Today the wind is driving a steady rain inland from an Atlantic storm. The sky is steel wool gray and the air raw. There is cold, clinging mud outside and the creeks are high with snow melt. A most excellent day.
There is nothing like a cold rain outdoors to make the inside feel warm and snug. Some of my golden memories are of rainy days with windowpanes rattling and sheets of rain beating against the glass. A fire in the hearth and something warm and dark in the glass, the wet wool of my sweater steaming the way it was when I found that pub down by the Victoria and Albert pier when hitchhiking in a southern winter toward the Cape of Storms. I think of playing board games and gaslight in the upper cottage on Monhegan, or gazing through the leggy riot of my grandmother's geraniums at the window and out across the Bay with a Nor'easter blowing.
This is the sort of day that lures the lobstermen to cribbage games and banter in Sherm's fishhouse, or calls for pasties and pints in a favorite pub. It was made for words like galoshes, Machintosh and foul weather gear. Duck weather. A good kind of inside day.
So, there are logs on the fire, and malt in the glass. There are children playing board games and plans for corned beef and cabbage. Maybe I will make soda bread, or French Onion Soup, or dumplings. Maybe I will settle in with a book and nod off to the patter of rain. Tomorrow I may tire of it. But today, it's all good.