It has been raining in the Midwest.  Cats and dogs.   Pitchforks.   Tadpoles and frogs.  Everybody complains about the soggy weather—wishing it go away.  
 
I remember a few years ago when the opposite was true.  Drought was a serious problem.  We country folks were desperate for rain.  Farmers.  Ranchers.  Gardeners.  God-fearin’ folks who depended on the Lord for rain.   People of faith and fortitude.   
 
All our lives, we’ve heard the strange stories that Granny and Grandpa told us about the “olden days”.   Stories of miracles and answers to prayer.   Drenching rains that came just in time to save the crops. 
 
We knew the stories were true.  We knew that Truth-is-stranger-than-fiction…That there were too many “non-coincidences” for them to be considered flukes.
 
Well, folks.  Today, I’m going to share a similar story. The only difference is this…it happened in modern times.  I call it the Miracle of the Million Dollar Rain.   You can believe it, folks, because it really happened.

  June, at last!…Such a wonderful month.

 It’s all about Daddies and Father’s Day.  All about weddings and nuptials and blushing brides…

 Well—maybe not blushing brides.  Nowadays, the blushers are few and far between!  They’ve turned into Drama Queens.  Drama Diva’s.  Drama Mama’s…They’re proud of themselves, too.

Which brings us to the subject at hand. 

Daddies…Don’t let your baby girl grow up to be a Drama Queen.  For the good of Society.  For her husband’s sake.  For all of humanity—for crying out loud! 

And now, folks…I have a terrible confession to make.  I think you ladies will understand.  I hope.  Maybe you can even learn something from my mistakes….

Recently I had a Drama Queen episode.  It happened one night not long ago.  I was feverish and sick with a bad cold. There’s really no other explanation for my poor behavior. 

 

         My babies are all grown up….They live 2000 miles away.  And I have no grand-kids. 

            

         I’m stuck somewhere between Menopause and Grandma-hood—a stage when a woman’s maternal instincts run amok.  The mothering hormones just don’t know what to do with themselves.

 

          Wanna-be-Mamas are on the loose, folks, and we’re a mess….Not dangerous, really—but not quite sane. We adopt the neighbor’s kids.  The paperboy.  Dogs.  Kittens.  Dying geraniums.  We rescue anything that whimpers or looks sad. 

 

        Lately, I’ve been rescuing  little green orphans that the world has neglected.  Little seedlings and sproutlings…Plants of every kind.  At a local K-mart, I find myself drowning the wilted sproutlings on a bargain rack. 

           My new hubby took me on a road-trip to Central California .  Soon, the weather turned ugly on us…The roads went slick.  It was I who suggested that we stop and buy new tires at Walmart.

            Bad idea.

            Our car was high on the Walmart Express rack, and I was in the photo department, scanning our wedding pictures.  I heard scurrying footsteps. I looked up to see the store emptying rapidly.  Urgent voices….

            “Two officers were killed at a bombing, yesterday.  And now we’ve got a bomb threat, here!”

            What?  Officers killed!  Bomb threats…?

Country folks say that a full moon can make you act goofy.

But the Ancient Greeks had a more optimistic outlook on life:  ”A full moon means a happy marriage,” they said.

Well.     Michael and I got married during a full moon. We weren’t superstitious, though.   Not in the least.

At our Wedding Luncheon, we were given fortune cookies.    We opened them with careless good humor.   The first cookie said:  “Your spirit of adventure is leading you down an exciting new path…”   The second cookie was a bit more explicit:  “Pleasure awaits you at the Seashore,” it said.

Indeed.

As planned, we spent our wedding night at the Inn of the Lost Coast—a place of wild beauty.   Raging surf.    A full moon.   Blazing fireplace, and a private balcony.    No—the bride did not fall off the balcony into the sea…Nor did she plunge through the big French windows.   

Almost.   But not quite.

  

      I’m not sure what caused such madness.  Maybe it was the full moon, or perhaps it was the rendezvous between Jupiter and Venus in the heavens…

     Whatever the case, Michael and I suddenly decided to get married during the hectic Holiday Season. 

     We’d keep it simple, though.  A small ceremony in Eureka, California.  A reception in the ancient Redwoods beside the river.  Towering trees.  Sunlight filtering through the branches.  A stone plaza and blazing fireplace. 

      Perfect…! 

      There was just a problem or two.  The first was minor, but irksome.  I kept referring to our wedding as a funeral…A common Freudian slip to be sure, but it was small comfort to my groom.

