it's raining again

Any of my readers in Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, or other points east—you know who you are—will probably identify with the weather report I'm about to give. It's been raining for three days straight. You've likely seen it on the news. SoCal is getting battered by a string of powerful storms. I'm lucky I don't live down the hill in the Los Angeles Basin; they're dealing with winds of 70-80 miles per hour, gusting to 90. The torrential rains have sparked concerns about flooding and mudslides. Several neighborhoods are under evacuation orders, including some that were evacuated in the Station Fire back in 2009. Up here in the High Desert, somewhat sheltered from the Pacific's fury by the San Bernardino Mountains, things have still been hectic. Back on Sunday I helped my elderly neighbors Donna and Joanie dig a trench across the road between our houses. The weather then was deceptively bright, sunny, and clement. We live in the foothills, and we're on a slope. Corto Road goes roughly north, down the hill, past my house on the corner, and bends west at a right angle to become Laramie Street, which runs in front of my house. Donna and Joanie's house is across from mine, on Laramie. When it rains, the sandy soil can't absorb even a slight amount, and Corto Road becomes a veritable river. The water typically rushes down Corto, straight across Laramie and onto Donna and Joanie's property. They were digging a trench to divert the flow across Corto into the natural drainage on the other side. Their fence was getting undercut by the rain. So they built a dam across the water's usual path, and, with my assistance, excavated a spillway. When the rains began coming on Monday, the trench I'd spent 45 minutes lovingly hacking didn't even get wet. Thanks to a natural dip in Corto Road, almost all of the water was diverted. I know this because I went outside (in howling 50 mile-per-hour winds, stinging rain, and 40-degree temperatures) to check it. I also spent a few minutes excavating more spillways to divert the remaining flow away from Donna and Joanie's property. Between that and the dam they'd built, their fence stayed dry. I didn't. I was soaked to the skin when I got back inside. But I didn't mind. The exercise had kept me warm, and it felt good to actually feel what the weather was like instead of look at it through a window. The rains slackened in the evening. Mom, Dad and I piled into the truck and went out to see the sights. Milpas Road, the main thoroughfare in or out of my neighborhood, had transformed into a torrent as it always did. We had a bumpy ride down the hill. Holes had been drilled into the soft sand, and entire banks cut and sculpted out of minor vagaries in the road's surface. Monday evening was beautiful. The first storm passed, the clouds broke up, the sun splashed a few rays over the valley just before it submerged, and a beautiful evening took shape. Tuesday's storm wasn't as fierce as Monday's, even despite some thunder and lightning that sent us scrambling to unplug modems and turn off computers. It was insidious nonetheless, though. It came with a thick fog that blanketed the entire valley, even obscuring the nearby mountaintops behind my house. The rain turned into freezing rain, and then into sloppy snow. When the fog finally rolled back a few hours later, there was a dusting of white on everything, and the mountains were adorned with a fresh coat. Today is Wednesday. It's been raining all day in Apple Valley. Up here in the foothills above town, it began about eleven or so. I ran outside to cleanse the backyard of dog droppings before water started coming down. The storm was preceded by the same ferocious winds, but unlike Monday, they died down before the rains. It's now been pouring for six hours straight. I can't tell you how odd this is. In this rain shadow desert, the mountains usually block the ocean's precipitation from getting up here. When the rain does come, it's usually a few turbulent sprinkles, no more. A sustained rain is something I haven't experienced since Korea or Tennessee. Both Corto and Laramie are impersonating the Mississippi River now. (I'm looking at Laramie now as I write this.) I can see halfway across the valley; the rest is obscured by fog. I can almost make out the silhouette of the Granite Mountains through the muted grayness. It's beginning to get dark; the sun is likely sinking below the horizon now. Still the rain falls, dripping noisily off the red tile roof onto the sidewalk outside my window. The only good part about this is that I get to experience this before any of you do. Ha-ha. Suckers.