Seems like yesterday.
As a matter of fact, it was yesterday.

8:30-ish AM — “Good morning, Marjorie. Let’s go to one of your favorites: Cracker Barrel in North Charleston.”

Sure, there was a flood watch, but welcome to Charleston in August. That’s not gonna keep two stalwart “geezers” at home.

Cloudy skies. On-and-off rain. Frequent reminders of a flood watch.  But the roads looked passable, so off we went.

The trip north was uneventful, if a bit eerie.

We had a great breakfast. Our favorite server, Suzanne, took good care of us as always, and even chuckled at my lame attempts at humor. I do need an appreciative audience, even if it’s only one. She probably knows more about us than some of our family members (and vice versa).

Heading home — The rain was getting worse. Thunder rolled. Then my phone went nuts in my breast pocket.
BLAAAH! Vibration and noise that not only got my attention, it might’ve made my damn pacemaker skip a beat or two.

ATTENTION: Flash Flood Warning in your area. If you don’t need to travel, stay the hell home. (I added the “the hell” to that in my head.)

Too late. Pouring rain and thundering with lightning all over. Yay.

I could still see, so we pressed on.  I stuck to Rivers Ave as much as possible, avoiding the interstate, but eventually hopped on I-26 for a short stretch.

And then (just to make life interesting) it started raining inside the car. “Eek,” said Marjorie. “I just got wet.”
Note to self: never again buy a car with a sunroof. They leak!!

Bad decision — I got off the interstate. The rain let up a little, but I made the mistake of taking Rutledge Ave instead of the wider, less flood-prone Meeting Street.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.

The giveaway sign of trouble was the myriad of blinking blue lights ahead.  Sure enough, that was the police blocking flooded roads. At Calhoun Street, both left and straight ahead were blocked. My only option was right—taking me away from home.  What to do?

Several thoughts entered my head including heading to the nearest hotel and booking a room.  Marjorie, a bit more reasoned, suggested we pull into a gas station and wait out the storm. But no—I pressed on. Soon enough, I found a way back east to Meeting Street, and it was clear all the way to South Battery.

Almost home — Now, where to park? The street is prone to flooding. The back lot is safer, except for the ankle-deep puddle in the driveway, right where I’d have to walk to reach the elevator to our dry abode.

So what’s your plan, oh wise ol’ geezer, man of the house?

I told Marjorie, “I’ll let you out at the steps to our entrance, then park in back and meet you at the elevator.” Sounds good…in theory.

But here’s the sitcom twist: It’s raining like hell. My side of the car is wedged too close to the curb to get out (leaving more room for my lovely bride), so I sit while she struggles for several long minutes, to get around the car to the steps.

My turn — I finagle the car into my space out back sans raincoat cuz I “don’t believe in ’em.” I just get wet when it rains, cuz I’m a dumb shit. I head for the elevator. Ankle-deep water covers almost the entire driveway. What the hell. I walk calmly through it.  Wouldn’t think of taking off my shoes. God only knows what I woulda stepped in or on.

Finally, we made it upstairs. Safe, soaked, and ready for a hot shower.

And I had just enough new material for another story.

Enuf.