If you live in the United States (and perhaps even if you don’t), you’ve heard about and seen video of the flooding that is devastating the Midwest.  Though it didn’t arrive here as early as in other places, it did come in full force.  Although the experts tell us that it hasn’t reached the Great Flood of ’93 levels, you couldn’t tell it by appearances.  I thought the best example I might give you is a photo of the same location that I used as the background to the heading of this blog.

Where, O where, you ask, did the railroad tracks go?  They’re under all that water somewhere.  I’m not so sure that journey would lead you to a better place! We have a picturesque park that offers visitors a breathtaking view of the Missouri River and all the beautiful countryside of the neighboring county to the north of us. This became our new view from Lookout Point of all those farms, fields and homes. 

The sight of that barn roof poking out of the water is enough to sicken you.  While the water mark may not have reached the previous record, “Enough,” as Mary Poppins said, “is as good as a feast.”  Enough!

Though we live on high ground, we have not been immune to watery woes.  If the river reaches my door, we are all in trouble, folks!  The rains, coming often and lasting long, did give us a bit of a taste of what’s happening on the other side of the river and since it is better to laugh than cry when life gives you lemons and enough water to make lemonade for everyone in the country, I thought I’d share a what happened here during the flooding in May.  No photos, though – no time for that!  Read on, for this one goes to show you that it is not always Smuffy who finds himself in the middle of mayhem and mishap.

A glance at the clock told me I had two hours to go unless someone showed up early and someone always does.  I was in my element!  Over the years, I’d lost count of friends who’d referred to me as Martha Stewart, June Cleaver, Mary Poppins or Emily Post.  Yes, I was born to host!

If it’s one thing I hate, it’s cancelling my carefully pre-planned shindig.  The previous day’s downpour had lingered on into the day of my Ladies Backyard Picnic and I had already sent out a notice that we would be picnicking indoors.

I forced myself to brush off the let-down, for my yard, always at its glory in the month of May, was having an exceptional year.

The second blow had come when the patio drain clogged, forcing the all-day deluge from the gutters up through the basement drain the night before.

This hadn’t come as a total surprise.  Smuffy had been muttering about the thing for a week or so, making a priority of getting the sewer machine he has access to at work fixed so that he could bring it home to use.  When the weather forecast predicted a few days of what he calls toad-strangling downpours, he’d hauled it home to give it his undivided attention.  It didn’t seem to want to cooperate with his efforts and the day before the party, we started taking on water. 

Finally, he declared it fixed and sent it down the pipe to do its job of ripping out a wad of tree roots.  Smuffy, with the finesse and intuition of one who, through the years, has become a pipe whisperer, declared victory and threw the machine into reverse.

Things got stuck.  Perhaps the root wad dingled while the sewer cable dangled or possibly it may have happened the other way around, but now we seemed to have the machine permanently attached to our patio. 

Poor Smuffy, after sitting in the rain over the drain for hours, called for my help.  Heaving on the count of three with all our might, we couldn’t budge it.  By the time he’d applied a removal tool (which didn’t fit) and installed a pump in the basement with a hose out the door to take the water out, we were reduced to taking turns with the knee-high rubber boots.

There are moments in life when, like it or not, one must admit temporary defeat. I ran madly around the basement (in boots big enough for Smuffy) lifting things to higher ground, hoping that I’d gotten everything I needed out of the freezer for my party the following day.

Then, it hit me – Phoebe June!  She’d been watching the proceedings from the basement steps, taking it all in with great interest and a look that told us that if we’d only bothered to ask her opinion, the whole thing would have been sorted out long ago.  She accepted with a great deal of grace and dignity, I thought, the fact that rather than furnish her with a small set of oars, we’d moved her potty pan up to the dining room and plugged her kitty-sized hole in the basement door to keep her from exploring the flood zone.

Worn out but undaunted, I’d gone to bed with a prayer that if we actually started to float away during the night, God would wake me.

Now, on the day of the Indoor Ladies Backyard Picnic, I felt like I’d spent the day summoning my Martha-June-Mary-Emily powers with a reasonable amount of success.  The ladies would arrive at six o’clock.  Why not?  The flood was in the basement and the party on the main floor. We would ignore the sound of the pump. The rain continued to add moisture to my mess and the weather radar promised a dandy storm somewhere in mid-afternoon – and dandy it was!

