This morning I drove my daughter to school in the gentle rain, a smile on my face. Drivers next to me scowled in their cars—miserable, and muttering under their breath. Or so it seemed, in my reverie. Traffic creeped along, hesitant, as if this was our collective first experience with a bit of wet pavement—something threatening to no one but a blue-sky-loving Californian. Rain! After how many months of perfectly pristine, neat-as-a-pin cloudless skies? Nothing but sun lined up, single-file, day after day after endless day. Too many for this Midwestern gal. Call me a curmudgeon for saying so, but I’m ready for something different. For foggy, cool mornings that beg us to pull on a woolly sweater and cozy slippers (and linger with a cup of coffee). For soft raindrops on the roof that sing us to sleep at night, and coax us inside on weekends to play board games together and sip hot cocoa. The few bursts of orange and yellow dressed branches along the road are appreciated too.
