Soggy Sunday

Back in the '50s, Fats Domino used to sing "Blue Monday."  Somehow Soggy Sunday just isn't as lyrical, but was more appropriate yesterday.  Cole Porter's "Night And Day" came to mind with the "...drip, drip, drip of the raindrops...."  And drip they did, until Nature imposed a penalty for her show of weakness and sunshine the day before and opened the floodgates and we were deluged to the point I wondered how big was a cubit to build an ark.

It was a good day to stay inside and watch Jimmy Johnson win his 9th grandfather clock trophy at Martinsville and get one step closer to a chance to tie Richard Petty and Dale Earnhardt, Sr. with seven NASCAR championships at Homestead in November.

It was also a good day to finish a book I'd been carrying around in the truck to read while waiting for doctor appointments.  That plan hadn't worked so well because the offices are much more efficient than in the past and there wasn't much waiting in the waiting rooms.

Nature ended her fit of pique with a flash of lightning and one huge bang and roll on the kettledrum and the storm was over.  Even the reverse sunset was beautiful.  I was grateful not to have to slog through the rain to the barn to put the girls to bed.

Tucking the chickens in for the night, I discovered that Runaway Rhonda had gone walkabout for the last time.  There is a circle of life, and I imagine she made a good dinner for some coyote cubs.  Rhonda will be missed.