|
| News | Sports |
Business | Opinions |
Columns | Entertainment |
| Science/Technology| Weather | Archives | E-mail Us |
Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, March 20, 2000
Out-of-nowhere storm caught us unaware (again)
So, how did you enjoy our meteorological extravaganza Tuesday? Give South Texas weather credit: We don't do things by halves down here. One day we're eleventeen inches below normal rainfall; the next day we're treading water. I love this place.
I knew - or should have known - that something of the sort was in the offing. Within the past week or so, I've washed and waxed two of the vehicles in our fleet. I should have known the weather gods would make me pay for such temerity. (What is it about a nice, shiny vehicle that makes them so cranky, anyway?)
This thing was special. In fact, it put me in mind of a similar meteorological extravaganza some years back: In that case, too, a nasty weather system blew up with a minimum of notice and set a lot of us back on our heels. Memorably, Caller-Times columnist Bill Walraven dubbed it "Hurricane Low Pressure Area."
Happily, our home is on just a bit of a rise - enough to keep the waters at bay. Except, of course, for the garage, where the door to the back yard doesn't quite meet the sill. This results in the creation of a wetland area in the garage every time we have something more consequential than a heavy dew. Glug.
Happily, both my wife and I were at work when the skies opened up, and there were no urgent errands for us to run at the height of the storm. This was a welcome departure from a Peterson tradition that finds at least one of us out and about when the torrents arrive.
In such cases, for whatever reason, I'm usually in my gallant little MGB. It is a truly righteous little roadster, but it is not, repeat NOT, up there with your L.L. Bean insulated boots when it comes to foul-weather capabilities. The top leaks. The seal around along the top of the windshield leaks. There's a leak of indeterminate origin that drips ever more urgently on my left ankle as I motor along.
And the wipers: They clear a relatively petite area in any case, and they have but one speed: Too Darn Slow.
The real sticking point, however, is the little matter of ground clearance: In the interests of crisp handling, we're way down close to the road, which is usually OK (save for those accursed supermarket speed bumps), but it becomes a bit of a headache when the streets are awash. Last time around, partial inundation resulted in the steering virtually freezing up: good for my mechanic, bad for the family exchequer.
But, as I said, this time I could sit tight in my elegantly decorated office and wait it out. Which is not to say we ink-stained wretches were spared entirely. No way: We got, oh, I'd say about 3 1/2 inches in the Caller-Times.
And I do mean in the Caller-Times. In a tradition that goes back decades, this elegant structure becomes a fairly credible simulacrum of a water garden when a serious cloudburst hits. Magically, gray plastic wastebaskets materialize all over the building, deployed to catch the drips that come cascading through cunningly elusive apertures in the roof.
Some people say it's bothersome. To them I say: Phooey. To me there's something inexpressibly soothing about listening to the musical thub . . . thub . . . thub as raindrops collide with gray plastic. In fact, I regard the whole thing as free-form ecological performance art.
I thought I had made it through the storm pretty well unscathed; but that ol' hubris caught me by the collar and gave me a good shaking. Late in the afternoon, I made so bold as to pop over to the bayfront Whataburger for a late lunch.
On my arrival, I learned yet again that you take nothing for granted down here, meteorology-wise: The gusts that (I thought) had died down picked up just as I clambered out of the car and deployed my umbrella. Quicker than it takes to say "frog-strangler," a vicious breeze caught it, and . . . FOOMP! A perfectly respectable bumbershoot became a piece of junk sculpture.
Those weather deities are a caution. They sneak up on you like NFL players deploying the Gatorade vat to douse the coach after a Super Bowl victory . . . only we don't get no stinkin' ring. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got an umbrella to buy.
Brooks Peterson
| Talk about this column
| Other Columns | Home |
© 2000 Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
Scripps Howard newspaper.
All rights reserved.
|
 |
 |
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
|
