Journal: 10/23/05

Yesterday the cold rains returned. I worked at school for a few hours in the morning, accompanied by the songs of the rain outside in the garden. Oddly, I didn’t often notice the rain as I worked (buried in my tasks, I suppose), but occasionally I glanced up and was surprised by the heaviness of the storm outside. The rain was driving down hard on the gray-looking trees and grass; all outdoors looked thoroughly oppressed by this latest storm. Later, I had one of the finest Saturday afternoons a person can have (or at least this person). I sat in a snug chair in my apartment, reading Dickens, watching football players dash across green fields on the TV, and listening to the rain making its music outside. I felt as peaceful as I’ve felt in my life – perfectly content to be exactly where I was. In many ways, the chilly rain was a gift, and I accepted it with a smile. Later in the day, my son Matt interviewed me for a project he’s doing in graduate school. He asked about my wild years at the University of Kansas in the 60’s, when our antiwar group fairly put the campus into a maelstrom. We sat under the soft lamplight, talking and laughing about those long-gone days. Still later, as I prepared for bed, I again heard the melodies of the rain outside my window, still at it in Westerly and all across the roads for miles and miles, I guessed.