By Patsy R. Brumfield/NEMS Daily Journal
You’ll hear no complaints from me about too much rain any time soon. This past weekend, the Grandpuppy and I had the distinct pleasure of spending it with my blessed sister and her husband in Pensacola, Fla.
I like Pensacola. It’s a little cooky, but it’s got a nice vintage flavor that “resort” Redneck Riviera towns lack, although some have more easily accessible green water and white sandy beaches.
Miss Bonnie and I drove down Thursday. That ride south went splendidly, thanks to my new audiobook, “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Killer.”
We enjoyed Friday, which my sister had off from her job at the local low-power Blab TV. I’m not kidding.
We shopped around all day and then enjoyed a gorgeous birthday dinner for her at a swanky downtown restaurant, which unfortunately was noisy and brimming with the tuxedoed and be-gowned local One Per Cent celebrating Fiesta, something like Mardi Gras.
Fortunately, we ran into Suzy’s boss, who allegedly is a great admirer of my dill pickle recipe. Fortunately or otherwise for him, I ferried two quarts for his consumption.
When I awoke Saturday to usher Miss B outside for our morning ritual, the rain was just beginning to fall lightly.
As the day progressed, we noticed that we were under some kind of low-pressure system, which was pumping precipitation our way. And pump it did.
Before the day was over, the Florida Panhandle was awash in rainwater, flooding and hidden roadways. Pensacola recorded 14 inches, apparently a historic record.
Frankly, I’ve seen a lot of rain but never 14 inches at one time. For folks whose homes were not elevated, they may still be mopping up.
Of course, Miss B and my sister’s Boston terrier, Winnie, looked like they thought we were insane to suggest they dash out for business in the backyard under 3 inches of water.
It was a challenge, no doubt. Bonnie is balky enough around here, when it just sprinkles enough to dampen the pavement.
So, we found interior amusements, as well as regular exclamations about the weather.
Saturday night, we broke out a gift from my hilarious brother, a movie titled “Bunnyman.” Its cover bore the usual marginally clad young woman in the foreground with the creepy outline of a bunny-customed figure carrying a chain saw.
I won’t spoil it for you, if you plan to see “Bunnyman,” but I’ll just say our chatter from the couch probably saved it for all of us.
On our return trip, the rain followed all the way to West Point.
I felt like an idiot when I turned on the hoses at home at mid-afternoon.
Patsy R. Brumfield writes aThursday column. Contact her at email@example.com.