Centre of attention

Time and more to add my flood tale to the mix.

Lucky me: Tuesdays I work afternoons, so I just rolled over when the thunder and lightning showed up. When I finally got up, the worst was over, but my spouse pointed out the roof leak in the back bedroom. This defect is something of a weather prophet, since it only leaks under extreme conditions. Thus we knew, before anyone announced a figure, that we had had four inches of rain in under two hours.

The cellar was not so bad. We have one corner, yet untiled, which is the habitat of useful junk. There was just enough water to turn some of the useful junk into useless junk.

But now we turn to my workplace. Although the office sits atop one of Salem's highest hills, the file room next to my office has always shown a talent for attracting leaks. I arrived expecting the worst, but was pleased to find my carpet dry and the leaks not so bad.

Except except except.... Early in the morning, there was enough leaky water to interrupt power very briefly. That short interruption was enough to set off the backup battery alarm.

The backup battery is a noble idea for networks. Trouble is, many of the associated alarms don't have the mother wit to SHUT UP after the emergency is over. The geeks who build these things seem to take a fiendish delight in pitching the alarms at the outer limits of human hearing. Our backup battery alarm was running when I arrived at work early yesterday afternoon. It was running when I got there this morning. It was still running when I left. It is still running in my head, with tinnitus that is becoming quite impressive. It will probably be running when I go in tomorrow, unless someone takes the battery out and shoots it. The tinnitus may last longer.

This probably doesn't rank with the lake at Peabody Square, and the ponds in many other places, but I submit that it is collateral damage.

Silver Linings

The first silver lining on the programme is that by being behind in one's musings, one is freed from the necessity of making topical comments.

Last week, we were on holiday in somewhat northern parts of Vermont. The objective was kayaking, not uncommonly late spring skiing. We had hoped that by taking off before July 4, we would avoid vast family crowds and hordes of motorboats. We didn't expect to avoid motorboats and their bastard offspring, "personal watercraft," almost altogether.

We have the prodigious spring floods of Vermont to thank for that. Although the flood stage moment has gone by in most places, there is hardly a body of water in this part of the state that has got down to normal. We were on Lake Champlain proper once, and another time paddled two of its tributaries. Water level was two to three feet above normal. Launching ramps, beaches, and one large pier were still submerged. A good part of the day-use facilities at Burton Island State Park were more or less in ruins.

Those who haven't been around a flood of long duration may think that the water just comes and goes. Oh no: especially not when the flooded lake is so large that it has a visible horizon line North and South. There are waves on that flood water, which extend the damage well above the official flood stage line. Three or four weeks under water is enough to permit all sorts of marine life to gain a foothold. In some places, small isolated ponds full of fish were stranded by the receding waters. This was a blessing for the seabirds, foxes, cats, and carrion feeders of the area, but they were untidy eaters. To walk along the newly-freed waterfront property was to stroll over marine slime and partially-devoured fish.

As usual, the inhabited areas most exposed to flood damage were those whose residents were least able to afford disaster. The camps of the affluent were mostly well above flood stage. It seems that many of the flooded dwellings had long since ceased to be seasonal. They were, instead, homes for people with little choice but to take a chance. They lost, in this year of 500-year floods.

The floods also left behind a vast amount of driftwood, especially in the smaller ponds we visited. Few motorboaters care to be banged about by floating objects ranging from the size of baseball bats to that of fence posts. Fewer were attracted by the smelly ruins along lakes and rivers. Thus the public waters generally belonged, by default, to human-powered vehicles.

We went bear-less again. Part of our troupe stayed in a campground, not in a cabin, and were once escorted back by a juvenile moose. We shared one lunch spot with a trio of otters. (Judging by size they were an indifferent father, a helicopter mom, and a clueless and accident-prone juvenile.) Our chief companions were birds, ranging from swallows to herons and snowy egrets, plus several ospreys and an eagle.

Final silver lining came after we arrived home and I found my cell phone missing. I began the motions of reporting a lost phone, which came to naught because my daughter owns the account. She was spending the weekend communing with condors in the California boonies, far beyond any cell phone tower. At this moment my wife opened her phone and found a message from Grantham, NH. A couple there had found the phone by the roadside. (We determined I had lost it during a brief driver swap on the way home.) They left their number and arranged to send it back. I have it now. This is a valuable corrective for a cynical old fart with a low opinion of most of my fellow primates, and I suppose I should get myself out and pay this forward. There is all the more reason for doing so, in that the people who returned the phone were themselves paying forward a similar gesture.

Finally, a tangential comment on current affairs comes to us from Thoreau: "Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk." Google and ponder that, if you will.