Labor Day.

Maybe here's what happens: Maybe it slides by and hits somebody besides New Orleans, except then who it hits is the folks who haven't been federally mandated to put their houses up on stilts. Or it hits the same damn place and confirms the hard-won beliefs of both those who believe in tests from god and those who have had plenty of god's tests, thanks. No help for the middle there, for the center—and let me not to the marriage of centrist minds admit admittance, but sometimes it's nice not to help out the outliers on both ends. Or maybe it's merely nice to hope for those who have their houses built on sand instead of those who've got the means to build upon the rock. I well remember that Sunday school song. It means one thing for fourth-graders at Holy Innocents' in Sandy Springs. I suppose it means something else altogether for those in the floodplain, for those on the hurricane coasts. How simple it was then: Build on rock; do not build on sand. Sunday school, I guess, has little to do with tax brackets and class warfare and property values. Or perhaps it has everything to do with all of that.

Here, and now, I'm hoping to figure out how water got in the shed. There, they're already, I presume, trying to figure out how to get it out, once it gets in. May the god of your choice and the weather channel of your choosing be with you down there, friends and fans of weather, fair or foul. Stay boarded up and safe and sound. The ANYLF staff raises one in your direction.