It comes in waves, this northern California rain. A couple of days now, all gray and dark — turning on the lights in the middle of the day, feeling cold even though the thermostat says 68°.
Living in a small 1930s bungalow, the sound of the rain is old. It picks up speed, hitting the old glass in my original windows, pounding the roof, pouring onto the patio.
The snow back home was peaceful — at least, until the media start to make it into a fearful and cataclysmic event. The rain is an event of interest here, but you don’t hear reports of people raiding grocery stores.
Still, the rain is depressing. The darkness and damp chill, the feeling of being trapped in the house.
It’s 10:30, and I’m still hanging out in bed.
