Had the water table been as high on Saturday, you would have had raging flooding.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view. . . . . The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

We're keeping our eye on a tropical system off Bermuda that is drifting westward. Our models have it moving well to the south of us and then turning northeast. But we know these things can change.

It would likely mean substantially more rain (than two inches) if that happens.

That bucket was my anchor. Without that bucket I would have been blown into the water. I probably wouldn't be here now.