“Do you think it’ll rain” — Dad, whenever it rained heavily
It’s pouring outside. The autumnal Oregon rainfall set in two or three weeks early this year, taking away the last few days of September, and making early October swampish.
Right now the rain is roaring down in torrents outside my office window. Whenever it rains like this — whenever it is stormy — I’m reminded of my father. He loved this weather. All my strong memories of stormy days revolve around him.
I remember working with him outside in the rain, building things, digging things, burning things. I remember driving with him in the rain. I remember how he especially loved a stormy day at the beach.
At various points throughout his life, he owned a boat. In his final years, he kept this boat tied up in Astoria. I’m convinced that the only reason he did this was so that he could have a place to enjoy the storms of autumn, winter, and spring.
Dad has been dead more than twelve years now, and I don’t think of him on a daily basis. But there are certain things — songs, smells, occurrences — that will freeze me in my tracks, as if his presence were palpable. Stormy weather always does this. Always.