Rain, Raccoons and Raspberries

Last Sunday afternoon God tipped the water jars of the heavens and poured them down on our corner of the Ozarks. From the front porch, where I went to watch, a cascade of rain came off the roof and hammered the brick patio, gushing into the flowerbed, where plants stood up to their knees in water. Sheets of rain overhead and distant rolling thunder combined their voices with the wind into a sound like a vast roaring ocean. Frogs, in their element, lifted their voices above the roar.

By Monday morning every visible surface outside was still drenched with moisture, and any stir in the leaves showered leftover rain on whatever happened to be below. Three baby raccoons with spiky wet hair followed their mother out of the woods to eat the cracked corn Don had thrown out for the deer. When a doe appeared, they all scampered up a nearby tree. There's nothing quite as cute as those babies right now, but if last summer's memory serves, once the raspberries get ripe, those little masked robbers won't be quite as appealing. Meanwhile, with all this rain, the raspberries are growing like the national debt, and in a month or so, somebody, the raccoons or us, will be enjoying them. Stay tuned.