     The other problem was far greater.  We had bad weather heading across the Pacific and it would be here by the weekend.  We were forced to move the wedding up to Thursday—just a couple of days away.

      At this time of the year, we take a hard look at our lives.  Scrutinize.  Analyze.  We wonder where we’re heading…   
      Take back those Library books…6 months overdue!  Put caulking around the windows…6 years overdue!  Clean out the back-room and make it into a cozy niche…! 

     That’s what we need to do.  But will we ever get it done?

     Well, folks—I don’t know about you, but I’m doing things differently this year.  I’m not just making New Year’s resolutions for 2009…I’m starting life over, it seems.  I’ve been turned inside-out and upside-down. Even my name is different. The old Vicki Harger is gone.  Vicki O’Neal has replaced her for good.

      How did it all happen?  I’m not even sure, myself. 

There you sit in the twilight of a winter eve, hugging a cup of hot cocoa with your hands, staring out the window at the drifting snowflakes.  
    
You’re thinking about a lot of things…past, present, and future.  But mostly, you’re dreaming of Christmas Past.  Ah—-to be back in the Days of Yore.   Those good ol’ days.  Before the stock market tanked.  Before banks and corporations began going down like dominoes. 

Before the dire announcements about a Global Economic Crisis “unlike any since the Great Depression of ‘29.”     
You ponder these matters.   
    
Steam rises from the cup of hot cocoa…a warmth steals over you. You start to relax and unwind.  Your thoughts skitter back in time.  How can the magic of Christmas be restored?    
           
Inevitable thoughts arise.       

My first outing  with Michael was a date extraordinaire.   I’ve never had one like it…..
 
We met at Trinidad Beach on the California coast…a long stretch of cliffs and caverns.  Crashing surf.    I gazed about me, transfixed.  It was so glorious…so heaven-on-earth…The most romantic spot I’d ever seen…
 
Better yet—-I was with the most romantic man on earth.
 
Michael O’Neal was everything a gal could want…A handsome hunk of a man…broad-shouldered and fit and strong…(like a blond Michael Landon—but with shorter curls.)

Instinctively, he sensed that my heart was fragile—-that it had been shattered a dozen times, at least.  He told me not to worry.  He only wanted an hour of my time.  Just an hour for a picnic at the beach. 
 
So I obliged him.

 

While the rest of the world seems to be falling apart—economically and otherwise—I myself have been living in a world of wonder…a Pacific paradise, of sorts.

How did it all happen?  Well, I’m not even sure, myself.

It started last spring.  I came to Northern California seeking a soulmate, only to discover that my internet-romance left much to be desired.  I tried to fit into the wacky world of my city-bred suitor, but it just didn’t work.  

Remember my apartment balcony garden?  And the Great Soil Heist?  And the piles of beachcombing treasures I accumulated? What a mess that was! 

I prepared to leave this wonderful paradise in NorCal…But then the good Lord intervened, and I met a country gentleman—a prince of a man whom I’d met once before when he was traveling in the Midwest.

The other day I sat staring into the Missouri River, seeing the odd turbulence that boiled up unexpectedly within its depths…Bubbles and turmoil.  Strange eruptions arising from unseen sources.

I watched them warily. They were like the troubles brewing beneath the surface in America.

Our government officials have warned us for years of a coming crisis—a pandemic, or natural calamity, or massive terrorist strike or even an economic collapse.  But we haven’t prepared. We can’t conceive of such a catastrophe.

Our idea of a crisis is losing an e-mail in cyberspace somewhere, or running out of pretzels during a Superbowl game. A massive EMP strike that melts down the wiring of every computer and electronic device in our homes, stores, gas stations and workplace …?

Autumn…. it’s a whimsical season.
 
In the fall, we linger over small things…pausing to watch an ant scurrying along with a crumb for his winter supply…  An inch-worm working his way along a blade of grass. 
 
We look to the heavens, seeing  the haunting glow of a harvest moon.  We behold the wonders of our universe rising before us…The galloping of Pegasus across the dark heavens…The swirling dust of galaxies lingering in the autumn sky.
 
Daydreams and fanciful notions waft through our minds—spiraling ’round and ’round like the leaves drifting down a country lane.
 
Colorful memories.  Relics of summertime…Dirt between our toes, and the tickle of sunshine across the nose.
 
The sparkle of a dewy spring morn… The antics of squirrels and robins.  A family of quail erupting from the brush, then settling nearby with fretful calls:  “Where are we?” They cry, “Where are we?”