It was a good day, yesterday, to stay inside.
It was cool and it rained most of the day; I sat on our new sofa all afternoon, reading, ignoring the wet, gray world, wrapped in layers of clothing so that I could leave the balcony door open to breathe in the aroma of the rain. Not an altogether bad way to pass the time.
The weather wizards say it has been a strange winter and spring, too cool and too wet; acquaintances that have lived here for years, some their entire lives, are eager to apologize for the weather.
It doesn’t really matter to me; a writer can observe as much of interest about folks when it rains as when the skies are clear and bright. I count the number of umbrellas; watch the faces of the men and woman who brave the day without cover, trying to fathom their Puritan souls. I love to guess how passersby will cross a puddle, on tiptoes or tromping, and wonder what someone may have been thinking when they bought an umbrella in that particular shade.
Personal space seems to shrink, too, when it rains; people are more willing to pack in tight to a dry space, waiting for a bus. And it is all I can do not to laugh watching the funny little dance some folks do, waiting in the rain to cross a street.
Years ago, there was a radio and television entertainer named Art Linkletter and his signature catch phrase was, “People are funny.”
I’ll tweak that just a little; people are really funny when it rains.
