Singin' in the rain.
Bread, milk, toilet paper.
BMT – that’s how two "shock jock" deejays in Washington, D.C. summed up the panicked rush that paralyzed the metro area at the first mention of a winter storm. Never mind that most "storms" coming through the area barely produced four inches of wet snow which, within a few hours, would melt and swirl down the storm sewers; most of the population of five million besieged every grocery, hardware and convenience store to wipe them out of snow shovels, ice melt, beer, potato chips and, of course, the BMT staples. One car dealer even reported a spike in sales of four-wheel-drive vehicles in the couple of days prior to storms.
For this native of blizzard-prone Western New York, snow in the D.C. region barely registered. Historically, however, the area averages nearly 40 inches of precipitation annually, yet during the last couple of years I lived in Fredericksburg, Virginia, the region was visibly wilting under a prolonged drought.
I fretted, waiting for the rain. I lived in a place where generous rains had pushed green jungle over Civil War battlefields, where flowers bloomed through three seasons of rain. I worried about the implications of no rain in a place where it was supposed to rain.
Then I met Ron, who promised me that there would be plenty of snow in Nebraska, and rain would bless the spring and early summer. He told me stories about ferocious Great Plains blizzards, followed by flooding along the Big Blue River, the creek that ran through the Burke homestead. I looked forward to living again in a place where it was supposed to rain.
We did have some scary snow storms, and our little creek spread a quarter mile wide in springtime a couple of times, but within a few years of moving to Nebraska, drought there dried up the Big Blue, driving away the herons and the beavers. We had seen flocks of migrating geese, hundreds of thousands at a time, but now they diverted their route to find and follow running water. High drifts sculpted by icy winds belied how little snow was falling on the farm. The legendary, bone-chilling cold of the Great Plains disappeared. Throughout most of the winter months, I was comfortable leaving the house warmed only by a heavy sweatshirt and sneakers.
I was still waiting for the rain, but the effects of global climate change were becoming more pronounced across the nation. And, as the climate scientists had predicted, the weather became more unpredictable. By the time serial blizzards struck the Great Plains during the winter of 2009-10, I was shouting, "Let it snow!"
Heat and drought returned to the nation’s heartland this summer, but I am no longer there to worry about it. I moved, instead, to a place where heat is the norm and rain is almost mythical. I don’t have to worry about the lack of rain in the Central Valley of California; it’s not supposed to rain here.
Whatever your impressions or feelings about Nebraska, it is kryptonite to one class of persons: weather geeks. Aspiring meteorologists flock to the state, only to be confronted by the reality that TV weather guys already there never move on or retire. Even as global climate change accelerates, Nebraska is every weather geek’s dream: tornados, blizzards, hail, sub-zero temperatures and heat indices soaring beyond 100 F – real weather guys live for this stuff.
By contrast, I think people who come to the Valley to forecast the weather have different dreams, the kind that don’t require so much time on the job. The biggest weather challenge around here is finding new ways to say, "Sunny and hot." There is absolutely no reason to wait up for the late local weather news. There is no weather "news," just more of the same.
The average annual precipitation in Visalia is eleven inches, and none of that is snow. People here are taken by surprise when it rains. Excited texts and phone calls fly back and forth across the city: Is it raining at your house?
So I am struck by an apparent anomaly I regularly see here: Umbrellas.
Umbrellas, everywhere. More umbrellas in use, every day, than I ever saw in Nebraska’s slushy snows or Virginia’s downpours.
Umbrellas shading outdoor cafes. Umbrellas as mobile shade for pedestrians. Umbrellas here are seldom employed in their traditional use. Though marketed as "umbrellas," they would more properly be called "parasols." Their primary use here is to create shade in a place where shade is a precious commodity.
Absolutely my favorite use of umbrellas around Visalia is to shade flowers. Yes, flowers. The first time I saw umbrellas propped in a beautifully landscaped yard, I thought they must have been abandoned there by kids as toys. Then I realized that, day after day, they were never removed. And they were generally oriented toward the west, in a location where the afternoon sun would burn fiercely. And underneath each nestled pretty blossoms.
Nobody here worries that their plants will not get enough sun. The bigger concern is that their elaborate landscaping will fry under relentless sun and heat. And underneath these flower canopies, irrigation systems hydrate and nourish each plant on a carefully regulated schedule.
Around here, there is no use waiting for the rain.
