I went to sleep last night to the sound of rain and awoke to the same sound this morning. It is soothing, something so familiar as an Oregonian, it is a part of who we are and our routines and traditions surrounding the torrents are strong and different.
The rain means it's green here, spongy and mossy and soggy and the smell is damp and rich. Driving along the Columbia Gorge highways, waterfalls spring out of nowhere and cascade down the ridges and cliffs with abandon, misting and singing Glory and the sight brings a sense of peace to the weary traveler.
If they could bottle this smell into a cologne, it would sell everywhere but here, because the fragrance is burned into our homes, cars, and clothes.
My girls stand at the patio door and pound on the glass. Sorry loves, I say, no going outside today. I make the mental note to shop for little rain boots, and soon.
The forecaster on television cries, "Enough already! When will the rain stop?" and this is the song of our people, but the funny thing is it's this way every-single-year. But it's tradition. We all exclaim, "When will it end?" and lament its presence, offering tips for Seasonal Affective Disorder and searching "things to do with kids when it rains" on the web, but those of us who are Pacific Northwesterners in our hearts wouldn't have it any other way.