Vincit Qui Primum Gerit:
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Two-Meat Tuesday:
Weather. I started camping out in San Antonio some time ago. The visual appeal alone tickled a muse and caused the Side Project, as there’s an inherent visual appeal at the cultural crossroads.
Not what this is about.
The weather, see, when I moved toward San Antonio’s Downtown and South Side environs, I noticed color and sentiment. I refer to this frequently as “Boom or Bust” cycles.
San Antonio experienced the most rain it had – ever measured – in the first half of 2007. In other words, by July, there was more measured rain fall than any other year. July. Seventh (7th) month of the year.
Rain stopped. Drought followed. There was much chatter and comparison to the drought of the 1950s’, that bad. Then, a few days ago, on a Sunday?
More than 5 (five) inches of rain in a single night.
Which is the second part of this question and answer period, what’s with the low water crossings in San Antonio? The high-water markers show the creek is over four (4) feet full, over the bridge and local people still try to drive through. As I understand it, the fire departments’ search and rescue now charge a hefty fee a well as a stiff fine for attempting to cross low-water bridges that are clearly marked as Do Not Enter.
I figure, even though the deaths might be preventable? Just clearing out the gene pool and maybe Darwin was right. There’s an element, I was saving for a horoscope, but I’ve missed the point now, and that elemental question is “Why?”
Yet, every heavy downpour brings out the emergency crews to pluck another motorist who tried to make it through raging flood waters.
The tail-end image, that goes with all of this, that rain, that Sunday night? The image from the morning, maybe it was the paper, or TV, I don’t recall, but the best image? A stranded fire truck. SA FD tried to make it across those waters. To be fair, I’m sure the truck itself and its crew, I’m sure they were on a rescue mission.
“Yeah, chief? We’re kind of stuck….”
Back in the day when I was heavily involved in such things, I remember careening across the desert in support of a search-and-rescue vehicle which had gone nose down into an arroyo and was stuck. The occupants of said vehicle were the mucho macho types who adorned their persons with belt knives, pagers, survival kits, water canteens, compasses and anything else they could find, and bragged about their desert driving prowess until we were all sick of it.
They were much chagrined at being rescued by a team of two women. We winched them out of the decline, waved good-bye and left them there to fume and fret and make up a story. And find their way (eventually) back to base camp.
Us macho men fall hardest.
Headfirst in my case.