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Friday, May 6, 2016

Brazil Buzz

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

"And then the rains came" and washed away all hopes of staying on top of my yard work for a while.

Water is still standing in a low place in our front yard and my garden at the homestead. I am not sure that all of the plants will survive or if the seeds are set the same.

The ditch that runs alongside my place and Restlawn Cemetery is clean, but trees, weeds, ivy in abundance and debris across the road needs attention. Soon, our end of the street will be nothing more than a lane, because of the overgrowth. There simply isn't anyplace for the water to drain, but on the farmer's soybean field, the homestead property or my backyard.

I filled a deep pothole in the middle of the road and take pride in keeping my ditch cut and yes, I'll deal with water at every level, if need be. Read on.

Friday evening, the rain came. Paul was at work and I was home alone. I was watching and listening to the News 10 weather team track the storm. There was reason for concern.

Where and when should I seek safety?

Could the little blue house at the end of the road withstand more punishment?

The year had already been a roofing raiser.

While I was dragging out some heavy comforters, in case I needed to bundle up and take cover in a hurry, the phone rang. My brother-in-law called with an update in regard to his friend, Fern Stewart's heart surgery.

"The patient (his co-pilot) will be fine," he said, "but I'm not so sure about the rest of us. Dangerous storms are headed our way."

Rain was beginning to fall in Farmersburg, also. His Chihuahua, "Tequila," was beside herself when she caught the first rain drops that fell in her space. She voiced her complaint. We knew to end the conversation and get off the phones.

It wasn't a good idea to run the computer either. Lightning strikes are not to be taken lightly.

A few days before the big rain, the place where my dog Rowdy hangs his thinking cap and practices his singing became flooded and that smart beagle was bothered. I moved him farther back on the premises to a place that I thought would be on higher ground. A mistake was made.

Rowdy loved all of the attention that he received when the rain almost washed him and his belongings out of reach. His adopted mom came to his rescue.

Then Saturday evening, it not only stormed again, it rained barrels and didn't know when to stop. However, when the boss arrived home, he was exhausted. We enjoyed a late meal and turned in shortly after that. We awoke early, around 6 a.m., and peered out the back door. Our entire backyard and the ground very close to the little blue house were covered with deep water. I saw before me what looked like the large pristine lake that I had always dreamed of, but it wasn't and it was a place to neither fish nor dip. I thought of clean-up and breeding insects, namely mosquitoes.

Were my young chicks that I purchased in April alive and well, in the building in or beyond that mess? Oh no, what about little Rowdy?

I needed to find out, but wadding boots were not a part of my wearing apparel. I am not as clever as Heloise was, but the light bulb above my head was high and dry and burning brightly.

I placed Great Value kitchen bags on my feet and pulled them past my knees and tied them securely. I then slipped on my short boots and waded through the muddy water, around the second garage to a whimpering miserable beagle.

When I opened the door to his chain linked temporary kennel, Rowdy swam out to me, soaked to the skin. After another soft dry bed was provided, he slept most of the day and maybe dreamed of better days ahead.

That poor dog has been watching the sky more closely and I'm sure I will here his complaints concerning the rain today.

The wet plastic sweat boots did a good job keeping the water out and my legs and feet dry.

When I removed the short boots and slid off the bags, the socks underneath were crying, "wash me," but they were dry. I am still sun drying the linings of those rubber boots.

I poured out about two inches of water from them and sent one fishing worm into orbit.

It doesn't seem that I will need to perform rain dances much this growing season, but if I decide, wearing the bags will be a nice change worth consideration.

Yours until the ocean wears rubber pants to keep its bottom dry!

I can be reached at 446-4852 or drop me a line at 613 N. Elm St., Brazil, 47834, or by e-mail at pmlsartor@aol.com.