing clouds. The wind would start then the lightning and thunder. I saw my only ever lightning bolt hit the ground in front of my house. It was spectacular, but I was quite glad I was in my house and not on my outside porch sitting under a metal awning where I might usually have been. The rain was so heavy at first that I could see the dirt paths and roads being washed away leaving rivulets filled with moving rain water and only mud between them.

I watched the rain. It was sometimes a little mesmerizing, but it was after the rain stopped, when the almost miracle happened. I like to think of it that way. The sky got light. The sun came back. The tree branches popped back up, their leaves unfurled, but the best part was the dirt. The rivulets were gone. The ground was flat. The dirt was no longer dusty. One rainstorm, one miracle. When the rains kept coming, everything was planted. Green replaced the brown color of the fields. Market stalls were filled with plentiful fresh fruit for sale, finally from down south. I’ll never forget the sweet taste of a pineapple cut fresh from the bush.

All those amazing experiences were thanks to the rain. They are reasons I love the rain.

I have many rain stories yet to tell, but I’ll save them (drum roll here) for a rainy day!