Category Archives: weather

Jefferson City’s first tornado

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The scars of the May 23, 2019 tornado that hit Jefferson City remain fresh—and obvious to many who remember when a house stood here, a big beautiful tree over there, when a fence conceals a vacant lot that once held a gathering place for plays, when broken windows at the state penitentiary continue to stare blankly at passersby.

When city and county officials had time to add things up, they found it had damaged 316 residential buildings, 82 commercial buildings and thirty government structures. It was classed as an EF-3, with winds of 73-112 mph (the scale assigns storms of less than 73 mph as an EF0).

Within hours of that tornado, and continuing today, there are those who speculate about what would have happened if the tornado had followed a path just a few blocks west—-and hit a hospital or the Southside and downtown business district and even the Capitol.

We had a tornado that did.  Hit the Capitol.  And a hospital.  And areas in between.

It was May 12, 1890, a Monday in the town of about 6,700 residents. “The almost stifling heat during the afternoon indicated that a storm of some kind was brewing and the heavy cloud that rolled up in the southwest about 4:30 indicated further that it was a storm of the business turn of mind, and that it had business in this immediate vicinity” reported the Jefferson City Daily Tribune the next day.  “It came with a roar and a crash that was terrible enough to fill the minds of those who witnessed it with apprehension of dire disaster.”

The Cole County Democrat reported, “The winds rose in a stiff blow, carrying the dark green looking clouds in every direction and threatening destruction to everything.”

And then the cloud split into three segments, “one division striking for the extreme western portion of the city, another traveling up Monroe Street to the river, while the third division took in the southern and eastern portion of the city taking in the penitentiary.”

The Chillicothe Constitution reported, “For half an hour the wind blew a hurricane, driving before it a storm of rain which so enveloped the town that nothing could be seen but the vivid flashes of lightning…At 4:45 o’clock the wind had risen almost to the force of a cyclone, and as it came roaring over the hills it struck the state Capitol with terrific force.

The seven-year old St. Peter Catholic Church was hammered and, “The heavy brick arch on top of the rear wall was blown over on the roof and went crashing through clear to the basement, making a complete wreck of the richly furnished altar and sacristy.”  Fortunately, said the Daily Tribune, “it is understood that a cyclone policy was carried on the church.”

The Capitol was immediately next. “Here the wind got a grip under the cornice of the roof of the old part of the building north of the dome and did not relax its hold until a great section of the roof, tin, timbers and all, had been rolled up, crushed, splintered and scattered…,” said the newspaper.  The Chillicothe paper said the debris was “rolled together like a scroll and carried over the bluff.”

The tornado struck only a few months after a new cornerstone had been laid after two new wings had been added to the Capitol.

“At the same moment, half a dozen trees in the Capitol Park were snapped in twain, and the glass in the dome came tumbling with a crash into the rotunda.”  But, “the building itself stood solid as a rock.”

The eastern division of the storm unroofed the penitentiary hospital but apparently did little damage beyond that.

But the central division, the storm “tore down several chimneys, one off he residence of Postmaster Sample, one off the resident of J. R. Edwards, the smoke stack from the Brton residence and J. T. Craven lost his tin chimney. The shade trees in Mr. R. Dallmeyer’s yard were twisted considerably.  The Democrat building lost a cellar door, it being lifted by the storm from the pavement and carried at least one hundred feet. One window of the building being completely destroyed, the venetian blind being blown clear away with only a small fragment left. The resident of Mr. W. M. Meyer on Adams Street has the bale end blown in, doing some damage to his furniture but fortunately injuring no one.”

The young ladies’ dormitory at Lincoln Institute lost its roof and the heavy rain damaged the interior plastering.

The Daily Tribune cataloged other damage:

“A porch in the rear of the building on High street occupied by Mrs. Robinson and Mr. Schleer was lifted over onto the roof and a big chimney, adding further destruction by tumbling over and making another big hole.  The west wall of the house on McCarty Street, occupied by Mr. W. W. Meyers, was blown in. The children had been playing in this room a few moments before the storm came, but were fortunately in another part of the building when the wall went in with a deafening crash. The cornice on the rear of the Music hall building was damaged. Mrs. Vogt’s residence on Washington street, was unroofed. The Standard Shoe Co.’s building, on Main Street, was dismantled of chimneys, and buildings in all parts of the city had similar experiences.

