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From embed to raised bed

Rain fell everywhere. Hard rain. Bunker busters in Baghdad, downpours in Durham, torrents through the Triangle.

It rained so hard it blew out the downspout outside our living room window. It rained so hard our puppy skipped breakfast one morning, refusing to leave the comforts of a heated house. It rained so hard I called up Rocky, our local driveway gravel guy.

Confronted by our pot-holed, alignment-addled avenue, he said we didn't have any problems 64 tons of gravel couldn't fix. We signed on.

It rained so hard, an elderly women turned to me, shook out her plastic bonnet and said, "It's been like this ever since that boy walked on the moon."

It rained so hard my teenage daughter looked up from IM-ing and channel surfing for just a moment and commented, "Hey, we're under a flood warning." It rained so hard her sister left school one afternoon and jumped in every puddle she could find, insuring that she would have to go over to a friend's house and borrow her dry clothes instead.

It rained so hard I didn't need to take the chickens their daily fresh water, they had an instant pond in the center of their coop. It rained so hard our neighborhood's own special-ops animals, a beaver platoon, took a few days off.

It rained so hard the spring peepers gave encore concerts every night. Loud ones.

It rained so hard, we turned off the TV and went outside to discover all the new creeks and marshes, and oooed and ahhed out the window at the surging Eno.

Then the rain stopped, like it always does. And there was green everywhere.

  • From embed to raised bed

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