The rain sounds cold and foreboding. The music it makes on the tin roof of my little country home, seems to warn me to stay inside.

In the distance, I faintly hear the rumble of thunder.

As I gaze out the rain splattered window toward the orchard, the rain gleams on early fallen leaves. The marigolds appear to be nodding, getting ready for the long winter’s nap.

An autumn rain can quickly change ones plans for the day.

My basket is already at the kitchen door, along with the old blue faded flannel shirt.

Today was going to be the day to go on my search in the woods for ripe persimmons. By now, the wild fruit would be ripe and wrinkled and ready for picking.

A rainy autumn is a good time for making ready for winter and catching up on things around the house.

The last of the jars of apple butter are waiting to be labeled and put on the shelves. It is comforting to see them there alongside the jars of peach preserves, deep red beet pickles, jars of golden honey and green tomato chowchow.

The wind is picking up, whistling around the roof corners and blowing hard against the window panes. The weather is settling in.

The tea kettle’s song can be heard and a hot cup of tea will taste especially good.

It is a perfect day for being inside.

As the coldness creeps across the fields, I am reminded of my husband’s poem, “The Norther.”

“Tonight is the night to pop some corn;

And sit snuggled by the fire;

So a quick dash to check everything at the barn;

To assure animals are settled in their lyre;

To gather the eggs and shut up the hens;

Though one doubts Mr. Possum will prowl;

For on such a night it would take more than hunger pains; To send him out looking for fowl.”

To send him out looking for fowl.”

This seems like a good day to bake a pan of gingerbread for supper and open a jar of those good home canned peaches.

As I reach for that big mixing bowl and measure the flower, cinnamon and molasses, I am content with this rainy autumn day. My husband says in his poem –

My husband says in his poem –

“I like the spring and I like the fall;

And I like the summer time play;

But there’s nothing like a good winter squall;

That comes near the close of the day.” Folks, I wrote this in the fall of 1986.

Folks, I wrote this in the fall of 1986. Those were some good old days.

Taking early retirement for health reasons, we had moved to the home place.

We lived at the edge of a little village, back there in the hills of southeast Oklahoma.

Maybe I have told you, we called it Aimless Acres – “cause we don’t aim to do nothin.”

I was told there was a proud, but very poor widow. When the usher passed the offering plate at church, she would shake her head.

One Sunday, the usher didn’t bother offering the plate to her.

After church she asked him, “Why didn’t you pass the plate to me?”

He stammered, “Well, I…that is I thought, well…”

“Young man,” she said, “you should always give me the privilege of shaking my head!”