The Rainy Day Adventure
It was a spring weekend. We were rudely woken in the middle of the night by the sound of the screeching, angry wind wrapping itself about the house, going around and around in a frenzy. The rain, not to be outdone, pounded on the roof and pelted the windows. They were in rare form. Even Peter could not sleep peacefully through that performance. He tried though. He gave a little moan, turned, buried his head under the covers and tried to ignore all the hubbub that nature had wrought. Max raised his head, but as long as there was no thunder and lightening, he was not alarmed. He curled up into a comfortable little ball, closed his eyes once more and went back to sleep. I slowly crept out of bed and pattered downstairs to the basement with a cup of tea. I figured that would be the quietest place in the house. I put on some classical music on the CD player, lay on the couch, covering myself warmly with one of the blankets there and proceeded to read. My eyes were getting heavy-lidded and I was about to fall asleep when I heard Peter coming down the stairs followed by Max. “Where are you Stella?” my anxious husband called. “In the basement,” I called back. He came down and sat on the corner of the sofa. I sat up and drew him close to me. We huddled together and wrapped the blankets snuggly around us, stretching our legs on the coffee table. Of course, Max had to join in. “So much for the outing we planned for today,” he said. We were going to set out in the morning to wherever. We did that sometimes. We never knew where we would end up. Once we ended at Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s homes in Connecticut. They had lived next door to each other. Another time we had ended up in a cotton plantation in the South owned by a Jewish woman in some now forgotten town. We had followed a sign to the plantation as we drove down to Florida. Who knew Jewish ladies owned plantations in those days? Another time, in Italy, we drove in the wrong direction than we intended and ended up in Cinqua Terra. We were so glad we got lost then. What a beautiful place that was. It was always fun doing that. We called it going on an adventure. We aimed for nowhere and ended up in the most delightful places. But on that day, there was no going on any adventure. The rain and the wind were relentless. No one in their right mind would attempt an outing on such a day. As the sky lightened, thunder decided to join the rain and the wind. Why not? The more the merrier! It was loud, it was dramatic, and it was exciting! Our poor dog Max did not like thunder and lightning. He was terrified of it and shook like a leaf. We took turns embracing and reassuring him. So we stayed home. We crawled back into bed and completed our interrupted sleep. We woke up midday with a great sense of wellbeing. It was still a grey day; the rain was still pelting the roof and windows, but the wind had calmed down as had the thunder. You could hardly look out the windows, for the momentum of the rain made everything outside almost invisible. I made Peter’s favourite breakfast of porridge with walnuts, raisins, apples, honey, and cinnamon with a dash of milk. It was creamy and thick, just as he liked it. We lingered over our toast and tea and pottered about. We let Max out. He was happy not to have a long walk. He hurried right back and we were happy not to be out getting soaked. Since we thought we were going out for the day, I had not planned to cook. By late afternoon Peter was getting hungry. He started scrounging around in the pantry and the freezer. He found some hotdogs in the freezer and tinned baked beans in the pantry. “Aha! I am preparing our dinner today!” he declared. That called for a lot of work for mother. The whole kitchen would be turned topsy turvy. Bless his heart, he was happy to create one of his specialities. He loved doing that. He was going to make baked beans with hot dogs. It began with, “Stella? Stella? Where do you keep the onions?” Since the onions were always in the same place, in the wire basket in plain sight, I replied, “On top of the roof, darling. Would you like me to climb up there and get some for you, dear?” as I handed him the onion. He did not answer but cheerily hummed as he peeled and chopped it. “Stella, Stella, do we have some ketchup?” I handed him the ketchup. On and on he asked for one ingredient after another. The kitchen floor was littered with onion peels, the cabinets were smeared with the juices of the various ingredients he used. I will not even mention the stove and the countertops. He was no longer humming. He was singing happily at the top of his voice and waving his spoon about in the air to the tune he was singing. Max was standing close to him catching whatever Peter was scattering about the kitchen. The dog was just as happy as Peter was. At last, he was done. “Would you set the table, please,” he asked sweetly. As we sat down to eat, I told him what a great meal he had made. It was. It was the same meal his father used to make for his wife and family in times gone by. It was a meal made with joy and love. I looked about the kitchen. It looked like a tornado hit it. For a moment my heart fell at the amount of cleaning I would have to do later. Then I smiled to myself. What difference does it make? No amount of money could buy the look of love and joy on his face. Remembering that day, those many years later, I know that I was right. As I remember, there is a smile on my face and joy in my heart.