By Chuck Woodbury
Originally published in October, 2011
It’s raining. That’s what happens this time of year in the Northwest.
We had a short summer, but we could hardly complain considering the record heat much of the nation endured.
I have lived in the Northwest for 15 years now. I came from California, first from the irrigated desert of Los Angeles, where sunshine is the name of the game. Then I moved to northern California, with its honest-to-goodness seasons. I bought a heavy coat.
Now, near Seattle, I deal with rain. And drizzle. And gray skies. Shortly after moving here, on a spectacular, sunny winter day, I remarked to a clerk at our post office. “Beautiful day, eh?” He frowned, “Don’t like the sun,” he said. No need to ask: he was native — webbed feet inside them thar shoes.
Now, after 15 years here, I have grown to accept, even enjoy the rain (at least in the early season before it gets old).
I have always enjoyed rainy days in my motorhome, especially in a forest where the pitter-patter on my roof is like music, and the smell of the air like Heaven. People who live in roomy homes cannot fully understand the concept of coziness until they have holed up in an RV during a rain storm. It’s special. I feel like the rest of the world doesn’t matter: I have what I need and I am dry and warm. A good winter day for me in my motorhome is the sound of rain on the roof, a pot of hot coffee, and the time and peace to write. I write better in my RV, and even better when it’s raining.
As you can see, right now I feel pretty good about the rain. But I know from experience that if you ask me in February I’ll be singing another tune.