I’m happy to report that it’s raining as I write. It was coming down hard enough last night on the roof/walls to wake me up, confused for a few seconds by what that sound was. I will have to put out the rain gauge and put away the outside furniture (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas).
On the other hand, I can hear the dripping of the annual kitchen leak, and there’s a new one in the laundry room, which is at least conveniently routed to the floor drain.
Surprisingly, the cats are out playing in the wetness. Maybe they missed it too.
This has been a pretty friendly week around Hooterville. Our good friend Paul returned, with his father Mike in tow. Through my former jobette connections, I got them a nice room at a hotel overlooking an estuary, and met them there before setting off to Hooterville.
It was Mike’s first visit, and he was amazed by how beautiful it is here. He had a guided tour of the family property, including the epic garden/party palace and everyone except Megan, who was working her fourth 12 hour night shift of the week at the ER, convened at my house for dinner.
Paul decided to keep it simpler than usual this time, so it was salad and pasta with sauce from the garden, and Jonathan brought apple crisp made from the family orchard’s trees.
Paul and his Dad swapped war stories over dinner. Mike was in the Army in London in WWII, and was in a pub on Baker Street wearing his new, tailored uniform (and, knowing Mike, picking up girls) when a buzz bomb hit. Mike woke up in rubble, covered in cement, still holding his beer. All he could think of was that his brand-new uniform was ruined*. Paul flew helicopters in Vietnam, and on his second day there, went to get a couple of cold beers when snipers started shooting at him. He slid down the sandy sides of a nearby gulf, landing at the bottom with both beers intact, as is the family style.
They are now headed back to Florida, and I miss them already.
*This reminded me of when my father’s mother finally got a voucher for fresh eggs after years of rationing during WWII. She took her two children with her to get them, and on the way home with the precious cargo, they were bombed. As they hid, my grandmother, with her arms around her children, prayed for the safety of her eggs. You will be pleased to hear that all the eggs survived.
A YEAR AGO: A little post-Halloween horror, brought to me by Clyde.