It’s the fourth day in a row that the rain is steadily falling from a slate grey sky, and I’m tripping down memory lane remembering how my parents, my mother in particular, use to keep us—us being six kids—occupied during rainy days at home. Not that all six kids were together all that often. The older ones I always remember being at school or at friends houses, while me and my two younger brothers (*the second batch as my father referred to us*) were more likely to be together. There was a considerable age difference between the oldest, my sister, and the youngest, my brother, by 15 years.

On those odd weekends when we were all at home, and because of and despite the rain, my father would take us like a herd of sheep, and walk us to the library. A favourite place to wile away 2 or 3 hours on a Saturday morning, and a way of keeping us occupied reading or, at the very least, listening to story time. My dad got a break and could read, pick up several fat books to take home, and also, give my mother a few precious hours to herself to do, well, whatever she did.

On other rainy days, when it was just us three little ones, I remember my mother getting us involved doing jigsaw puzzles, or quietly reading, while she herself read. Or sometimes, building sheet forts under the dining room table, with old sheets, curtains, and cushions. The best time of all was when she read to us, her lilting Scottish brogue lulling us to mute listeners as she created characters out of sound. The sound of her voice something I thought would always be with me, forever.

Even now I can almost hear her reading us Winnie the Pooh, or Alice in Wonderland, for the millionth time.

It’s funny how a rainy day can bring back so many happy childhood memories and bring a simple joy into my heart. I’m also forever thankful to my parents for giving me such a love of reading.

Now, if you will excuse me, I just might go and read J. M. Barry’s Peter Pan or Lewis Carroll’s Alice Through The Looking Glass one more time.