Oh, the blessing of the sound of rain on the roof.  The soft patter outside while I’m all cozy inside makes me want to snuggle deeper under the covers or hold my mug of coffee just a little tighter.  All my life, I’ve had a room on the top floor – growing up in our two story farmhouse, now in our cozy little bungalow, even when I lived in the dorm at college and in an apartment in Washington, DC.  It was wondrous (despite all those blasted stairs I had to climb).  The crash of spring thunderstorms, the drip of of autumn sprinkles, the clink of winter sleet…they are all better when heard right above you.

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I have wonderful memories when I was around ten of grabbing my book and climbing up to our hayloft on a few dreary Saturday afternoons.  Dad worked down in the shop, and I snuggled into a pile of hay reading away with the thunderous sound of rain on the tin roof.

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Oh, and there were countless moments under the covered porch at my parent’s house while it rained.  Sitting in the glider, hulling strawberries, snapping beans, making ice cream in the old hand crank maker – such perfect times and all with the sound of rain on the roof.

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