At last, after weeks of predictions and threats, of displaying and analyzing satellite images of Canadian lows and Mexican highs, of warning against the liquid perils that would soon pour down upon us, the meteorologists of San Diego have spun their giant wheels of fortune and hit pay-dirt! The good news for me is that I have, in a fortuitous flash of foresight, recently pulled my “winter” shorts out of storage. The bad news for me is that my pick-up truck is spoiled. Yes, my usually reliable steel-belted steed finds the rain unacceptable and leaves me high and not so dry on the side of the road. As I hoof it across the Carroll Canyon Bridge and back into Scripps Ranch, I’m struck with the realization that city run improvements in general and this bridge reconditioning in particular progress just as slowly in bad weather as they do when it’s bright and sunny. Personally, I see no reason why our Carroll Canyon thoroughfare shouldn’t be back up and running smoothly by, oh, let’s say 2014. I continue towards home through the business park.
Along my way I am passed by no less than a dozen joggers. I admire the tenacity of each and every one of these drenched tenni-laced cardio-enthusiasts. I also stifle the urge to remind each and every one of them that the health benefits of said physical activity are nullified if exposure to the elements leads to pneumonia! I start up Scripps Ranch Blvd. The rain blows under my hood as I try to pull it lower over my face. I lean into the task of ascending the incline. A chuckle escapes as I visualize the local media blitz that has surely occurred with the arrival of this storm. I imagine the panicky on-location report as the crew scrambles to locate the first single drop to hit within city limits. I can almost hear the wailing lamentations for the doomed commuters now that the roads are wet! There are a couple of strange moments when, in a particularly dark section at the bottom of Aviary Dr, I think I catch a final glimpse of the hopes and dreams of the Chargers’ 2010 season as they swirl down a storm drain; and later as I round the corner onto Red Cedar Dr, I see, through the moisture-infused street lights, what I believe is the frolicking figure of Gene Kelly pirouetting off a lamppost. Giving my sanity the benefit of the doubt, I continue on.
As my arduous journey reaches a soggy conclusion and I near my home, I notice that a couple of my neighbors’ timer-set sprinklers gush away in competition with Mother Nature. I suddenly feel warm and cozy back in the method that is San Diego’s madness.

                                               Daniel J. McAuliffe             
                                               Substitute Teacher

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