“The roof of the Neef house was badly wrenched and some of the rooms damaged by water.  At the Central hotel a smokestack on Maj. Lusk’s residence was blown through a window, carrying away the entire sash, and before the aperture could be protected a number of rooms were flooded, doing much damage to furniture and carpets. Shade and fruit trees, shrubbery and fences suffered at Mr. H.W. Ewing’s place, near the city. His stable was also minus the roof when the storm cleared away..”

No casualties were reported.

“Our people were considerably frightened, and well they may be, as no such clouds have ever before been seen in this city.  We are congratulating ourselves that it is no worse, and hope that such an occurrence will not visit us again,” said the Cole County Democrat.

While residents of Jefferson City were pondering the disaster, some people sixty miles away were showing no sympathy.  The booming and ambitious city of Sedalia, with more than 14,000 people, had been trying to wrestle the seat of government away from Jefferson City for more than a decade.  The Sedalia Bazoo commented, “Since the Lord partially ruined the state capitol building at Jefferson City, it is a good time to agitate the removal of the capital to Sedalia.”  The Sedalia Gazette noted, “The roof of part of Missouri’s capitol was blown off this week. This is the same building upon which was squandered a quarter of a million dollars recently” (with the addition of two wings on the north and sound ends of the 1840 Capitol).

Five years later, Sedalia interests stormed Jefferson City with a one-day lobbying blitz that led the legislature to put a proposition on the 1896 ballot to pull state government out of Jefferson City.

But that’s another story.

 

Giving Up Hope

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Tomorrow is the first of November.  Next weekend is the end of Daylight Savings Time for the year.

We’ve been getting cold leaf-dropping rains.

We call this season “fall” because that‘s what the leaves do.  And moods.

The baseball season will end this week.

The last NASCAR race of the year is coming up  next weekend.

It is always hard to admit—always—-that summer is gone. But when Thanksgiving is only about three weeks away and Christmas is less than 60 days in the future, the reality I have been ignoring wraps its cold arms around me and I must at last abandon hope that I will be warm for about five long, dark months.

Every year, I go around in short-sleeved shirts and feel cold because I am reluctant to admit it’s time to start wearing long-sleeved shirts and jackets.

The lightweight sweatshirt I wear to the YMCA three days a week is enough for now and the cold air against my uncovered legs makes me grateful for heated seats and a heated steering wheel in the car, both of which are operating by the time the car and I get to the stop sign up the street.

Nancy has gotten me some nice wool shirts. They’re hanging next to each other at the end of a rack in my closet.  The polo shirts are still at the front.

Not for long.  My resistance to wool shirts is weakening.  Soon, I will promote the long-sleeves to the front and the short sleeves to the back.  Soon I will remove the shorts (remember when they were called “Bermuda Shorts?” You have to be of a certain age, I think.) from the hook in the closet, and when they’ve been through the washing machine put them in a drawer—-but maybe there will be one more day to wear them. All day.

Nancy was raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Yep, I married a “Yooper.”  She likes these crisp, chill days.

Opposites attract, you know.

When people complain of the heat, I tell them, “I waited all winter for days like these.”

In a previous life, I was an indoor cat who always looked for the sun spots.

Baseball is gone. But there’s football and the Tigers have figured out how to win a game or two and the Chiefs are on a roll.  And soon there will be college basketball—a game played by people in shorts.

But then come the fallow days when our basketball team has lost its last (tournament, we hope) game. When the Super Bowl is over.  And all that is left is golf (Leon Wilson’s 1905 book was the first to call it “a good walk spoiled.”) and the NBA and the NHL, both of which—in this house—generate no heat.

The Kansas City Royals and the Texas Rangers play the first game in the Cactus League on February 25 in Surprise, Arizona. The Grapefruit League, in Florida, begins the next day in Jupiter, with the Cardinals against the Washington Nationals.