As I cleaned and double-checked my list of preparations like any good hostess would, the wind and rain beat against the house and thunder and lightning did their best to get me to worry that the power might go out.  I pushed these thoughts aside.  Whatever happened, all would be right with the world by six o’clock.

At four o’clock, right on schedule, I grabbed my sturdiest meat fork and poked holes all over my first spaghetti squash.  The garlicky, cheesy, spaghetti squash and chicken casserole had become a favorite and I couldn’t wait for the ladies to try it.  I shoved the squash onto a plate and inserted it into the microwave, giving it my usual twenty-two minutes.

Rounding the corner to the living room, I crossed to the mantle to tweak the peonies I had arranged in vases.  When my foot slipped on the hardwood floor, I looked down to find myself standing in water.

Phoebe June?  No!  Not even with the indignity of having her potty pan parked in public would she consider such a sin!  I followed the trail of water across the floor where it oozed from beneath the area rug and disappeared under Smuffy’s chair.  Then, I saw it.  The gutter above the window behind the chair had clogged and the downpour was being forced in around the window somehow.  I ran for towels, began soaking up the mess and called Smuffy.

His phone rang.  To be exact, it rang right next to me.  He’d forgotten to take it to work.  I called the office, only to discover that he’d gone out and they had no idea where he was or when he’d be back.

At times like this, I sometimes just go on auto-pilot.  It beats panic.  The abundance of towels seemed to be taking care of the flow so I donned the boots again and made my way back down to the swamp to gather the fixings for my picnic beverages, hoping that the refrigerator and freezer, located some distance from the drain area, hadn’t gotten their electrical parts moistened to the point where I’d get zapped.  Besides, I told myself, rubber boots prevent that sort of thing.

After sloshing over to the major appliances and begging them to be gentle with me, I pulled out the ice and seltzer water.  Somewhere, from up above, I heard a loud ka-BANG!  A solid THUD followed it before silence fell.

“Oh, Phoebe June,” I muttered.  “What is that cat up to now?” 

Wisdom tempered my urge to run. The volume of the sound indicated that something of grand proportion had just occurred on the main floor.  I took it slow, however, knowing that breaking into a full run would send gallons of water up my back, all over my clothes and into my hair, ruining my last chances of appearing as the elegant hostess.

Hugging my supplies (for I vowed to make no more adventures into the swamp), I made it to the top of the stairs and headed through the dining room toward the kitchen.  I stopped at the sight that met my eyes and I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open.

The microwave door stood wide open.  The spaghetti squash had exited entirely and the greater portion now lay on the counter in Humpty Dumpty fashion.  The remainder dangled all around the kitchen without prejudice against any surface.  The walls, windows, valances, woodwork, range, floor, cabinetry, small appliances – they all had their portion of spaghetti squash.

The only thing lacking a good dollop of squash seemed to be Phoebe June, who sat behind me, her wide eyes asking, “What happened?”  I gave her an apology for my false assumptions, heaved a sigh and peeked inside the microwave.

The inside, looking as though its portion of spaghetti squash had been applied with a trowel by someone who knew their business well, brought a moan from the depths of my soul.  The clock screamed 4:20 when I dared glance at it.  I had another squash to cook in order to make the casserole, but the mess would have to be dealt with first.  I grabbed a spatula.  I would do this, by gosh and by golly, even if the ladies all arrived before the casserole came out of the oven!

While I scraped, wiped and picked, my mind raced.  I needed to decide which of my plans remained top priority and which could be scrapped.  I needed to clean the kitchen.  I must change into some lovely outfit, bejewel myself and perform a quick maintenance to make-up and hair which, thankfully, didn’t have squash in it.  I’d been saving the bathroom for last and it had to be cleaned.

Once having gotten the inside of the microwave restored and Spaghetti Squash #2 inserted with a prayer and extra deep puncture wounds, I turned on the water to wash my hands.  Water!  I’d forgotten about the water.

I raced to the living room, fearful of how much water may have come in around the window while I’d been dealing with squash.  The towels seemed to be taking care of the flow.  I looked up at the window, feeling helpless as to how to do anything about the overflowing gutter for the rain still came down in buckets.  Then, my eyes focused on the scene beyond.

