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How High’s The Water, Mama?
Ronda Rich
Late one evening, not long ago, it began to rain. I thought nothing of it until the next morning when I opened the front door to let the dogs out. What I saw caused me to stumble backwards. The tiny river and adjoining stream that run through our front pastures had flooded and the muddy waters were edging close. For an hour, I watched as the river rose visibly before my eyes. In my head, I heard the plaintive, rustic plea of Johnny Cash recalling a childhood flood in Arkansas. “How high’s the water, Mama?” he sang. “Five feet high and risin’.”