A fried egg fresh out of a chicken


A friend of mine informed me on Saturday evening that she heard a weather person predict that a weather cycle had set in that would involve heavy rain and storms every three days or so. Well great!

We experienced some of all of it while traipsing around central Mississippi over the weekend. It kicked off last week when the “Post Easter Cold Snap” hopped on us and we had to move everything that wasn’t planted in the ground up on the porch, and cover up everything that was planted in the ground.

When a chance of frost is predicted it almost always comes to fruition up on our hill. In fact we should change the name of the place to Heavy Dew Hill since the lawn is soaking wet by dawn nearly every day of the year. Each morning, my shoes get soaked to the toenails when I walk the dogs. Every. Single. Morning.

And, you can almost book it that if the weatherman says a low of 36, we’re going to hit 30 or 32. Every. Single. Time! Except last week. Moved everything. Covered everything. Didn’t freeze.

Feet got even wetter to the toenails, after walking the dogs, while trying to uncover everything before the sun came up and scalded it all.

Friday those silly weather people kept saying “terrible storms” starting about middle of the afternoon. So I kept one eye on the weather and one eye on work most of the day, and asked my co-workers to stay on top of things and keep ahead because should these terrible, horrible storms develop I’d be sending them home early. Then the sun shown brightly and I told those same co-workers that it looked like it might not be so terribly horrible after all.

Just minutes before five o’clock, or there about, I said “y’all head on home and I’ll shut ‘er down.” They did, I did, and then I headed on home up Highway 21 to Sebastopol. The sky ahead of me was dark and ominous and somewhere — around Steele I think — the bottom dropped out and I couldn’t see the road anymore.

“Dang, it’s going to be hard to cook out in this,” I thought to myself.

Our road was half flooded when I turned onto it, and by Saturday morning it looked a bit wider than Friday night since all the dirt in the middle washed into the ditches on the sides. At the house the rain got harder and I sat in the truck for a spell before finally giving up on a break and crawling into the backseat to try and retrieve the umbrella. I found it, got out, and got in, with nothing except wet toes once again.

Then the hail started.

“I heard that earlier,” wife Danny proclaimed as the ice pellets bounced off the tin roof, “I thought it sounded like hail.” So, we stepped to the front door and peered through the glass, and hail it was indeed. A pretty white landscape all covered with nickle-size hail.

What’s next, I thought, locust, flies, frogs?

And then it stopped. Just like that it stopped and we fired up the grill and we cooked steak, and salmon, and asparagus and some mighty tasty sweet potatoes too.

And then it started raining again. But that was okay, because dinner was done.

Saturday morning we swung by Duett’s and picked up some breakfast and headed to Walnut Grove and the Picking 35 Yard Sale from The Grove, through Carthage, to Kosciusko. There was a constant drizzle and the wind blew hard, and steady, and cold, and were not having very much fun at all.

It was a muddy mess at most of the stops and then somewhere just this side of the Natchez Trace there was a man selling eggs that had just been gathered. The best “pick” of the day was a dozen of those brown beauties before we decided enough was finally enough.

We faced a deadline to be in Jackson to pick up an antique hall tree that was waiting for us there and hopped on the Trace and meandered to the south to conclude our damp, cold, windy drive.

We stopped at River Bend, snapped a picture or two, and commented how high the Pearl was while joking with some other travelers that it wasn’t much of a day for a picnic, before heading back out and on our way. Then one of those giant, old oak trees along side the Parkway toppled over, and across the road three cars ahead of us, just after we finished chatting about the Trace being shut down the week prior due to a totally different storm.

We were probably a mile from the Highway 43 exit, and civilization, when we were forced to turn around and find a different way to town through the countryside. The first route of choice had not one, but two bridges out, so we wandered around in the woods some more.

 Eventually we ended up in Canton and turned back onto that same highway we were so close to before, and finally, yes finally made it to our destination with plenty of time to spare.

I suppose you can say everything turned out fine in the end. The hall tree looks great in the hall and I couldn’t have been more pleased with my Sunday morning breakfast of crisp bacon, buttered toast and a fried egg fresh out of a chicken!

All’s well that ends well.