My relationship with California started as a relationship of drought, and continued as one of fire. For all of the five years I lived in San Francisco, California was in an unprecedented drought:
Since 2000, the longest duration of drought (D1–D4) in California lasted 376 weeks beginning on December 27, 2011, and ending on March 5th, 2019. The most intense period of drought occurred the week of July 29, 2014, where D4 affected 58.41% of California land. [drought.gov]
Essentially, California was in a drought since just before I arrived in 2012 until well after I left in 2017. Google Photos shows me that on the day starting that peak drought week, I took some blurry photographs as the San Francisco Giants lost to the Pittsburgh Pirates on their way to a third World Series title in five years. Looking back, I see that the Giants’ period of dominance, which helped them get to the fifth-most series wins, came during their state’s worst drought.
Any night game in that stadium is freezing, drought or not.
The year after I left, the Golden State experienced its worst fire ever, destroying a town called Paradise:
The Camp Fire was the deadliest and most destructive wildfire in California's history, and the most expensive natural disaster in the world in 2018. [Wikipedia]
As Paradise burned, I smelled smoke each summer in Oregon and feared not being able to get to (or from) Ashland to see Othello. I had never smelled fire like that before, not in 35 years.
The year after I came back to California, a global pandemic hit and fires turned the sun orange in the Bay Area and destroyed Big Basin, a legendary park. I Googled how to clean up ash (wear a mask, an easy feat in a pandemic; wear pants, wear long sleeves). I contemplated whether we had to move all of our outdoor furniture into the garage (we didn’t). I contemplated whether we should pack a go bag (we did). I scrubbed ash away from our yard furniture and children’s toys and deck and handrails multiple times using a broom, some dish soap, a hose. My dog didn’t want to go outside during the fire. My daughter’s class stayed indoors. Now I know what fire smells like and how to clean up after it too, at least on the outside.
These days, no rain has become normal. But today, it’s raining, and will be for a few days yet. An atmospheric river, it’s called, pelting a sunny beach town with torrential rain. The pitter-patter of these raindrops is unfamiliar enough in this seeming forever-drought that it creates an unsettling atmosphere in the house; my dog is afraid of it and won’t sit by the window. She keeps running up and down the hallway, confused. When the animals sense something’s wrong, what does it mean? Shouldn’t a dog know about rain?
Living in Oregon, rain becomes commonplace. Background noise. It’s a trope that Oregonians don’t use umbrellas, but it’s true–what a hassle. All you need is a good coat. Or even just a hoodie, if you don’t mind getting a little wet. In college, I changed my sopping pants every time I came back from class. I never thought to just wear shorter pants, flood pants, instead of the corduroy flares that dragged on the ground and got soaked. What was I thinking?
What are any of us thinking? The data is in, and clear–our lifestyles are not sustainable. If everyone lived like us, we’d be dead already. The drought would never end, or the rain. We need shorter pants, shorter commutes, smaller lives. We live in unsettling times, constantly setting new records. Hottest days, worst storms. Deadliest fires. But we’re still in long pants, calmly swapping them out, not realizing our fashion sense must change now.
Even Oregon is drier these days. I remember sweating out 80-degree summer days in college, being shocked that Portlandia didn’t have air conditioning (it didn’t need it, or didn’t used to). Last summer the city hit 116 or something–unthinkable, before. Now, just normal.
As the rain comes down, I think: we need it. The thing Californians say every time. Be careful driving. The oil comes out in the rains, they say. What if the oil had stayed in the ground? Would it be raining now?
Change your pants. Change your oil. Change your commute. Choose life. Drink some rain. Let it fall.