116 days from today is the first true sign of spring.  The voice of Rooney will be heard in the land once again. And hope will be restored.

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The Future of Water

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A good part of Missouri has gotten an excessive drenching in the past few days.  But we—and perhaps you—have friends to the west who are being baked well-done by record heat and who are watching forests burn and water reservoir levels drop and disappear.

We might think we are glad we don’t have their problems—although our monsoon week is hardly without problems of its own.

For several years, Nancy and I enjoyed going to the Four Corners area for a week each fall to do archaeological work on or near the Ute Mountain Ute Reservation, adjacent to Mesa Verde National Park. We first recorded rock art from the days of the Anasazi (a Pueblo word meaning “ancient enemies”—we don’t know what those people who lived in the area until the 1200s called themselves because they left no written language). Although popular telling of their story has it that they just suddenly disappeared 750 years ago or so, archaeologists and anthropologists think they know where their descendants are, and they have developed some theories on why they fled the Four Corners area.

It’s thought they are the ancestors of the present Hopi people. One of the factors—the final straw—leading to their departure from the Four Corners area is believed to have been a 45-year drought that left them without the food and other resources needed to survive.

All of this has been brought to mind by recent reports that Lake Mead, which is behind Hoover Dam, has declined to its lowest level ever because of a drought that is now in its 22nd year. The condition is critical for 25-million people including the cities of Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Diego, Phoenix, and Tucson.  The lake has hit a record low, down 140 feet since 2000, creating the bathtub ring you can see in recent pictures. One-hundred-forty feet is about the height of the Statue of Liberty from base to torch tip.

Some states already have imposed water rationing and they expect to tighten restrictions as conditions worsen. Agriculture is in dire straits. Adding to the awful conditions is the rise in major fires in forests that haven’t seen protective rain for years.

It’s hard to understand that green and verdant Missouri faces some water shortages of our own. Today.  Right now.  And stewardship of our water will become more critical as our population increases, as agriculture is under increased pressure to produce more and more food in an increasingly populous world, and as our economy grows.

The Department of Natural Resources 2020 update to its Missouri Water Resources Plan warns, “Although Missouri is fortunate to have rich water resources, localized shortages do exist because of the distance from adequate supplies, insufficient infrastructure or storage, water quality constraints, and other limiting factors. In many areas, surface water supplies are subject to seasonal fluctuations; supplies are frequently at their lowest when demand is the highest.”

Farther into the study we are told, “On average, the 6.1 million people and numerous businesses in Missouri consume 3.2 billion gallons of water each day. Of that demand, 78 percent is supplied by groundwater, while the remaining 22 percent is supplied by surface water.”  Three fourths of our water comes from under our feet.

We often heard testimony in legislative committee hearings on the dangers of agricultural runoff or industrial pollution going into our streams and rivers, our surface waters. A major concern, yes.  But that’s only one-fifth of the water we use or think we need to use.

Studies indicate our population will rise to about seven-and-a-half million people by 2060, well within the lifetimes of some who read these entries—them or their children—putting more pressure on water, a finite resource.  The report suggests a number of policies and practices that need to be started now in anticipation of that growth.

We need to do more than read about them. Our generation has to start something that later generations can continue to meet Missouri’s water needs.

The greatest pressure on our water supply is agricultural irrigation—65% of our water withdrawals go to farming. Major water systems (that provide us with water to drink, to bathe in, to do our dishes, and flush our toilets) are another 25%.

The study says the agricultural counties of Butler, Dunklin, New Madrid, Pemiscot, and Stoddard Counties—all in the southeast corner of the state—are projected to have the greatest growth in demand in the next four decades. High demand also is expected as our metropolitan areas become more metropolitan.

DNR says the state “generally has plentiful water sources.”  Now, it does. But the report also says, “many supply-related challenges exist.”

Much of the groundwater originating from bedrock aquifers in northern and west-central Missouri is highly mineralized and unsuitable for most uses. In northwestern Missouri, precipitation is generally the lowest in the state, and the lack of surface water availability during prolonged droughts can result in water shortages. Timing is also important in determining the availability of water, since peak demands often coincide with the driest times of the year and multiyear droughts can lower aquifers and drain reservoirs that typically provide ample supply. Even when available, the quality of the water may not be suitable for all intended uses without treatment.

