“It’s raining. It’s pouring. The old man’s snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head, and he wouldn’t get up in the morning.”

The poor old man has been in bed now for two straight days. Yesterday it rained on and off with a few torrential downpours in between. Today it is raining constantly, but the rain is softer, quieter than yesterday’s. I woke up to the sound of the rain on the roof. I stayed in bed a bit and listened. I have always been a lover of rain.

I am going to the dump today, not my usual day, but I figure the rain will keep most people away so it will be a quick trip, no waiting. I need to go to the ATM and I need gas. How nice it is to need only a few things.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday probably meant going to the movies this time of year. My dad would drive us and most times we’d walk home in the rain. Whether the rain was light or heavy determined our route home. A light rain meant we’d go by the town barn and check out the horses. From there we’d stop by the ragman’s house. I remember his porch sagged under the weight of all the piles of newspapers. A second building was where he kept his horse and wagon. I don’t remember ever going into his yard. We just checked everything out from the sidewalk. I don’t know why but it is one of the brightest images in my memory drawers. The two buildings formed an L. The long part was his house. I could see the door but not the windows. The paper piles were too tall. I think at one time the house had been white but by this time it just looked dirty. The short part of the L had a wide doorway so he could back his wagon inside. The driveway was dirt and stones and led right to the horse building.

Sometimes we’d go straight home from the ragman’s house; other times we’d go back a couple of blocks and take the railroad tracks. The choice depended on how wet and cold we were. The tracks ran behind the ragman’s house, pass the old train depot and the red store. We’d stay on the tracks only a bit further until we reached the tracks closest to the field not far from our house. We’d then leave the tracks and walk up one street to where we could cross the field. That left only the hill to our house.

We were always soaked by the time we got home. Kids don’t mind being soaked. It is one of the neat things about being a kid.