You know it’s going to be damp when the National Weather Service calls your post office staff and tells them to get to higher ground! The local tow-trucks have been hauling cars out of Pescadero’s larger puddles much of the weekend, including a minivan of visiting nuns. Our power lines, strung haphazardly through the town’s older trees and muddy hillsides, collapsed somewhere on Thursday night, leaving us with a couple of hundred goats to milk by hand on Friday morning.
Pilar arrived at 6.30am as usual but couldn’t see a thing in the dark. Ryan began milking at daybreak. We called Rachel in on her day off. Chloe called in favors at the taqueria. Teri, the farm artist, visiting from Oregon, got out of bed and into the parlor. The power came back on at 9am but the rain persisted.
