I must have Scottish blood because I love rainy, dreary days like this one. The clouds parted briefly this morning, long enough for me to walk around the pond and greet a new brood of ducklings. But by the time I returned home, large icy drops started to splatter down again, and they’ve pockmarked the olive-green pond ever since.

Reminds me of the weather in Western North Carolina, where my forebears drove locomotives through the mountains with narrow-gauge cars of hardwood logs and iron ore. When I’ve retraced their route through Cranberry, Linville, and Boone, it’s felt like a hot-air balloon excursion instead of an auto trip: Low-hanging clouds and fog, chilly temperatures, and rain. Always the rain.

I love it.

In weather like this, I know the solitude of a pioneer trailblazer, a prospector panning for gold, or a steam engineer gripping the throttle and peering through the mist for wayward cows. Arthritis be hanged. Pneumonia be gone. This is my kind of weather.

It must be the Scottish blood.