We had some heavy rain in the wee hours of Monday morning. I heard it pounding down on the Mansion roof, but by the time I got up (9:30, don't judge) it was gone. The creek barely rose, but the ground was mushy, and the dead leaves had washed off the gravel road by the mailboxes.
I entered The Gas Station Chicken Store to see a gory murder scene. Well. IF the victim's veins had contained mud instead of blood. All three aisles were discolored with brown footprints, and each aisle had clumps of solid mud in random arrangements. The Man Owner had abdicated his station behind the counter, and was traipsing around with a broom and one of those dustpan-box things on a stick. You know, how you set it down level, sweep into it, and the dustpan box tilts back as you lift the stick.
"Wow! This is gonna keep you busy!"
"I know. I was thinking, 'Couldn't you knock that off outside?'"
"My husband does this at home, but not on such a grand scale."
"I have to get this cleaned up before somebody steps on it and slips!"
A customer came in, and Man Owner scurried up front. When it was my turn, I told him,
"You know, the worst part about this is that your job is never done. As soon as you get it cleaned up, somebody else will track in more mud."
I'm pretty sure Man Owner realized that, from his heavy sigh. It's terrible when a man has to clean up after another man. Because he knows what's coming.