There was a heavy onset of storms in our area recently.

I won't tell you exactly where, but I will tell you that the land here is mostly flat

and therefore not conductive to dealing with reign in biblical proportions.

About once a year, it usually floods so bad that the locals joke about the coming of God and his angels.

My Grandma, Blesser, lives along a road that is notoriously bad for these sort of problems.

Once and one such incident, when I was visiting, I saw a man misjudge just how deep the water was and plow his truck straight into a makeshift four-foot river.

He desperately had to escape his vehicle as it drifted down the street and make the embarrassing

weight of shame over to one of the neighbor's inclined driveways.

It doesn't help that my grandma's neighborhood is quite old as well.

She raised my dad and his sister in the house she lives in now, though their bedrooms have long

since been remodeled into a guest bedroom and an office respectively.

My dad's tried to coax her out several times as the house has began to have numerous and serious

problems due to age.

Rusted pipes, electrical issues, the amount of clutter that comes with living in a house for 50 plus years.

You know, that sort of thing.

So, it came as no surprise that during the most recent round of floods I received a frantic call from my grandma saying that the sump pump in her basement broke.

I am the only family who lives closer to an owl.

So I'm usually the go to when stuff like this happens, even more than those qualified to do so.

My dad, who's good at handiwork, recently moved out of the States for his job and his sister passed quite a few years back, leaving no one behind but us.

Plus, Grandma is a bit too old to haggle with professional handyman herself, so I'm used to rolling

at my sleeves and heading over at the drop of a dime nowadays.

It's never a hassle though.

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