When it rains or snows, a pit forms in my stomach.  I’m paranoid that a roof tile has cracked, allowing water to soak the rafters, jumpstarting an invasion of hungry wet-wood eating bugs.  One upon a time I was a different kind of nutcase.  In those days rain calmed my teenage anxiety.  On rainy nights in a soulless Chicago suburb, I’d lay awake, dreaming of an all-night Seattle-bound train ride.  Pitter pat, pitter pat, the steady beat of falling rain would morph into the clip clop of a train.  A mile from home, an actual train would sound its horn.  Lost in a rain induced train-trance, stress, worries and thoughts of suicide would melt away.

Way out in Seattle, young Kurt Cobain, fed up, and anxious to be rid of Seattle’s depressing rain, dreamed of riding a train to Chicago.  Too bad he didn’t.  We could have like totally hung out.