Cloudy days with lots of rain showers are my favorite. Too many in a row can be dreary, but adequately spaced, a soft rain or even a boisterous thunderstorm brings a coziness only improved upon by the addition of soft jazz playing in the background. I always feel more introspective on these days. It’s a kind of moody dreamy mix that’s never ever depressing. While it’s true the therapy of beautiful, sunny weather provides a vitamin D necessity. Sometimes in a world where nothing can happen fast enough, all I crave is the slower pace that comes with the rain.

Growing up in a very small town, we had a proportionately sized public library. I was (and still am), so grateful for that little library. It could have been half its already small size and I wouldn’t have noticed. Back then our tiny town didn’t have the budget for a full fledged building, so the library was housed in a 1950s era home and all the rooms had been converted to serve as separate book sections. Most of my post-school afternoons were spent in the back office of my mom and dad’s accounting practice, so it’s no surprise that given half a chance I was always ready to head down to the library. It was about a quarter mile away and once I was old enough, I was allowed to walk by myself. Funny now to remember how long that quarter mile felt to a 10 year old with only her feet as transportation. Looking back I’m sure it was due to my short little legs, but it always felt like I was never going to get there.

While no day surrounded by books could ever be considered bad, when it came to what I considered to be a perfect trip to the library, timing was everything. The front office window conveniently faced main street, right across from the railroad tracks that crossed through town. I remember carefully watching the clouds for any hint of gray. Of course these were the days before iPhones and weather apps, so catching a storm before it hit was a little more challenging. I would carefully search the sky outside the window. If it looked like even a hint of bad weather was possible I was out the door; trying my best to time my arrival perfectly with the start of the rain. 

The plan was simple. Get there as fast as possible without getting caught in the downpour; select a book and beeline for the reading room; settle into the perfect chair located next to a large picture window in the house’s former parlor room. Sometimes I arrived dry and other times not so much. Wet or not if all went according to plan I was able to slip into my favorite spot and read for hours in the softly lit room with rain pouring down. Pure bliss.

My childhood was incredibly sheltered with few outlets for exploration beyond our family’s carefully constructed borders. Although my mother encouraged my voracious appetite for books she closely monitored my reading material, which guaranteed I could never stray far from her carefully curated list or watchful eye. She insisted on reading everything before I did and to this day I’m still shocked by how much Greek mythology made it past her scrutiny. Seriously, have you read the Odyssey recently? Good thing the salacious parts went over my head! 

Which is why it was no surprise that when it came to the library, my mother had already gone before me. Even if I’d tried there was no way I would’ve been allowed to check out a book that didn’t meet her standards. The librarians had her back all the way and they were sure to steer me clear of any suspect material. After she died I remember visiting the library as a young teen. There they all were, ready to review my book list and ask if I was sure my mother would have approved. Nothing ever got passed her. Absolutely nothing. She’d trained us all well, including the library crew. And when she was no longer able to pre-read my books she was still taking care of me.

It’s been more than 30 years since those days, yet I still long for a quiet rainy day, a cozy spot and a good book. That little library was a wonderful place. I still remember it so vividly. It’s truly amazing how the special times in our lives often come from the most simple of experiences. They mark and shape us in ways we can never imagine. I rarely found anyone else in that space, making it all the easier to pretend it was my own private retreat. For a burgeoning book worm it was absolute heaven.