We’ve had a waterlogged weekend. The rain has been constant and cold. Starting early Saturday morning, it has drenched us for nearly forty-eight hours with the kind of chilly wetness that makes you think of winter waiting down the road. There’s been no letup – no sun pushing through now and then, no few hours of balminess, no dryness anywhere to be found. All weekend, I couldn’t help but think about our trip to the White Mountains last week, when we had such clear, dry, splendid weather. What, I wonder, would we have done with 22 restive 8th graders in the mountains if it had rained steadily for the four days? The trip might well have been a soggy and utter disaster. My weekend, though soggy, was nothing like a disaster, however. I loved all of it. I used the rainy weather as an excuse to sit inside my comfortable apartment and do some reading. The lamp was softly shining, the story was absorbing, and the hours passed smoothly, like the clearest and most beautiful days do.
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