A Gripe

Newsflash: it’s never going to stop raining.

Ever.

And if I’m wrong and the tap finally squeaks off, we’ll be mired in ankle-deep mud for the next month.

In the meantime, hey thanks rain, for exposing every sagging gutter, every gap in the flashing, every bullet hole in the barn roof (the latter, a former owner’s solution to the pigeon problem in the hay loft).

Martin says that I complain beyond the average American’s allotment. And one day while I issued my latest grievance, he offered this to me:

And I laughed and tabled my complaints. For at least 10 minutes.

But now I must lodge another objection. I wanted to photograph my gift from Martin so I stashed the gum on my desk — a supposed no-fly zone for the kids. But when I came back with a camera, I found this:

Little scavengers…. I’m tossing them out in the rain.