It’s sunny here in Manchaca this afternoon, but that wasn’t the case this morning. In fact, that hasn’t been the case for many mornings in a row. Central Texas has had the grayest, wettest spring (and now, summer) it’s had in the nineteen years I’ve lived here – and perhaps its grayest, wettest spring ever.

For all I know, this may even have been the grayest, wettest spring anywhere at any time. It wouldn’t surprise me. And I’ve spent a week in Seattle.

(Barb phoned from her office yesterday to tell me that Central Texas was big news on the CNN website because of the eighteen inches of rain that had just gully-warshed Marble Falls. “We’re always big news,” I replied. “It’s just never for anything good.”)

But despite the flooding creeks, the washed-out low-water bridges, and fresh air with the consistency of warm tapioca, we hardy Manchacans (Manchacites? Manchacoids?) are doing our best to go on about our normal daily lives as if God wasn’t punishing us for our sins.

So this morning, as usual, Barb and I walked our three dogs down Bliss Spillar Road and back. The sky was overcast and the humidity was thick, but our lucky streak of Not Being Rained On held. And then, as is my recent habit – on account of I’ve decided against being buried in a pear-shaped coffin after all – I went back out for another walk and a short run while Barb scrambled an egg and the dogs assumed their post-walkie forms as decorative throw pillows.

Then my lucky streak ended, because God had apparently decided that Not Being Rained On was a privilege reserved for the family as a group, not as individuals. Or maybe He’s still pissed at me about the whole I-Believe-in-Everything-Yes-Even-Scientology bit I wrote for April Fool’s Day last year. Or maybe He’s just a dick; I don’t know. What I do know is that He let me get a half-mile from home, then sent the rain in great soaking waves without even a thunderclap for advance warning.

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