“I suppose you’re used to it?”
“Me? I guess not! I don’t belong here. Where I come from they’ve got a perfect climate all year round.”
“California?” we asked wearily.
“Tacoma.”
“But I’ve heard it’s always raining in Tacoma.”
“So it does. Rains every day of the year. There’s a climate for you. Hope I get back to it some day, but,” he shook his head sadly, “I don’t know.”
“Can’t you sell out?”
“Don’t own anything. Just here on a visit. Came here expecting to stay a couple a weeks, and been here three years and nine months.”
“That almost sounds as if you like the place.”
“Naw. Came on to bury my mother-in-law, and what do you know!” His sense of grievance mounted to indignation. “She ain’t died yet!”