I love the rain.
Growing up, the first rain in the spring always felt warm even though it soaked my wool jumper chilling me to the bone, and caused the snow to turn to mush, ruining ski conditions, and left invisible patches of black ice on the roads, and soaked through my mittens turning my fingertips blue while making snow balls that were more like slush bombs. Rain meant winter was over. Oh, yeah, there might be several more weeks of snow ahead but that was "spring snow" not winter snow. Crocuses, hyacinths, snow drops knew it was time to wake up. The tips of the scrub oak and fruit trees in the garden turned from a from frigid gray color to subtle hues of lavender and green that gradually spread as the days past.
Summer rains were an invitation to run and dance. Barefoot. Through the grass, the new mud between garden rows, in puddles on steaming pavement. It meant stalling to be the last one out of the pool when the lifeguard blew his whistle and ordered everyone out and under the awning in case lighting accompanied the passing rain storm. I just had to grab that minute to float with my nose barely out of the water so I could listen to the music of rain drops hitting and melding into the surface of the pool . Rain made the chore of hoeing and weeding my designated rows of peas and corn and tomatoes and squash as quick and easy as cutting butter with a hot knife; which gave life more time for swimming, baseball, bike riding, climbing trees, and making homemade cages out of old tuna fish cans and window screens for captured lizards and Monarch butterflies (no they did not share a cage; they had separate domiciles and were usually set free after a few days of examination).
I do love rain.