This past weekend in my garden:
Today we're getting anywhere from 1 - 4 inches of rain. There are flood warnings galore, I daresay for every river in Maine. Things have been greening up nicely around here, but this storm is going to open mowing season with a flourish. Ten minutes of sun tomorrow, and I'm confident the grass will be a foot high.
When the kids got off the bus, they tossed their schoolbags inside and slogged across the yard to examine the creek, like a mini-Army Corps of Engineers. They stood on the band for awhile in slickers and boots, gazing on the raging torrent that used to be their favorite playspot.
"Well, two of our bridges washed out," Bear informed me grimly when they came into the house. They've been working for weeks, piling "perfectly good wood" from our scrap pile across narrow stretches of the creek to form bridges, building dams from rocks to create "water bug sanctuaries", and toting buckets full of mud and stones around for God-knows-what. One thing I've learned through these years of mothering is not to ask questions if you don't want to know the answers.
Secretly, though, I think they're pleased. This means they get to start from scratch as soon as the rain lets up.