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Rainy Weekend

 I'm not sure there is a "literature of rainy weekends," but if such a thing exists, a prime specimen must be "Rainy Sunday," by Beverly Cleary:


Rainy Sunday afternoons in November were always dismal, but Ramona felt this Sunday was the most dismal of all.  She pressed her nose against the living-room window, watching the ceaseless rain pelting down as bare black branches clawed at the electric wires in front of the house.  Even lunch, leftovers Mrs. Quimby had wanted to clear out of the refrigerator, had been dreary, with her parents, who seemed tired or discouraged or both, having little to say and Beezus mysteriously moody.  Ramona longed for sunshine, sidewalks dry enough for roller-skating, a smiling happy family.

“Ramona, you haven’t cleaned up your room this weekend,” said Mrs. Quimby, who was sitting on the couch, sorting through a stack of bills.  “And don’t press your nose against the window.  It leaves a smudge.”


It's all there: the pelting of "the ceaseless rain," the black branches "clawing at wires" outside, the "dreary" lunch of leftovers, the mysterious moodiness of one's sister. I especially love how Mrs. Quimby's tiredness manifests as a control-freak speech: "Your room isn't clean....You're leaving a smudge on the window...."

This is the ending of "Ramona Quimby, Age 8," for which Cleary won Newbery recognition. The Washington Post says that RQ8 concludes the single greatest streak in Cleary's career--the period that began with "Ramona the Brave," and went on to "Ramona and Her Father," and went on to "Ramona and Her Mother, " and on to "RQ, Age 8." Who could argue with that?

Wishing you a manageable (rainy) east-coast weekend.

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