We are here. Still.
I’m not sure how people in Seattle survive and thrive on a day-to-day basis. I hesitate to poke my head out the front door when it’s drizzling.
Our house is on a lake. Turns out we’ve got acres full of farming terraces that just channel ungodly amounts of water directly into our yard. There are real live catfish involved, and we need a boat to go anywhere.
I was a little worried last night–we reached defcon 4 in a matter of minutes as opposed to Tuesday night’s hours. Water was creeping up–quickly. It didn’t look good for us and I think I joined every other person in a hundred mile vicinity in praying that water didn’t slink its way across the concrete patio and under the back door.
The water pooled and rose; and then, just when I couldn’t take the stress one more minute, it flowed–out, around, and away. And this morning we are super soggy and swampy and we can’t make it out of the driveway without wading through waist-deep cow-manure-backwashed-flood-water to the car we parked on the road (just in case) (also now sitting in water), but I am a thankful, thankful girl.
Like, literally, so thankful.
Would you guys say a prayer for the people of Oklahoma? I hear so many comments to the effect of “Ug, why would anyone live there?!”–I said it myself about ten years ago–but let me tell something to you: these people are so special, and this place is their home. Southern hospitality? You don’t know what hospitality is until you’ve spent two minutes in this state–and that’s coming from someone who lived most of her life in the Deep South. Oklahomans make southerners look like pissed-off nazis who take mean pills every morning and torture puppies for a living. (And who also make delicious grits, but whatever.) 97 out of 100 days, this is an awesome place to live.
Which includes today, because I am siting high and dry in my house staring out at our new fabulous glistening waterfront property.