How high’s the water, Mama?

I sat here a couple days ago, miserable and bemoaning the fact that it was noon and yet too dark outside to even read by. As it is again this morning, dense cloud cover and pouring rain blacken the sky to the extent that it actually seems as though night never really ended. Our one constant, it seems, has been rain, and many of us miss seeing the sun.

I don’t mind riding in the rain, but I have to draw the line at deluge. Over the last few weeks, Mother Nature has blessed us with nearly sixteen inches of precipitation, often coming to us via crashing thunderstorms. Flash flooding has caused the evacuation of nearby Mosby not just once, but twice in this time. I frequently ride through that small rural community, but for the moment a visit is not possible unless I pull along a canoe.

Other of my favorite routes are cut off as well. I am so grateful for full coverage fenders at the moment; when the infrequent opportunities to hit the road between cloud bursts occur, I am finding every ride is an adventure, but at least my feet and bottom bracket remain mostly dry.

My iPhone sports a handy weather app that I find myself consulting with far too much frequency these past days. And to what end? Really, this is an act of utter frustration – one minute the forecast calls for clear weather and then – literally – only minutes later the hourly prognostication shows it’s all gone to hell in a handcart. A glance out the window only serves to confirm this. There’s a new route I have been wanting to explore for a while. I thought to do so this morning, but even as I pick up my iPhone a slow rumble of thunder growls in the distance and the patter of rain begins anew, tapping out a soft staccato cadence upon the fat Cottonwood leaves outside my window. The app informs me that the rain should clear out within two hours, but my window of opportunity is both narrow and fleeting: by mid-afternoon it will return, yet again overstaying its welcome throughout the remainder of the weekend.

Trees, foliage, flowers – they are all loving it. My yard is lush. I leave for France in a couple of days and worry the weather and yard won’t dry enough for me to cut the grass before it’s time to depart. I don’t want to return to a jungle, but that is seemingly the most likely scenario.

As I type this, the room grows progressively darker. Thunder rumbles. The cat is making odd noises and pacing along the window sill, the dog is cowering in the guest room. Yet birds throughout the neighborhood are singing loudly. Even though the shower has evolved into a volley, their clamor and din can be still be heard between bursts. I think that’s a sign of some sort.

I think I’ll go check my tire pressure, you know, just in case.

4 thoughts on “How high’s the water, Mama?

  1. Janet and Jay, she’s not allowed to return home unless she’s really, really sunburned. That way she can luxuriate in the unearthly glow of my unblemished alabaster skin.

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