I like rain. Some of that is because I’m a California boy. Some of it is from a year in Seattle (where it doesn’t “RAIN” as much as one thinks, but a tangible humidity is evident most of the year). Some of it, though it may seem odd, from time in the Army.
The last is why I don’t care, quite so much, about being wet (a friend was visiting a couple of weeks ago. I got moderately soaked; zie was a bit too short to make sharing hir umbrella practical, and I’ve always hated umbrellas; which is largely because rain in California is almost always cold, and too windy for brollys to be truly useful. A hat and a a spare shirt is what I travel with with when I expect to be rained on at length).
So I am back from voting, and walking my beloved to the train, and getting coffee. My kilt is laid out to dry, my hat is reblocking itself (horsehair felt, crushable, wettable, warm when wet, and it keeps my front dry). I’m looking at the lake across the street (it’s normally a parking lot) and thinking I’d like be in this weather, in a decent tent; high in the Sierra’s, or in Joshua Tree. Lazy and cozy, the sound of the rain through the trees (or on the desert) and pinging on the tent. Wood under a tarp, and fuel for a stove; hot cocoa and rum; woodsmoke and fresh tortillas. Homely and lazy; secure.
Because rain is a comfort.