Don't worry, this house is unsinkable.
I seem to have deeply offended the Weather Elves. All my mockery and fist-waving and angry muttering seem to have gone in the wrong pointy ear. Last night we were under a severe thunderstorm watch from like 10p to midnight. I laughed offhandedly, or perhaps up my sleeve, because I knew I would be sound asleep and unbothered.
Damn was I wrong.
Somehow those little blighters managed to make that storm last long enough that the warning ran from midnight or thereabouts all the way up to 8 this morning. DAMN, that's showing me. I was awakened by the sound of several cats who were trying to tell me that the house was taking on water in it's port cabins, but I didn't bother with them. At 4 this morning the lightning show was better than anything any fireworks company every sold out of the back of an old camper, that's for sure. And the same at 5. And at 5:35, when I finally gave up.
When the sun rose this morning the worst part showed it's ugly face, and no I don't mean the fact that the back yard looks like it should be ringing an 11th century castle. I mean that the path of the storm (headed Westward, sorry about that Leesville) was DARK. It wasn't black, not that storm black you always see, but this horrible (and more dreadful because it WASN'T black) indigo blue. I was seeing it from the arse side, as it has already passed (hence my presence on the computer and the always-frail cable modem) and the arse was as dark blue as anything I have ever seen in the sky, lit from within by this War of The Worlds lightning that would make any special F/X guy swap his Ray Harryhausen trading cards for the secret of making that effect.
Me, I'm afraid to step foot outside for fear of finding it washed away, or worse, covered in pine needles, cones, and those pollen stems again. See, it's all my fault--last weekend I was feeling rather cocky and decided that it was time to go and dig all the pine straw out of the culverts. It took me about six big wheelbarrow loads, and most of my spine to clean them out. I realised that I was digging out a living breathing compost pile; the stuff had been there so long it was ready to vote, but clean them out I did, and then I made the ultimate foolish threat--I threatened to have the parish (there's that French word again) police jury guys come out with a team of twenty skilled shovel-leaners and ten professional doughnut-eaters and two of those guys with the insanely expensive binocular-things-on-tripods and the silly fiberglass rulers and pink plastic tape and the lousy orange vests, and four flag-women who sort of stand there in that dejected manner, and one guy with a backhoe being paid a hundred and seventy dollars an hour by the state to dig out my ditches, and that was the mistake.