Severe Weather.

Pouring. Pouring. That dry pattern—and I'll jinx us this way, will bring August on before August is due—is for now and for sure over. It's been raining 20 minutes and I guarantee we've seen half an inch, maybe more. Wind. Thunder. More wind. The dog is in my lap, deeply unhappy. The Toad is in his swing, deeply sleeping. The eighty-dollar clearance-sale fancyass sink, which turns out to be all one pretty granite-countertopped piece, is in the back of the truck, wrapped up and tarped over. The box says it weighs 132 pounds. It definitely does. The box says nothing about the water-resistancy of said sink. I had only one tarp available. I had to choose between the dying lawn mower and the new sink. I chose the sink. Tune in next time, friends and fans of high adventure, for the exciting conclusion of SinkStorm 2010.

Nobody ever said this couldn't be a picture book...



The dog'll think I'm crazy, and the Toad'll think—does the Toad think yet? does he wonder about the weather? about Toadlier concerns?—about whatever it is he pushrattles through that giant skull of his, but I'm headed out in this small lull to check on my new sink, my new downspouts, my old drainage problems. Then back in to attend to those interests most in need of whatever they might need: A scratch behind the ears. A swaddle. A cold can of PBR. Let's make this a matching quiz. Y'all draw in the lines. No cheating. Eyes on your own paper. And on the sky, of course.