NS November 11th, 2006

As much as I despise cold, wet English bathrooms, English customer service, and English pastries, I have never had a problem with the weather. I might grumble a little bit in summer if it never gets above 75 degrees or if we don’t see a significant snowfall for the entire winter (and by significant, I mean enough to cover the grass in sporadic patches, and which doesn’t melt immediately; this doesn’t happen often, though). But I don’t mind the rain. I often revel in the rain, taking comfort in the grey days where it becomes a challenge to not let my mood match the skies. If I can manage to have a good day (including being outside and going about my day) when it’s wet and windy….well, I feel pretty good about that. Rain can be a prison if you allow it to be. For some, the idea of living in rainy ol’ London is about as appealing as spending 10 years in a Turkish prison. But to me, letting rain make you feel like a prisoner is the more appalling thought.

I love curling up under a blanket with a hot cup of tea and listening to the rain outside sing its gentle lullaby, or peering down a busy London street and seeing a vast sea of black umbrellas, the marching occupants beneath determined to carry on, like so many wet soldiers. It’s rainy days when I was a child that are also the source of some of my favorite memories. My mother spreading out huge rolls of crisp, white paper and giving us crayons, markers and paint, always letting us use our imaginations to create worlds unto themselves; writing scripts and making costumes with my sisters for our impromptu plays; the smell of cinnamon toast and hot chocolate with marshmallows wafting from the kitchen; how I used to look out the window and wonder if the rain in Spain really did fall mainly on the plain, and if I would ever be lucky enough to find out for myself; wondering if a boy would ever be so crazy about me that he would grab me in the pouring rain and kiss my trembling lips and make my knees go weak with the ferocity of his passion; Rainy days are completely underappreciated for their pensive and melenchoic value.

I am so far from a beach girl that it’s ridiculous. I am pale and moody and I like to sit inside and read much of the time. I’ve never been one to long for the ocean or to feel hot sand between my toes. I’ve always preferred the warmth of red wine or whiskey to the frozen froo froo girly drinks, and woolen sweaters and wind-whipped cheeks to sunburnt shoulders and flip flops. Give me rain, give me snow, give me cold. I’d give up the hot, relentless sun and sticky summer days anytime. Without rain, we would not be able to survive. We need it to feed and cleanse ourselves, wash away the dirt and grime, start anew, and in more ways than one. Rain is not only life, it allows us to be reborn.

And the aesthetic advantage of all this rain is, of course, a fantastically, orgasmically green England, with shades ranging from the muted hue of moss to the brilliant emerald of clover. Winter in Prague may be breathtaking, and there nothing like Autumn in Maine. But Springtime in England is splendid, and it’s all because of the rain.

No matter how much I miss the golds and reds of Fall in America, these are my colors now. This is the spectrum of my life, with my family, in this place. The green, green grass of home.

• Britishisms , Home and Hearth
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