I have never had to deal with the California wildfires up close. The nearest I've come is when Griffith Park caught on fire back in 2007, which is when I took this background picture from the parking lot at work. We saw the flames on the hillside, but were never personally affected. My sister, Amy, had to evacuate last year when the fire showed up in her San Diego neighborhood. She described her experience eloquently on Weekend America on NPR (click here to listen).
I hope all of you back in Los Angeles are holding up okay. I know how disturbing it is not to have fresh air to breathe, and for those of you who are waiting to hear if you have to flee your homes, I can't even imagine the suspense. My thoughts are with you all.
Southern California is prone to a sobering number of natural disasters. Devastating earthquakes, wildfires, floods and mudslides are all common occurrences - in fact, a year going by without all three would be unusual. In his disturbing Ecology of Fear, Mike Davis even offers convincing evidence that tornadoes could be added to the list of predictable catastrophes in the southland. John McPhee describes the eerie cycle of dry weather, fire, torrential rain, and cataclysmic debris flows in The Control of Nature. (I've quoted this book before, but it really is fascinating!) With startling regularity, McPhee writes, heavy rainstorms are actually drawn to recent burn areas. This ensures maximum devastation since there is little underbrush to deter the flow or even healthy soil capable of absorbing the moisture. The pattern repeats itself time and again, and yet Californians still have no effective way of mitigating or preventing the destruction.
Is this the punishment Southern Californians get in return for their year-round beautiful weather? Or is it always beautiful? Clearly there have to be enough storms large enough to wreak havoc on a regular basis. Maybe it's because we have such a sunny view of things that we don't prepare adequately for the hard times. Southern California has always presented itself as a temperate paradise; to prepare for storms and disasters would be to admit that things aren't always perfect. But once the rain begins, it doesn't take an expert to see how very ill-equipped Angelenos are to handle the elements. Drivers continue their wonted practice of accelerating until an obstruction presents itself in their path. Unfortunately, streets that haven't been wet in a long time are much slicker than anyone expects, and suddenly there are accidents everywhere, turning freeways into parking lots. On the city streets the gutters fill up in less than an hour, and intersections are flooded to dangerous levels.
On the other end of the thermometer, when temperatures soar, brownouts dot the city as residents lucky enough to have air conditioning switch them on and leave them on. Those of us who live(d) in older buildings find ourselves sweating it out in 90+ degree temperatures INDOORS. How is it still acceptable to sell or rent a building without a/c? Just as with the rains, it seems there is a collective agreement to forget those few days (weeks!) of the year when we are all severely uncomfortable.It seems other states are forced to plan for inclement weather, since it affects the entire population for weeks or months on end. Although I haven't been here long enough to observe the full range of nature's challenges, I have noticed a few ways in which Boise seems well prepared for the elements. Peter's parents live in a community in Meridian that doesn't have any gutters next to the sidewalk. Instead, the strip of lawn bordering the street is sloped down in the middle to collect water and irrigate at the same time. (I'm sure Amy, who is a landscape architect, can provide more insight into this technique.) Furthermore, every building I have entered so far has been air conditioned, and we haven't experienced any power outages yet. The summer heat is so intense and so persistent that a less robust power grid would be untenable.
We enjoyed our first thunderstorm the other night. We saw several flashes of lightning and heard the thunder in the distance, and I opened the back door to get a whiff of that lovely pre-rain smell. (It's not as lovely when you're surrounded by cow farms, by the way. More on that later.) Turning back to Peter, I heard a strange noise. "Where's the cat?" I asked him. "I hope she doesn't get caught in the rain!" The family who lived here before us left their pets behind, and they were adopted by the neighbors. But one kitty in particular remembers that this was her original home, and she'd been hanging around that evening. "She's already inside," he told me, and pointed to Her Lounging Highness, already getting comfortable on his pillow. She wasn't a moment too soon, because as soon as I closed the door the rain started coming down and it sounded like the End of Days. Pretty soon our back yard was covered with little marble-sized hailstones. The hail only lasted a few minutes, and the storm eased not long thereafter. But it made me so happy to experience that again, the purple stormy sky and the moody grumblings from above. It's been a long time for me. It never rains in L.A.
