By Nils Jorgensen
There's something about the rain.
I remember as a child that mum would have us help to get all the pot plants from inside out on to the back verandah so they could all have a drink.
I remember sitting by a blazing fire in the Adelaide hills in my stone-floored cottage, listening to the rain beat down on the tin roof, knowing it would be sludgy outside the next morning.
I remember being cosy wrapped up in bed, listening to the windy storm beat against my windows up at my house in Blackwood.
I remember leaping out of the house when I was about 10, racing across the road to Heywood Park, where I jumped in puddles and frolicked about for about three hours in the first rain of the season.
I remember playing hockey in the rain, trussed up as the team's penultimate defense, already looking forward to taking off my gear, getting home, taking off my wet clothes, having a hot shower, to relax in warm clothes and perhaps a bowl of soup.
I remember too, the drop of rain at the end of my dad's nose as he approached the team huddle after the game(s), dressed in his japara, quiet and present.
I remember rowing in the rain, when the water was always calmer, getting soaked with extra blisters because the wet flesh of my palms seemed to grate on the wood of the oar more than if it were dry.
There's something about having a roof over your head; comfortable clothes to wear, and a hot meal to eat. Coming from Australia, I guess I should prefer the hot. I don't.
I remember fondly how mum would Tuck Me In when I was young, shoving my layer (a 'skivvy', where I'm from) down into my pants with gusto, so no foul wind could reach my skin. (I'm still a tucker-inner.)
This cosy layer of love and protection springs to mind at times when it's most wet and inhospitable.