The Rain We

Hello friends,

The rains have returned to Portland, warming up the frigid air.

I went for a walk yesterday, appreciating the soft patter of light rain on my jacket. The fresh scent of wet trees and shrubs, dead leaves, and damp sidewalks.

Portland rain is different from the rain of my childhood. Ah, the Los Angeles basin. In the 1970s, it was a place of lead filled smog that choked the sky, burned my skin, and kept children indoors during school recess because the air quality was often so bad.

In Los Angeles, the scent of creosote rising as rain hit warm tarmac was one of my favorite smells. It meant the skies would soon soften and the air would finally clear of its gasoline stink.

Instead of curling beneath a tree, sweating as I read, or playing with jumping spiders on the concrete slab of our front porch, I could finally sit at the hearth of our gas fire, reading book after book to my heart’s content, with no admonition to “go outside!”

I have loved the rain ever since, long after leaving Southern California, the joy of shimmering air and dark clouds remain.

It’s funny, the things that shape us. The sense memories. Other childhood memories are not nearly as dear to my heart, being sources of trauma and pain. Those memories shaped me, as well. And I survived.

I still read more books than the average person, and I still love the rain that gave me respite as a child. Actually, it was the books and rain both that comforted me during those hot, sometimes violent years.

These days, I walk outside in the rain with great frequency, unless there is driving wind. And I write books as well as read them. The child in me is happy at this turn.

What memories shape you still? And how do you feel about rain?

be well — Thorn

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