When it Rains
It’s started raining in Texas again. I’m not sure exactly what weather phenomena occurred that allowed moisture to build up in the atmosphere above this great state, and then to actually fall from the clouds in little droplets. Whatever the name of this phenomena, I am grateful for it. Or at least, I am – in retrospect.
The funny thing about our weather (well, not much has been funny about our weather down here) is how quickly we miss the sunshine and dry conditions as soon as they’re gone. Let’s take last weekend as a “for example.” So, for example, last weekend it rained for such an inconveniently long amount of time (for hours! in a row!) that our normally trench-like, cracked earth at the land turned into rivers of soup and slush. Although I tracked the forecast for days in giddy anticipation of some rain, upon waking Saturday to the cold and wet conditions, overcast sky, and realization that I would shortly be forced outside, my mood turned sour. Of all mornings, this was not the time for rain. We had an early appointment at the land with a gentleman named Ruben. Ruben was in charge of the drywall crew and, therefore, Ruben was in charge of spraying the texture. As a person who’s lived under popcorned ceilings and incredibly bumpy walls for too long, I have a personal aversion to wall texture. While I’ve cared about very little in regards to the exterior of this house, I have lots of opinions about the inside. Ruben and I were going to meet, he would spray test samples of texture, and I would formally sign off on a choice. After this thrilling (read: heavy sarcasm) endeavor, Jeremy and I would then jump into the car and drive south for an annual Thanksgiving meal with his extended family. A short day, it would not be.
The early drive to the land and foreign sound of rain splashing on the car’s roof lulled me back to sleep. I did not wake until jarred from my stupor with Jer’s muttered, “no, no, NO, craaaaaaap!!!” and the distinct sensation of sliding gently sideways. When I finally opened my eyes, I found that we had just come through our front gate, attempted to turn left up the hill, and instead slid off our road, coming to a soft stop in a pile of mud. Moments later, I watched us get lower against the fence line. We were stuck. And we were sinking. And OH YES, that’s RIGHT. You can’t drive a car onto our property in the rain. We both cursed heavily for 5 seconds. I shouted something to the effect of “I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE PUT IN THE DRIVEWAY FIRST.” Jer rolled his eyes so hard that his entire head moved, and then we jumped out into the swamp.
Our arrival – up the hill, around the bend, then down the hill, onto the front porch – was a pathetic sight. I’m sure of it. My already temperamental hair which has, since birth, been undecided about whether it’s curly or straight, had frizzed into something the size of a new head. Both of our jeans were rolled to our knees and mud encrusted each of our shoes. Our faces were wet and shirts were soaked. I won’t speak for Jeremy who just looks “rugged” in such conditions, but I was completely wilted. All of this on only one cup of coffee, mind you. So I was damn well hoping that Ruben was ready and waiting for us, texture samples in hand. Of course, upon questioning various members of the crew, we were told variations of the same story: Ruben not only wasn’t there. Ruben wasn’t coming. In a few cases it was not clear that Ruben even existed. I could control myself no longer and decided it was acceptable to display my annoyance in a hyperbolic fashion. I stomped up and down the porch, mud flying off my shoes, poodle-hair bouncing, shouting for someone to “frickin’ call frickin’ Ruben,” when suddenly a man appeared around the bend, in a similar state of disarray: muddy, frizzy, and wilted. At that point, one of the crew members pointed: “Oh, Ruben is here after all. He called me – I forgot to tell you. He got stuck in the mud.”
So, as with most land stories, Bambi and Jeremy joined forces and became everybody’s hero. He drove the tractor down to Ruben’s truck which had come to a similarly sideways stop beside our own drowned vehicle. He extracted the air compressor from Ruben’s truck (needed for the spray test), drove it to the house for said test, and once the test was completed and all parties (Me, just me. Because I was the idiot who’d called the meeting in the first place) were satisfied – Bambi, The Chain, Jeremy, Ruben, and Ruben’s employee all returned to the pathetic site of the stuck vehicles. After attaching The Chain (another unsung hero), beneath the car, Bambi pulled Ruben and truck backwards down the driveway, out through the gate and sent him on his way. Finally, it was our turn to pull Jeremy’s car from the deep – a process that Ruben made look quite easy. Of course, I attempted to actually steer the car out while Jeremy pulled it, which caused us to almost go through a fence at one point, and into a tree at another point. And I wondered why, while always funny in retrospect, all of our land adventures/debacles involve so much cussing.
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| View of Bambi and Chain after the rescue |
In the end, our stuck vehicle was unstuck. And the mud? It washed off our hands and faces. It came off the wheels of the car. The jeans got rolled down, poodle hair was flattened. And we made it to Granny’s house in time for another fabulous meal. And the drywall texture? As far as texture goes, it’s damn near perfect. It better be. Or at least I’ve told myself it’s the most beautiful texture that was ever sprayed, just to make Saturday morning worth the pai…er…adventure.