WHEN JAKE GOT BACK TO THE HOUSE, IT WAS still raining. In five months in Oregon they had seen as much rain as they had seen in five years in Nebraska. It made a fellow restless, the tedium of the rain, the endless drip of water off those tall dark trees that blotted out the sky even on a sunny day. The rain had begun the last week of September and for two months it rained every day. Now and then it would lift, so that you could see the great clouds rolling in from the Pacific. More often, the mill and the river and the town of Millwood would be socked in under a leaden sky. Sometimes it rained harder and sometimes the rain eased a bit, but it always rained. Even with a rain slicker, it was impossible to go out without getting wet. Everyone had colds, perpetually dripping noses and hacking coughs. Little Red seemed to go from one cold to another without quite getting well in between. There were spiders everywhere. The three books Emaline owned all smelled of mildew, as did their clothing and even the bedding. No matter how much she scrubbed, she couldn’t get the smell of mildew out of the house.

Alice said it was like this every fall. It rained and rained, but January and February were usually dry and clear. Then it would rain again in the spring, but not like this. Jake was not convinced that it would ever end. He hated rain, hated it more than wind or snow or heat. Said it made him feel like he had fallen asleep in a cold bath and lain there all night until his skin wrinkled and started to peel.

Despite the rain, Emaline loved Oregon. Jake had a good job with a steady income, Red had dozens of children to play with. They didn’t wake in the morning to the sound of the wind blowing grit against the window. But she knew Jake. He was not the type to put up with a situation he didn’t like for long.

They had a big, happy Thanksgiving dinner at the Tatro house. The union executive had sent three turkeys to Clay Tatro. Emaline helped Alice put on a feed they would all remember, complete with cranberries, sweet potatoes, baked potatoes, a half dozen pies. The Friday after Thanksgiving dawned like the others, under pouring rain. Jake peered out the window after breakfast. There was a western hemlock tree in the yard, so close that its branches touched the window. On a branch of the tree was a tiny green tree frog. The frog stared at Jake, Jake stared at the frog. Abruptly, he threw down his fork and pushed his chair back from the table.

“When it’s so damned wet the frogs are takin to the trees, it’s time to head back to Nebraska.”