The weather is gettin' a little crazy now...

CHAPTER 40 – The Peculiar Weather Advisory

Now I’ve been through every kinda weather Earth had to throw at a man. Droughts that cracked the dirt, hail the size of hen eggs, tornadoes that flung my uncle’s outhouse halfway to Memphis. But nothin’ prepared me for a “microseason advisory.”

It arrived mid-mornin’ by way of sky drone, buzzin’ over the corn like a nosy cicada in a tin can. It dropped a hard-plastic parcel with a soft whump in the gravel beside the porch. Nueve ran over, tail flickin’, and brought it to me like a cat fetchin’ a bird.

Inside was a laminated slip marked in bright blue:
“Atmospheric Irregularity Forecast: Type 7 – Extended Saturation.”

“What in the blue blazes is extended saturation?” I muttered.

Lu stepped out with her arms crossed, already squintin’ like she’d seen this before.

“It’s a microseason,” she said. “Weather that don’t quite fit the usual patterns.”

“Like what?”

“Like rain… but weird.” She tapped the slip. “Gus mentioned this once. Said some of the co-op drones are tied into old Earth cycles, but this planet’s got quirks. Sometimes it rains for weeks, but gentle. Not floods—just a soggy mess.”

I took off my hat, scratched my head, and let out a low whistle. “Well, shoot.”

Before we had time to stew on it, Gus himself came bumpin’ down the path in his ancient rover. The thing looked like a cross between a tractor and a moon buggy. He climbed out stiffly, waved with his whole arm like he was stirrin’ soup.

“Got your alert, huh?” he called out, boots crunchin’ on gravel.

“We did,” I said, shaking his hand. “You come to tell us it’s bunk?”

Gus shook his head. “Nope. I came to say you better prep your drainage trenches.”

Lu was already noddin’. “I’ll get the covers on the feed bins. Boys need to move the sealed barrels under tarp.”

Gus looked impressed. “She’s on it, Ron. You married this woman yet?”

I blinked. “We’re... uh... workin’ on things.”

He winked. “Don’t take too long. A good woman who knows her drainage schedule is rarer than gold out here.”

By the time he rolled out again, the place was a hive of motion. Lu had gone full marshal, barkin’ orders with calm clarity.

“Cinco, get Seis and Dies to check the orchard trenches. Dos, make sure the mash room's barrels are lifted off the floor. Ron—” she turned to me, hands on hips, “you and I need to look at the root cellar.”

“I’m all yours, boss,” I said, grabbin’ my coat and a shovel.

The root cellar had always been my pride. Dug by hand, deep and cool, lined in stone we’d hauled ourselves. But even pride can get soggy if it ain’t prepped right. We packed clay around the outer wall, shored up one corner where runoff might sneak in. Lu lit a lantern while I crawled down to check the slope.

“We good?” she called.

I grunted. “Like a rabbit hole with ambitions. Should hold.”

Back topside, the air had that thick, metallic taste—like right before a storm, but not quite angry enough for thunder. The boys were diggin’ trenches with decent teamwork, even if Dies had a tendency to dig sideways when he got distracted by butterflies.

After supper, I stood by the barn watchin’ clouds roll in slow and low. They weren’t your average clouds, either. More like a ceiling that didn’t know when to stop droopin’. Just gray on gray, no wind, no rustle. Felt like we’d been slid under a thick blanket without askin’.

Lu came out, arms crossed, starin’ upward.

“We’re in for it,” she murmured. “Weeks, maybe.”

“You ever seen this before?” I asked.

“Just once. When I was a girl, over on Gus’ side of the valley. My mom made us eat beans outta jars for a month. Couldn’t get into the fields without losing your boots.”

“Well,” I said, “at least we got barrels sealed, tools dry, and the boys busy.”

“Busy’s the key,” she agreed. “Idle paws stir up trouble.”

We stood in silence a spell, shoulder to shoulder, watchin’ the strange sky turn a darker sort of gray.

That night, the first drops came like an apology. Soft and rhythmic, tap-tap-tappin’ on the tin roof like it didn’t mean no harm. It wasn’t a storm—it was a suggestion. A long, whisperin’ rain that made the whole house hum.

I drifted to sleep with the sound in my ears, hopin’ we’d done enough prep, hopin’ my boots wouldn’t mold in the morning, hopin’ the boys wouldn’t try to build a slip-n-slide in the mud.

Spoiler: they did. But that’s for later.

Next day, it was all puddles and damp socks and the sweet smell of wet earth. The corn looked confused. So did Quattro.

“You reckon this rain ever stops?” he asked me over breakfast.

“If it don’t, we’ll learn to paddle,” I replied.

The boys sloshed out to do inventory on the mash supplies, and I found Lu down in the workshop, organizing tools and waterproofing labels.

“You worried?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

But she had that look—the one where she stared a little too long at the ground before speakin’. So I put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“We got this, Lu.”

