Now, some of that comes from my youth. See, mumble-mumble years ago, I was a fifteen year old boy who was terrified. I'd moved from Ontario to British Columbia, and I was completely alone (again, that happened every time I moved). I was making nerdy friends (my usual move), and then something happened that put me in direct contact with a freaking viking hunk.
When I got to my official French class it was clear pretty early on that I was way ahead of what they were teaching at my grade level, since I'd come from somewhere where the French got a bit more attention. I wasn't feeling remotely challenged in the class, so the teacher suggested I peer tutor a student who'd struggled in his attempt to earn his language credits.
He was two years older than me. He looked like a viking. He played sports. He was popular. We were so incredibly unalike that I was sure at any moment he'd realize, and I'd be face-down in the bathroom getting a swirlie, or shoved into a locker, or sprayed from head-to-toe with pop, or...
Well. Grade nine had a whole list of stuff I'd hoped to never repeat. This new school was one where I hoped that could happen, and as it turned out, that was the case. In part, I think, because of the viking.
Two things happened on a particular day in British Columbia. The first thing was I was walking home with the viking (my house wasn't an extremely far walk from the school, and the viking liked to walk everywhere) where we were going to work on intransitive verbs. I had my mnemonic acronyms ready, as well as a tenuous explanation or two up my sleeve for what an intransitive verb was. The second thing was a downpour, just as we were pretty much half-way. Going back or going ahead would see us both drenched.
Instead? We crossed a rope-bridge onto a small artist's island, and took refuge in a tiny cabin that still stood there from history. It was the cabin the artist had lived in with his wife while building the larger house they'd moved into come the spring, and while their home had been turned into a visitor centre for information on the artist, the little cabin was just sort of tucked aside.
But it was dry.
And it was where I kissed my first guy. The viking. Because while it turned out I was asked to teach him some French, he taught me some French, too, as it were.
The backdrop to the kissing (and more)? Rain. Throughout the whole time we snogged, the sound of rain was the soundtrack. When the rain finally stopped, we got to my house, and despite the drumbeat of terror in my head: I kissed him, he kissed me, oh my God, what do I do? that night, as I fell asleep, the rain returned, and this wave of calm passed over me. I smiled. I remembered.
To this day? The sound of rain is my favourite sound. I sleep better to rain. I am so relaxed and calm when it's raining. And as much as I love a walkabout, there's just something about sitting and listening to the rain, a cup of tea in one hand, and a book in the other.
So, even though we're on day eighteen of eighteen days with rainfall here in Ottawa (if it rains today, it'll actually be a new record), I don't mind. There isn't active flooding, people aren't being hurt, and—okay—the fireworks were delayed, but they were apparently spectacular when they finally happened.
I know a lot of people find the rain gets them down. Thanks to a kiss, I don't think that'll ever be me. Rain makes me smile, makes me boil the tea-kettle, makes me run outside in downpours and spin like a fool, and makes me break out the board games once I dry off.
How about you? What are your memories of the rain? What are your favourite rainy-day activities?
*
The law of three is everything: three vampires for a coterie, three demons for a pack, and three wizards for a coven. Those alone or in pairs are vulnerable to the rest. Luc, Anders, and Curtis—vampire, demon, and wizard—sidestepped tradition by binding themselves together.
When something starts brutally killing demons in Ottawa, the three find themselves once again moving among the powers who rule the city from the shadows—this time working with them to try to stop the killings before chaos and blood rule the streets.
Hunting a killer who seems to leave no trace behind, the triad are forced to work with allies they don’t dare trust, powers they barely understand, and for the good of those they already know to be corrupt.
They have the power of blood, soul, and magic. But they have to survive to keep it.
: ) This was just lovely, thank you! Can't wait to read my copy but it hasn't arrived yet!
ReplyDeletegrr.. need to send an email ... Will respond in kind when i've a bit more time. Ta!