Mulberry Creek
Category: Nature
Rain On The Grapevine
After years of drought, devastating fires, and sad, dried-up rivers, causing waterfront restaurants and party barges to fold–and with it, an entire lake culture–Texas is finally getting some precip from that ornery sky. Flash flooding? I’ll take it.
Go ahead and rain on that new trampoline.
Pour down on the rosemary.
Pitter-patter on the deck.
Send the blackhawks to retrieve the men, clinging to the tops of their trucks. I’ll take it. Let the weathermen repeat, “Turn around, don’t drown” until the cows come home. At least the cows will have some grass this year. And maybe, just maybe, the cattle won’t starve, and the price of beef won’t double like it did last year. Hallelujah, it’s raining.
Natchitoches Lakeside Picnic
Down A County Road, Part II
As I continued down the county road, I passed these signs. The bluebonnets were still hanging on. They usually disappear by tax day, April 15.
There were seas of them.
A storm had possibly split the trunk of this chinaberry tree.
And mesquite trees dotted the land.
But my favorite picture of all showed the shade cast by the limbs of a mighty live oak.
Happy trails to you!
Down A County Road, Part I
I took advantage of the nice spring weather and spent the better part of Friday morning, driving down a nearby county road. I passed this white horse.
And this lemonade stand.
A field of wildflowers.
A rusting propane tank, not unlike the kind I used as my horse when playing cowgirl as a child.
And some wheels that hadn’t been driven in years, better suited for the streets of Havana, Cuba than an antique car graveyard.
Dogs Watching Football
The dogs had a front-row seat to a father-son football game in the backyard last night. They witnessed the passes and fumbles.
As usual, the male seemed more interested in the game. Jemima paused briefly from her latest goal of digging a hole to China while Tonto looked enraptured.
But then again, he’s an outdoor dog who was saved from the pound, has no responsibilities, and his life is endless bliss.
Log Surfing
Highway Wildflowers
We couldn’t pass these up yesterday. Who knows who long they’ll last?
What You Talkin’ ‘Bout, Easter Bunny?
Check out these basket-toting cuties during an Easter egg hunt, and the boy’s priceless expression. That suspicious gaze brought to mind shades of Arnold Jackson from Diff’rent Strokes–except in much more fashion forward overalls.
Old Greeks And Hookah Pipes
Thanks for stopping by for the final installment of sponges, something about which you’d never thought you’d waste five seconds of your (mostly half-lived) life reading. Fried shrimp and tobacco never looked so fun. 
One thing I’ve discovered is that the writers at NG were pretty clever. I especially enjoyed this reference to “Milady’s bath.” 
And now to the weird part of the Tarpon Springs culture, where young men (and future sponge-divers) dive into frosty January waters to retrieve an emblem. You know, like Labradors do. 
To the winner, go the spoils. You’d think having washboard abs is its own reward, but evidently the blessing was nice, too. 
Well, I hope you absorbed all that. Like. A. Sponge. Come on; I had to.
The Errol Flynn Of Sponge Divers
I scored some pretty cool National Geographics last weekend, including this one from January 1947. Although I’ve seen the yellow and black covers throughout my life, including an entire wall in my grandparents’ den, I know of no one my age who ever sat down and actually read one. Perhaps the boys flipped through them for images of topless tribal women, but not to read what I have realized are 50 page articles. FIFTY PAGES!! I guess that’s what you did in days before TV and WordPress and facebook updates. You sat and read about sponge diving for six days solid. I don’t have that kind of time, but I did learn from looking at pictures that a tube went directly from their helmets into their butts.
I also found out that ladies were paid to fashion sponges into fluffy wreaths, fit for a Christmas tree.
Uh-oh, happy hour is about to start. Come back tomorrow for our final installment of sponge culture.
Serious Birth Control
I Don't Get It 