The cooling temperatures finally have me looking for sweaters instead of shorts, and I’m glad. It was obvious we were in for a wild Weather ride last week when the tiny yellow stars of confederate jasmine bloomed out on the arbor covering our front walk, and blueberry buds as fat as ticks popped out on the bushes in the garden. Neither are good signs for December.
When the weathermen and women began pointing to red blobs crossing Arkansas and Mississippi heading our way a few days before Christmas, I was concerned like everyone else, but I wasn’t surprised.
On Christmas evening, we spent time at my sister’s house, but we kept our eyes on the sky. And when the curtains of rain began to fall, it was hard for Jilda and me to enjoy our family time. In fact, we cut our visit short so that we could drive home before “dark-thirty,” and that was a fortunate decision.
Rivers of water washed over the rural road in several places. I crept toward home to avoid hydroplaning, but there was a driver who apparently wasn’t as concerned as I was about being swept off to Mobile because he rode my bumper.
At one point where the drainage was particularly poor, I pulled over allowing the impatient driver to pass. I figured if rushing water swept him down to the Black Warrior, I’d call 911 once we made it to higher ground. Mother Nature has a way of weeding out the gene pool.
Fortunately, he made it through, and I followed tentatively.
By the time we made it home safely, my temples were pounding like a drum line, and I had trouble sleeping.
Later, I heard horror stories from Christmas night, and over the following few days watched the rivers rise to levels I’ve never seen before and felt for those who’d had to abandon their homes because of the rising water.
The clouds moved out late yesterday afternoon, allowing the setting sun to paint the sky a shade of peach on a stark blue canvas. By this morning, the water level of the Mulberry River at the Sipsey Fork had dropped several feet, which is good news for people around here, but the water is headed south.
The only problem we had here is that my chicken pen flooded. When I went down to feed them, the smell almost knocked me down. As my grandpa used to say, “It smelled worse than a billy goat’s beard.” I added a chore to my list for today.
After hauling several wheelbarrows full of soggy hay and a mountain of chicken manure out of the pen and onto our garden, I put fresh, dry hay in their laying nests and on the floor in their sleeping shed.
I’m not sure what will happen to our poor, confused plants once the temps plunge over the next several days. I’m sure they’ll be wondering how they could have misunderstood, but I’m hoping we have no more wacky weather, and they survive until spring.
When the weathermen and women began pointing to red blobs crossing Arkansas and Mississippi heading our way a few days before Christmas, I was concerned like everyone else, but I wasn’t surprised.
On Christmas evening, we spent time at my sister’s house, but we kept our eyes on the sky. And when the curtains of rain began to fall, it was hard for Jilda and me to enjoy our family time. In fact, we cut our visit short so that we could drive home before “dark-thirty,” and that was a fortunate decision.
Rivers of water washed over the rural road in several places. I crept toward home to avoid hydroplaning, but there was a driver who apparently wasn’t as concerned as I was about being swept off to Mobile because he rode my bumper.
At one point where the drainage was particularly poor, I pulled over allowing the impatient driver to pass. I figured if rushing water swept him down to the Black Warrior, I’d call 911 once we made it to higher ground. Mother Nature has a way of weeding out the gene pool.
Fortunately, he made it through, and I followed tentatively.
By the time we made it home safely, my temples were pounding like a drum line, and I had trouble sleeping.
Later, I heard horror stories from Christmas night, and over the following few days watched the rivers rise to levels I’ve never seen before and felt for those who’d had to abandon their homes because of the rising water.
The clouds moved out late yesterday afternoon, allowing the setting sun to paint the sky a shade of peach on a stark blue canvas. By this morning, the water level of the Mulberry River at the Sipsey Fork had dropped several feet, which is good news for people around here, but the water is headed south.
The only problem we had here is that my chicken pen flooded. When I went down to feed them, the smell almost knocked me down. As my grandpa used to say, “It smelled worse than a billy goat’s beard.” I added a chore to my list for today.
After hauling several wheelbarrows full of soggy hay and a mountain of chicken manure out of the pen and onto our garden, I put fresh, dry hay in their laying nests and on the floor in their sleeping shed.
I’m not sure what will happen to our poor, confused plants once the temps plunge over the next several days. I’m sure they’ll be wondering how they could have misunderstood, but I’m hoping we have no more wacky weather, and they survive until spring.
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