We already are facing a critical problem in dealing with our water supplies. The DNR report says, “More than half of the state’s community public water systems became active prior to 1960, meaning that without repair or replacement original water pipes, mains, and equipment are nearing or exceeding their average expected lifespan…Many small drinking water utilities have indicated that they lack the funding not only to proactively manage infrastructure needs, but also to meet current water quality standards and adequately address water losses.”

At the other end of the process (to coin a phrase): “Similar to drinking water infrastructure in Missouri, a significant portion of wastewater infrastructure may be approaching the end of its expected life.”

Need an immediate reminder of how precious Missouri’s water supply is and how carefully we must use it and prepare for its future use is no farther away than the greatest of our rivers?

This past April 7, the Missouri River Basin Water Management Division for the Corps of Engineers noted the snowfall in the upper basin had been poor.  “We expect upper basin runoff to be below average,” said Division Chief John Remus. The Corps thinks the snowmelt runoff into upstream reservoirs to be 83% of the annual average this year.

Water is going to become more precious.  You and I might not notice it.  But our grandchildren could.  We aren’t going to turn into the Southwest by the end of the week.  But we have to understand that the way we use water today can’t be the way our next generations will use it.  And we need to prepare for those times.

Unlike the ancient pueblo peoples of the Colorado plateau in the 12th and 13th Centuries, we won’t have anyplace to go when the great drought hits us.

If you want to read the entire 2020 Missouri Water Resources Plan you can find it at:

https://dnr.mo.gov/mowaterplan/docs/2020-mo-water-resources-plan-highlights.pdf

Son of Fun with Snowplows

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A few days ago we suggested the Missouri Department of Transportation follow Scotland’s lead and give clever names to its snowplows.  We have seen any signs that the department has a sense of humor yet but Minnesota’s Department of Transportation has joined the fun.

It ran a poll on fifty potential snowplow names.  Participants could vote for eight names. The top eight at the end are:

Plowy McPlowFace (Inspired, no doubt, by a contest several years ago run by the British National Environmental Research Council to pick a name for its new polar research vessel.  More than 27,000 respondents chose “RRS Boaty McBoatface.” The council decided after seeing the results that the name wasn’t respectful enough of the council or its ship and said the contest was meant to just get suggestions, not to pick the real name. The council later announced the boat would be named for naturalist and broadcaster David Attenborough. However, one of the boat’s underwater research submarines will carry the less distinguished name).

The other seven:

Ope, Just Gonna Plow Right Past Ya; Duck Duck Orange Truck; Plow Bunyan; Snowbi Wan Kenobi; F. Salt Fitzgerald; Darth Blader; and The Truck Formerly Known as Plow.

Some of the others: Buzz Iceclear, C3PSnow, Edward Blizzardhands, For Your Ice Only, Mary Tyler More Snow, Plowabunga, TheWinterstate.

(We could have Winterstate 70, Winterstate 435, etc.)

If you think you can stand it, the others are on the department webpage: Name a Snowplow contest – MnDOT (state.mn.us).

In northern areas such as Scotland and Minnesota, the snow is different than it is here. And people can play in it—and do, for many months of the year. Here, it’s often wet, heavy stuff that clogs the snowblower that we bought at Sears—back when had a Sears store from which to buy things. It’s fun up there. It’s a big pain down here.

But, hey, MODOT, why not let us add at least a little levity our misery. Have a contest.  People who submit the top ten snowplow names get a new shovel they can use to clear out their driveways.

Can’t government be a little fun?

 

 

 

Having Fun With Snowplows

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Having fun?

We aren’t likely to look at snowplows humorously and the people who have spent hours in bitter cold and snow driving them recently probably don’t find much about their work that is funny.

But in Scotland—-snowplows are funny. They call them “Trunk Road Gritters” there, perhaps because—as with our snowplows the trucks have blades on the front and grit-spreaders on the back.

