Whew. Yesterday’s post was about as controversial and provocative as I have ever been on this blog. I feel cleared out and renewed and now believe I can go the remaining 39 days in this blackboard-scratching presidential election without another comment (notwithstanding a monumental kerfuffle).
That means I can get back to the typically nonsensical and frivolous blogging I’m used to, which, in simpler words, means it’s time for some rambling!
My Mom died a while ago and my Stepmom is still around to celebrate (for example, this), but I’ve always had one other Mom in my life.
Mother Nature and I have gotten along pretty well. Most of the time.
There was that one time she whipped up a storm when I was little and blew me off my bike. And there was the time she drenched my Dad and Sis and me out in the Everglades, forcing my Dad to row his hands raw to find shelter.
But on the whole, we’ve always looked out for each other. Just last year, on my Great North American Baseball Road Trip, not once in the 15,000 miles and 30 ballparks did she force a game to be cancelled. And last Halloween, she was particularly kind, not only giving clear skies but even dropping the temps to survivable.
This year, though, she’s starting to bug me.
First, she’s stirring up the Atlantic something fierce, already over halfway through the alphabet with named storms.
Now, as I’m trying to begin my super-excited decorating for this Halloween, she’s actually sending some guy right by me. As many unfortunate residents in the Southeast can testify, you don’t need a direct hit from a hurricane to ruin your day.
Plenty of early tracks of storms end up somewhere else entirely, but I had a bad feeling about this guy when he wouldn’t bend north quickly off of Africa. And I was so pumped to get started tomorrow on the Dead Thing Pen.
Those lightweight skeletons will likely be bothered by our normal thunderstorms. The squalls and ambient bad weather from even a “drive-by” hurricane will send them who knows how far away.
Of course, a full-on hurricane might mean more to worry about than simply Halloween, but there’s plenty of other people to take care of that stuff. It’s my job to be concerned about the important issues.
So, I’ll wait. Impatiently. Annoyed. Mad.
Mom is bugging me again.