One of the city’s street drains is located a few feet from the top of our driveway and it had clogged as though it had gotten word about it being National Clogging Day.  Water came over the top of the driveway like a waterfall, crashed around the wheels of my car (which Smuffy had moved to the top of the hill to keep it away from a suspicious tree limb during the storm) and roared down the driveway.  Years of experience told me that when it reached bottom it would go straight onto our patio and since that drain remained clogged, it would enter the basement.

I suppose I do have a panic button, because this pushed it.  I grabbed my phone in a desperate attempt to reach Smuffy because Smuffy makes everything right – eventually.  Then, I nearly cried as I remembered that he’d left his phone behind.  I called the city.

While they didn’t exactly say, “Too bad.  So sad.” or “Kiss my grits!”, they did inform me that things were tough all over, that the problem was city-wide and that none of their drains were equipped to handle this amount of water all at once.  What it amounted to was that no one was coming to unclog anything.  I hung up and went back to the kitchen to scrape the squash off the windows.

With Squash #2 into the casserole and oven and Squash #1 under control, I wiped up the bathroom and went to change clothes.  The sound of the rain beating against the house had lessened to the point that I began to believe the weather reports that promised that all this nonsense would come to a complete stop by the time my guests needed to drive to my house.  I began to breathe again. A few of them had been messaging me concerning their fears about leaving home in such a torrent.

I picked up a pair of dangly earrings and put them on as I made another trip to the living room.  The window leak seemed to have stopped.  I picked up the wet towels and looked around the room, abandoning my plans to move all the furniture back and set up long tables down the center with checkered cloths and bandana napkins.  There simply wasn’t time.  The ladies would have to get their food in the dining room and be content with the coffee table and TV trays.  I glanced out the window to see if the whitewater falls had slowed any.  That’s when I noticed that my car was missing.

I gasped.  My brain did a few somersaults while it asked itself if it were sure Smuffy had left the car at the top of the hill.  Visions of nightly news reports raced through my mind as I recalled the oft issued warning that a mere foot of rushing water might cause a vehicle to be carried away. 

I turned and ran, arriving at the kitchen window out of breath, only to peer over the edge of the porch and see my car parked in its usual spot.  I sighed with relief that it hadn’t ended up on the patio, in the garden or in the neighbors’ back yard.

I’ve been rattled in my time, but this day had earned red letter status in the rattling department.  I longed to know one way or the other – had Smuffy stopped by unannounced and moved my car or had it been swept away and miraculously carried in the hands of angels to its perfect resting place?  Another glance at Smuffy’s phone told me this story was “to be continued…”

The doorbell rang.  My daughter and sister were among the first to arrive, full of offers to help if I would only tell them what needed to be done.  All I could tell them was that their guess was as good as mine and we stumbled through receiving guests and putting out food and drinks.

I can think of no other time when I’ve felt so grateful to stop, sit, relax with friends and enjoy good food!  Though their hostess did not offer up the mostest in terms of fashionable tablescape and seating arrangements, they seemed to feel fully compensated by the fact that the day’s events provided the evening entertainment.

Smuffy made an appearance, admitting that he had, indeed, stopped by and moved my car without telling me.  And Phoebe June, you ask?  She mingled, managing to assert her cattitude and be rude to a guest only once after being ignored and feeling like the accused all day. 

You can’t ask for more than that.

I crawled into my warm, safe and dry bed that night offering up thanks that I hadn’t been in the kitchen when things exploded.  As I drifted off to sleep, I pondered the mystery of it all.  Why, after at least twenty years of the same cooking method, did this particular squash become a ballistic missile?  With a team of experts and a few million dollars, the military might be able to come up with something that, if nothing else, would frustrate and exhaust our enemies to the point of surrender.

Next up – it’s time to join Smuffy as he endeavors to make a few adjustments to the car.  No seat belts needed.  Just clear the area!

Subscribe so you don’t miss it!  If you haven’t taken the deep dive into my “Life with Smuffy”, you really don’t know what you’re missing, so check it out! Why not start with the story of our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon? Phoebe June has her own page so if you haven’t gotten to know her, click here.

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