I've always loved rain and, except when it's cold, being in it. My "I Think" diatribe against leather clothing was actually inspired by my love for rain. Too many times I've been out when it started raining, and I wanted to stay out, but the people I was with wanted to go in. After a moderate level of whining from me, the excuses would come out: I don't like it, I don't want to get wet, I don't want to mess up my hair, I'm wearing leather, etc. (I don't really wear leather myself, and I never cared what my hair looks like.) Even when the excuses seemed reasonable enough, I always found it frustrating, because with them comes a dismissal of one of life's greatest joys -- one that, unfortunately, we are programmed to think of as a curse. (I'll be the first one to admit that I don't know how to cope with the fact that not all people enjoy things like rain and chocolate and dogs and good books, but I'm getting sidetracked.)

Sometimes I'd stay out anyway; sometimes I'd concede and go back in. Rain is almost as enjoyable from a closed window anyway.

One of my fondest of childhood memories -- one I can still experience from time to time -- was when my grandparents had just their camp on their lake front property in Maine. The camp was a summer camp only -- it wasn't insulated for winter use -- and so the sound of rain on the roof came through very well. There are few things more relaxing than lying awake in bed, dry and warm, when the sound of the rain pitter-pattering on the roof is unmuffled by insulation.

They have since built a year-round home on that property, but the camp is still there, and when we visit, once in a while we sleep in the camp instead of the house. It's been a long time since I did that when it was raining. Maybe it's about time I did it again.