It’s raining. And raining. And raining. We desperately needed it, though it does mean I’ll have to start mowing the lawn again. This is the first time we’ve experienced so much rain for so long in the new house. There’s a small river flowing through the drainage ditch out front, but we’re happy to see everything else has stayed dry. Well, soaking and soggy actually, but not lake-ish, which is good. Houses here don’t have basements, and while I miss the convenient storage they provide I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with the constant basement flooding problems I grew up with.
My parents are in town, and Carl is home on his first weekend off in three weeks. If the rain doesn’t stop them my grandparents are also driving up for the afternoon. We’ve had a fun weekend recuperating from the last several weeks’ exhaustion – getting lots of sleep, watching movies, eating meals together, playing Taboo, trying yet another church, a visit to the military museum, discussing design, going for walks, and doing household projects. Also, tool shopping at Home Depot thanks to my parents generosity. The garage is full of new toys.
Restaurant names aren’t always very creative here. Our favorite restaurant so far is named simply “Vietnamese Restaurant.” We’ve also seen “Italian Restaurant” and others along that line.
Last week the pastor got his “merds wixed” and accidentally referred to the prophets “Elijah and Eliza.” He corrected himself, of course. This week we got our first ever experience of a real Southern Baptist church. The congregation was clearly serious about faith, and the message content was sound, but it was my first time seeing this style of preaching outside of a TV show. The preacher roamed the aisles, called on individual members of the congregation to repent, and demonstrated his sermon points while standing on a wall or crawling across the stage. Although they are from different denominations, he and the choleric deacon from our last parish could be long-lost brothers in their zeal for whipping the congregation into shape.
(That’s Billy Sunday, the 1920s revival circuit preacher. Perhaps another long-lost brother?)
The population at our last posting in South Texas was 50% Hispanic. The Mexican food was some of the best in the United States and we were spoiled rotten. It was a bit of a slap in the face moving here and looking for a good Mexican restaurant – we’ve tried three so far, all with lackluster results. Last night on our way home from dinner we dropped into a grocery store for a few essentials and discovered that it’s actually a Hispanic market. They still carry most normal grocery items, but also have a fantastic produce selection and all the familiar Mexican foods and ingredients we loved in San Antonio but can’t find anywhere here. *Happy Dance*.
Taboo misunderstandings are like a free comedy show. Last night, the word was “Nickname.” Carl’s hint: “oh, this is…this is…your appelation.” Except I heard “Appalachian.” So my guesses were things like “Mountains? Hillbillies? West Virginia?” Who’s on first?
Carl wants the computer so he can read the Wall Street Journal. So, done.