Friday, June 7, 2013
One of my earliest memories--about the time I was five--was a harrowing trip down Mt. Graham in Arizona in the midst of the remnants of a tropical storm. I remember my father using a chain to movedrag huge trees and boulders out of the dirt road so we could get past. Then when we reached the foot of the mountain, there was so much water it was over the running boards on our car. Yeah, that was back when there were running boards. For those too young to remember those days...Google it.
When I was ten, another tropical storm pounded our small town south of Globe, Arizona. We lived in a house that clung to the side of a mountain. The yard of our next door neighbor's house was level with our roof. And our yard was about a level above the house below us on the other side. Rain poured down as lightning and thunder rumbled all around us. Water washed under the doors, rushing across the floors. I remember all of us cowering on top of the kitchen table.
Years later we lived in Houston. We were transferred to New York. The moving company was scheduled to arrive and pack up our possessions...except a major rainstorm prevented that. Water up to our knees kept the moving truck from entering our subdivision. The move was postponed by a week.
Twenty years later in the middle of moving from New York to Baltimore, in the Pennsylvania mountains we drove through the worst rain storm I've ever encountered. It was dark. We couldn't see the road. And our dog never recovered from the trauma.
As a gully-washer, so far Tropical Storm Andrea is a bust. And that's just fine with me. Just fine.