A Good Day for Ducks

For four years we learned how to take a shower in a bucket, and put bricks in our toilets. We tore out our lawns or let them die, and learned all about xeriscape gardens. I feel guilty if I let the water run while I brush my teeth.

Now we are trying to figure out how to get rid of the water pouring out of the tunnels dug by gophers, sheeting off the roof and making a giant pothole at the bottom of our driveway. The wind is blowing the tall bamboo stalks almost double and we hope the drought weakened trees hold their own. The creek across the street is a raging caffelatte colored torrent, but is staying below flood stage. Nevertheless, we get flash flood warnings hourly on our phones. They are vague enough to be practically useless and impossible to turn off.

Yet, life goes on. Peter had a soccer game last night. It seems only right that the final score was 1-1 after two forty minute halves and twenty minutes of overtime. OilMan and Ozzie and I walked over to Spring Lake during what seemed like a lull this morning. It was only momentary. The park was closed to cars but nobody seemed to care if those of us crazy enough to want to walked in the pouring rain. The few people we met who weren't working on clean up all had labradors. Ozzie is still wet.

 Acre Coffee was full of people. A man behind us was reading a book called,  A History of Penance in Medieval Europe from 600 to 1200. A little boy sat so quietly in his mother's lap while she chatted with a friend that we didn't even notice him until they left. Despite the terrible weather, we seemed to be the only ones who looked like refugees from the monsoon.

Staying home in front of the fire in dry clothes seems to be the most appropriate move.