Working in the Rain My father loved more than anything to work outside in wet weather. Beginning at daylight he'd go out in dripping brush to mow or pull weeds for hog and chickens. First his shoulders got damp and the drops from his hat ran down his back. When even his armpits were soaked he came in to dry out by the fire, making coffee, read a little. But if the rain continued he'd soon be restless, and go out to sharpen tools in the shed or carry wood from the pile, then open up a puddle to the drain, working by steps back into the downpour. I thought he sought the privacy of rain, the one time no one was likely to be out and he was left to the intimacy of drops touching every leaf and tree in the woods and the easy mutterings of drip and runoff, the shine of pools behind grass dams. He could not resist the long ritual, the companionship and freedom of falling weather, or even the cold drenching, the heavy soak and chill of clothes and sobbing of fingers and sacrifice of shoes that earned a baking by the fire and washed fatigue after the wandering and loneliness in the country of rain.