I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. It was Saturday and I sat on my apartment balcony watching the rain. We’ve had so much rain. Rain and more rain.

Soggy thoughts swished around my brain. I wondered, if rain falls on a town, and there’s no one to sit on a balcony to watch it, would the rain still be wet?

Hey, I didn’t say I thought great thoughts, nor even well-thought-out thoughts.

What’s splashing around up there are just the thoughts of a guy who’s parked his brain in neutral and his seat on a padded chair to watch the rain.

The rain tapered. I snaked my arms from under my blanket to scroll through my phone.

My friend Clarice posted, “Weekend’s here, baby! Might mess around and use a different setting on the washing machine.”

Clarice knows how to stir up the action.

Me, I knew full well that my clothes needed laundered, dishes needed washed, floors needed vacuumed and bills needed paid.

Tough cookies. I was busy watching the rain and thinking watered-down thoughts, like:

• If the early bird catches the worm, why do good things come to those who wait? I’m sleeping in and waiting for chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting.

• If I say something is indescribable, technically, haven’t I just described it?

• If we’re not supposed to eat at night, why is there a light in the refrigerator?

I snapped a damp selfie from the balcony and zapped it to my buddy Tom in Kansas. A downpour or two later, he shot one back of his latest woodworking project in his garage.

“My dad would be happy I’m dabbling in something he was good at and I had no interest in back in the day,” Tom wrote.

I know the feeling. My dad would be pleased to see me sitting on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching the rain.

I’ve written before about how he would do that, just sit and watch the rain — even if there was thunder and lightning.

I never understood that.

Dad found lightning interesting. “Did you see the jagged pattern of that strike?”

“Can’t. My eyes are closed. I’m gonna go crawl under my bed now.”

Dad didn’t have a book or a game. Smartphones hadn’t been invented yet, but if they had, his would have been inside while he sat outside on the porch. Watching the rain.

He was home from work. It was too wet to be on the tractor out in the field. It was perfect weather to wrap up in a blanket, sit on the porch and watch the rain. Dad was at peace that way.

He was even happier when Mom sat with him. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they just held hands.

It was a disgusting display for a 10-year-old boy to witness.

I’m in my mid-60s and finally realize how fortunate of a kid I was to have parents who held hands and stuck together through storms.

Now I sit alone on my Adirondak bench built for two watching the rain by myself and wishing that my late wife was still alive so that we could hold hands. Terry would have the side of the chair next to the little table because she’d have a mug of coffee. Like Dad.

A line from a hit song from back in my day went, “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.”

I’m finding that rainy days on Saturdays make me smile. I’m awash in memories and messages from far-flung friends.

And I’m curled up in a warm blanket. Watching the rain.

I might even stay out here if the lightning starts. I’ve figured out what you saw in the rain, Dad.

Soak with Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.