Tumultuous Water, the Delaware — by Brenda Jones
My Tremulous Storm Scenes above the Millstone and the Canal:
Wild Storm, Floodwater High Across Canal Road, north of 518
Ponding on the Driveway, High Water, Canal Road, north of 518
Neither my friend, Brenda Jones, nor I, spends much time outdoors in rain, –at least not intentionally, and not with our cameras.
Hers is far better than mine in chronicling wild water. I lived on a hill high above Canal Road, and the waters came up from the flood plain, over the Millstone River, over the Road, and far up the driveway, drowning its protective metal rail, in recent storms.
Last night, in a rather ordinary storm, poles went down, and wires with them, all over the Princeton Region.
My 5.5-mile ride from Lawrenceville to work took 90 minutes this morning. “Rosedale Road is closed,” declared the policeman (yes, I had ignored the closed sign and bright lights- I had to get work!) It would be closed from 2 hours to 2 days. Still closed when I left work this afternoon.
Thanks to human greed, burning of fossil fuel, refusal by our country to take the lead and reverse catastrophic climate change, we basically never have normal rain any more. Read Elizabeth Kolbert’s masterworks, “The Sixth Extinction” and “Field Notes from a Catastrophe” for the best science writing yet on what we are living through, what we are causing. “Among the few irreplaceable volumes written about climate change,” declares Bill McKibben, “Kolbert offers the best summary yet.” Other experts praise “Sixth Extinction” as our century’s “Silent Spring.”
You all know the reasons — glacial melt. Freshwater (light) on top of saltwater (heavy), –therefore more evaporatable water; more precipitation; more frequent precipitation; more violent precipitation. Changes in sea and river currents, which change air currents and the Gulf Stream. Which alter our planet, our very existence. Pogo said it long ago: “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”
Forget “the new normal”! There ISN’t any normal any more. Not in any season. Not any time of day or night.
When we were little, we could go outside in bare feet and little homemade swimming outfits and paddle in bright puddles. Soft rain blessed our shoulders, tickled our backs, rinsed our long curls in the best conditioner ever. Tornadoes began with Flint when I was 11. “One day, clouds went both ways, fast!”, I wrote of being out precursors to that tempest. Nothing was ever the same.
Rain was something we liked. Something to play in!
Not an excuse for weather gurus to use smarmy voice and smirky smile to order us all “Stay safe…” and “Shelter at home…” If you notice, they also tell us when to shop and what to buy, and show pictures of shopping frenzy to stoke the coals…
Basically there isn’t any safe, any shelter, any more.
There used to be wonderful cadences to thunder. A soft vacuumy hush before the first rumble. The excitement of thunder as it grew nearer and nearer. Counting between lightning and thunder – “one one hundred, two one hundred” — something about the distance between bolts and ears.
The other night – not EVEN last night with all the downed trees of Princeton, all the sparking, smoking wires of morning — there was not even time to say “one”, let alone “one hundred” between ceaseless stabbings of lightning throughout the greensward here at my new dwelling and the explosion of thunder.
I never wanted to be someone who yearned for the “good old days.”
But I yearn for good old rains.