In The Words Of The Eurythmics, Here Comes The Rain Again…

We have reached July.

Clearly, I like to state the obvious, thirteen days late.  It’s just that we’ve come to the high point of the summer, when every single time I look out our dining room windows, I notice that the purple petunias on our deck are gasping for water and trying to lie down on their deathbeds.  I’ve gone into CPR mode, because I refuse to sign the DO NOT RESUSCITATE paperwork on the flowers until the end of August.  Right now, I still shout, “CODE RED!  CODE RED!!!” as I run to the kitchen for the crash cart and a pitcher of cold water.

We’re finally at the mid-summer point, when it’s often just too hot to even breathe outside.  It takes me about four minutes in the heat to start acting like the petunias.

I’m seldom dramatic.

So, when the sky clouds up a bit and the breeze starts to blow something cooler than what happens when you open the oven door at 350, I gather the troops and shout out, “Everyone outside!  This won’t last!”

Last Friday night was such a time.

The boy had a friend staying the night, so we texted Hubs at 4:45 and announced, “We are going golfing.  ALL of us.  Feel free to meet us at the golf course when you get off work.”

Hubs simply fired back, “What about dinner?”

Yes.

WHAT ABOUT PROM, BLAINE??!

(I’m sorry.  Sometimes the Pretty In Pink quotes roll right out of me, and I’m helpless to stop them.)

Hubs, you see, hadn’t eaten lunch.  Hubs was very excited about coming home from work to find dinner already prepped, prepared and waiting on him.  Hubs was hoping it would be something involving MUCH MEAT on his supper plate.  What Hubs wasn’t expecting to hear were the words, “Postponing dinner for golfing in the cooler weather.”

Please lift Hubs up in prayer however you see fit.  Sometimes his life is very hard.

In the end, Hubs met us at the golf course.  We got carts, and off we went, with one growling stomach, who wished someone had cared enough to pack him a sandwich as a pre-dinner primer.  But, with lovely July skies like THIS, we had to take advantage of what God handed us as a break from all the heat.

IMG_0465The big boys drove the carts, AS THEY DO.  I will confess that they may or may not have played polo on the carts with their golf clubs, but I’m not about to post photographic evidence of their crimes, because orange jumpsuits aren’t the boy’s best color.

IMG_0444Thing 2 had his miniature pencil, to keep score.

What you need to know about Thing 2 is that he can only count to twenty, so everyone maxed out at a score of TWO-OH.

In other words, everyone hit their personal best on Friday.

IMG_0511All three boys teed off, and we set out.

IMG_0425 IMG_0426 IMG_0430 IMG_0432 IMG_0434 IMG_0436The wind started to pick up a bit, and I sang GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH because SWEET MERCY, THE BLESSED BREEZE!

IMG_0441 IMG_0440 IMG_0448 IMG_0456 IMG_0457 IMG_0458 IMG_0459 Thing 2 has a difficult time golfing without sticking his tongue out.

It cracks me up, every time.

IMG_0460 IMG_0461 IMG_0464 IMG_0468 IMG_0471 IMG_0472 IMG_0475 IMG_0476 IMG_0477 IMG_0484By the fifth hole, the skies took a turn for the worse.

IMG_0491 IMG_0509And then, quick as a wink, we found ourselves in the middle of a land hurricane, without any way to board up the sides of the golf carts to stay safe and dry.  The trees started leaning sideways, and it wasn’t from dehydration, like my dramatic petunias tend to do.

IMG_0502The boys all finished out Hole Five…

IMG_0497 IMG_0500 IMG_0489… and we called it a night.

The big boys raced our golf clubs back to the clubhouse…

giphy… and we barely made it into our Suburban before the torrential downpour started.

Back at home, the petunias grinned from ear to ear, as they soaked up every last drop.  Hubs grilled pork chops, while I used the microwave to make baked potatoes, exactly as Caroline Ingalls used to do it.  I threw a quick salad together, and boom!

Starving Hubs was every bit as happy as the petunias on the deck were.

Happy Wednesday night, y’all.

 

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