“I know,” she said. “But it’s gonna be a long few weeks.”

CHAPTER 41 – Rain Like Clockwork

It wasn’t the kinda rain you curse at. It didn’t blow sideways or drown the coop. It just… showed up and stayed. Like a polite stranger on your porch who won’t take a hint. Day after day, same gray sky, same polite drizzle.

By the third morning, I stepped outside and sank a good two inches into what used to be our front path. My boot made a sound like a cow sneezin’ into a bucket.

“Well,” I muttered, “there goes my socks.”

The fields were too wet to touch, the orchard was a sponge, and even the compost piles were startin’ to float sideways. With the fields off-limits, we turned our attention indoors. Lu drew up a list of chores like she was runnin’ a rainy-day summer camp.

Seis, always curious, got himself signed up to learn picklin’. He was thrilled until he realized it meant hours of cleanin’, slicin’, and listenin’ to Lu explain proper sterilization procedures.

“Is this still food?” he asked, pokin’ at a jar of floating cucumbers.

“Pickles are food with attitude,” Lu replied, deadpan.

Meanwhile, I took to the old smokehouse out behind the tool shed. It’d been leanin’ a bit for years, but the bones were still good. I hadn’t fired it up since Peg passed, and I figured now was as good a time as any to fix the beams, reseal the chimney, and maybe hang a few slabs of meat if the weather didn’t fry us with humidity.

While I hammered in new slats and fought off a family of hornets who’d claimed the corner rafters, Lu came by to check my work.

“You know,” she said, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face, “this thing could double as a cold cure room.”

I looked up from where I was patchin’ the bricks. “You plannin’ on gettin’ us into charcuterie next?”

“Never hurts to diversify,” she said, smilin’.

By midweek, I’d just started to feel like we were gettin’ ahead of the rain when I heard a yowl from the barn.

It was Quattro, sprintin’ across the yard like his tail was on fire.

“The cows!” he shouted. “They’re sinkin’!”

Now, I don’t rightly know what kind of emergency you imagine when someone says that, but what we found was a full-blown mud trap out back near the far pen. The ground there had gone soft and sludgy—good enough for crawdads, not so much for four heavy milkin’ cows who’d wandered in during a fence check.

Bessie and Freckles were stuck past the knees and mooing up a storm, tails flickin’, ears back.

“Don’t just stand there,” I barked. “Ropes, planks, shovels—now!”

The boys scattered. Lu ran for the shed. I grabbed a yoke and waded into the muck, nearly losin’ a boot.

“Easy, girl,” I said to Bessie, who gave me a look like this was somehow my fault.

Dos and Uno showed up with boards, layin’ them down to spread the weight. Nueve tossed me a rope, and we looped it under Bessie’s belly, careful not to strain her.

“Ready?” I said, plantin’ my boots wide.

We pulled like our lives depended on it. Mud sucked at every step, but slowly—inch by inch—we got her free. She collapsed to her side with a groan, then flopped over like she’d just escaped a spa day from hell.

Freckles went smoother, bless her, though Dies slipped and face-planted in a pile of muck, emerging lookin’ like a swamp spirit.

Once both cows were safe, we moved ‘em into the dry barn, filled their stall with hay, and scrubbed their legs with warm water and vinegar to keep infection out.

I stood there afterward, leanin’ on the stall rail, breathin’ hard.

Lu walked over, hands on her hips. “We’re gonna have to redirect runoff.”

“Already figured,” I said. “Add it to the list.”

She leaned on the rail beside me, shoulders bumpin’.

“Rain like clockwork,” she said. “Same time. Same weight. Same mess.”

“I prefer my clocks dry,” I muttered.

That night, we were all bone tired. I don’t think a single boy even made it to the storybook Lu had planned to read aloud—something about prairie ghosts and fermented beans. They passed out mid-biscuit.

I found Lu in the kitchen, hummin’ low as she wiped down jars and labeled things in her tidy script.

“You ever miss Earth?” she asked suddenly, without lookin’ at me.

I leaned against the doorframe, thinkin’ on it.

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

She turned, surprised.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I miss Peg. I miss certain smells. But Earth—Earth let me down. This place… I don’t know. Feels like a second shot.”

Lu nodded, slowly.

“I miss my home planet sometimes,” she admitted. “Miss my mom’s kitchen. The noise of it. I miss green beans boiled too long and that one grocery store smell you only notice when it’s gone.”

“I get that,” I said. “You miss the things that weren’t broken.”

She smiled, tired. “Exactly.”

We stood in silence for a while, just listenin’ to the tick of the rain on the roof.

Then I said, real quiet-like, “I like it better here. I like who I am here.”

Lu didn’t say nothin’. She just walked over, handed me a sealed jar of pickled squash, and said, “Well then, make sure you label this one. I don’t trust Seis’s handwriting.”

And I laughed. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the jar.