Marooned

Sometimes here in Florida the sky turns black and broody for hours at a time, and it smells like rain for hours before the torrent actually begins. I walk around outside sniffing the wet earthiness-- sensing the warm and cool drafts of air as they circulate madly in a furious dance, not quite sure how to organize themselves. I watch the leaves on the trees turn upside down, waiting, stretching, aching for the deluge. It never happens. I go inside disappointed.

Hours later, while cooking dinner, I'll suddenly hear the hard slap of rain on my roof. I think to myself, how nice of you to come. But then it won't go away. Outside my windows for fifteen full minutes, the trees are shrouded by heavy sheets of rain, twisting and shrieking in the wind. I wonder if my little house is going to be swept up in a tornado, like Dorothy's. After all, it's a freak of nature outside.

Then, as quietly and suddenly as it came, the rain stops--replaced by the sun brighter than I remembered. Outside it is only sweaty, humid and hot.

I have somewhere to be--but I am marooned. I live on a little dirt lane tucked far back into the country, and there is only one way out. That passage has become a long lake, about three yards by fifty. It forms so quickly because the soil drainage is poor. It usually takes about an hour or two to subside and sink back into the earth, but I have places to go and people to see, and am typically not so patient. Usually I make a run for it, and my heart drowns in terror as I feel my car begin to float about half-way through. I rely on my momentum to carry me through to the shallows.

The first time I experienced the puddle, I was too afraid (intelligent?) to attempt a crossing. I had plans to meet some friends, it poured for fifteen minutes, and I tried to leave the house. I ended up marching right back and calling them--telling them to pick me up because I was stuck at my house. They drove out, but by the time they got here, the puddle had shrank significantly and they thought I was a wimp.

The next time I tried to go through it. I had the old Mustang, and that puddle stranded me for three days. My car died half way through it. Water actually came in through the doors. I tried letting it "air out" for a day, and then I finally had to take off the distributor cap and dry it out with a towel.

It's not so bad being stuck inside my house. What really stinks is when I'm stuck away from my house, like I was yesterday afternoon.

Case number 104 for making my next vehicle a big humongous truck.