Boy, oh boy! January sure came in with a bang! The storm and the fury brought rain, floods, high winds, and high tides. And that was just in my neighborhood! Not far from here the mudslides and heavy snows are keeping the wildfires at bay. The only thing missing is an earthquake, followed by plagues of frogs, flies, and locusts.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I come from Spokane, Wash.—a place where people don’t tan, they rust. Home of Gonzaga University, where the Jesuits called Spokane the town God forgot and the devil hasn’t gotten to! There are few warm days and plenty of soggy ones.
I don’t mind the rain, it’s the showers that wear me down. Rain is gentle, soft, lyrical, just like the song says: “Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain.”
I love showers, too. I take one every morning. Showers are supposed to be steamy, warm—just shy of too hot—cleansing, and comforting. I even enjoy outdoor showers in the summer, which cool me off.
However, I do not care for the heavy, chill winter showers that create rivulets of ice water, which find their way inside my coat collar and down my neck. This completely counteracts the effects of the warm shower I just had.
My husband, The Brit, comes from one of the wettest places on the planet, Great Britain. His people invented politeness as a means of making each other content to sit in open stadiums and watch soccer (I mean football) games in what they call “inclement” weather.
The British are mad people who will gladly watch 22 adults kick a ball back and forth in a blinding snowstorm while wearing nothing but shorts and jerseys. Really! I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and still I married one of these loonies!
On one recent Monday morning, I reluctantly crept out the door to take my grandson, The Briteen, to school. KSBY morning news’ meteorologist Dave Hovde’s description of weather conditions as a “severe rainstorm” was an understatement. It was frog strangler!
As we huddled in the car waiting for the heater to kick in, we listened to the rhythm of the falling rain, which sounded more like truckloads of ball bearings being dumped all around us than precipitation.
I gazed in my rearview mirror and saw what looked like the Niagara Falls behind me. Sheets of water cascaded off the roof of our carport. I dreaded having to drive anywhere in that Stormageddon.
I turned to my boy and said something that shocked even me. “If you don’t want to go to school today, I won’t say no.”
It’s true. I, a retired educator, suggested he play hooky. Oh, the shame of it all, especially when he replied, “Sorry, Grandma, but I have a Spanish test today.” What a great kid I have!
This wasn’t the worst storm I’ve faced. Living in Phoenix, Ariz., for more than 30 years prepared me for days like this. Phoenix is home to what locals call the annual Mogollon Mud Bog. This is the result of weather fronts that form summer storms which then move quickly over the Mogollon Rim into the “Valley of the Sun” (what Phoenix residents proudly call their sun-baked, sun-burnt environs).
These fronts drive fierce winds before them that lift the desert sands and haul it all into town in an intense dust storm called a “haboob.” I think these are named for the fools who get caught in them. “Ha! Boob!”
This is followed by hard, pelting rain that lasts just long enough to tamp down all that dust, but not long enough to wash it away. These heavy showers stop as suddenly as they start, leaving everything in their wake awash in a brown sludge of mud. Hence the name—the Mogollon Mud Bog!
One afternoon, my best friend, Robin, and I ignored the storm warnings and headed to the mall. As we exited one of the stores, we found ourselves in a maelstrom. It was a haboob, and we two boobs were smack in the middle of it.
We ran through the parking lot, jumped in my Ford Galaxy 500, and hightailed it to the shelter of a parking structure. There we hunkered down and watched as all kinds of things flew past, including a medium-sized palm tree, a large metal trash bin, several tree branches, a stop sign, and a little girl in a blue gingham dress clutching a picnic basket with a tiny dog in it.
Only once since have I encountered winds like that when I taught at CSU San Bernardino. There the Santa Ana winds were so overwhelming that the entrances on one side of the fine arts building would be sealed off to prevent anyone from opening them and risking severe injury when the glass doors got blown off.
As I made my way around the building, I suddenly found myself airborne, my feet at least 4 inches off the ground. It was exhilarating for about three seconds, until the reality and terror set in that the winds were powerful enough to lift my then-203-pound ass into the air. As sobering a thought that was, I needed a drink!
I recalled these events as I drove The Briteen to school on this more recent morning. I turned on the headlights, not so much to see but to be seen. I carefully maneuvered our car around a water-swollen intersection and past streaming gutters. The windshield wipers urged me on like the drummer in a Roman galley.
Having safely deposited my grandson onto dry ground, I headed home past cabbage and lettuce fields enveloped in fog, half expecting to see Stephen King playing the part of a hitchhiker. I was so happy to get home, get inside, and snuggle next to my Brit with a hot cup of tea until it was time to collect our young charge after school.
That’s when we cozy up and watch the news. We never miss Dave Hovde’s weather analysis, and I am always prepared for any changes in the climate because I follow his advice. When thunder roars, I stay indoors!
Ariel Waterman likes to read or watch movies on rainy days, but not Stephen King—he’s too scary! Send her your favorite tea blend via Managing Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Feb 2-9, 2017.