Scotland is a nation almost as large as South Carolina. It is less than half the size of Missouri but has almost as many people (5.454 million there, about 6.1 million here).

The gritters in Scotland have names. Punny names.

Salt Disney

Blizzard of Oz

Lord Coldemort

You’re a Blizzard, Harry

Mary Queen of Salt

Tam O’Salter

Ice Destroyer

Salty

Rumble

Sprinkle

William Wall-Ice  (William Wallace was a Scottish patriot. Mel Gibson played him in a movie)

Gonna Snow Dae That

Oor Chilly

Sled Zeppelin

Traffic Scotland has an interactive map that tracks each of them and records where they’ve been for the last couple of hours. You can check their locations  on the Traffic Scotland map: https://scotgov.maps.arcgis.com/apps/webappviewer/index.html?id=2de764a9303848ffb9a4cac0bd0b1aab

Perhaps the Missouri Department of Transportation can add a little glamour to our hardworking snowplow crews by giving Missouri names to its snowplows.  One is a Kansas City journalist who covered China for decades. His name really was E. C. Snow.

Maybe Thomas Hart Bensalt

Snow Faurot

John J. Persnow

Harry Ice Truman

Slusch Lite

Sam Salton (for the Columbia native who founded WalMart)

Slush Limbaugh

Charles Cinderbergh

(stealing from the Scots): Salt Disney

Or more generically:

Where Have All the Plowers Gone?

Windchill Wills (for the old movie star)

Snowchilly Distanced

The Boone Slick

Cold County

Chillycothe

Monsandco

Political Slush Fun

Skid More

Slide-dalia

Snow Daze

Okay, this is getting sillier and siller. But that doesn’t mean you can’t join the merriment by adding better suggested snowplow names in our “comments” below. Who knows? Maybe MODOT will try to lighten the mood in the next big snowstorm by send out plows with names.

Nancy and I are hoping to go to Scotland later this year, Covid willing. We hope we don’t need to witness Sled Zeppelin at work but we’ll be on some of the roads where these gritters operate. Nancy is a property owner in Scotland and thus is entitled to the title of “Lady.”  A few years ago I gave her a Christmas present of one square foot of land in a nature refuge. She has the title to the land and everything.   I doubt that we’ll visit her property and we probably won’t spend any money making improvements to it.

On those bitter, nasty winter days when your car is progressing at seven miles an hour behind a snowplow, the time might pass a little faster if you try to think up a good name for the plow.

No, it’s not what you call it.  It’s what you would name it.

‘Snow big deal.  You can do it.

Notes From A Quiet Street—Winter of Our Usual Discontent Edition

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This is one of the best days of the entire year.  It might be colder than Hell (actually the weather in Hell, Michigan last night was quite similar to ours—zero with 2-4 inches of snow expected) but today PITCHERS AND CATCHERS report for spring training in Florida and Arizona for the Cardinals and the Royals!

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In my previous life I would have gotten up at 4, put on a coat and a tie and my best winter coat, gone out in the 6-below darkness, swept about four or five inches of snow off of my car, backed out of my snowy driveway, and hoped a snowplow had cleared the way to the Missourinet newsroom.

I have a friend at the Y who used to deliver the mail.

Don’t tell us retirement isn’t great.

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Shot number one is in the arm. It’s February.  By the time of the second shot, there will be baseball. And racing.  Soon after that, there will be color in the back yard grass. And a green a haze will be seena few weeks later in the trees.  This is the season known as Ulocking (see an earlier entry).  In so many ways, it feels as if a cell door has been unlocked—or did until the coldest week of the year hit. Your faithful observer who despises winter almost had to whip himelf to force a trip to the end of the driveway for the morning paper and the afternoon mail.

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Years ago I heard the story of an old farmer who had just endured a drought year and the snow brought little relief.  “The snow was so dry,” he said, “that I just pushed it into a ditch and burned it.”   It kind of seemed like that when I trudge out to get the morning newspaper—snow so cold it crunched underfoot  and even seemed to squeak a little bit, and lacked enough moisture to hold it to gether and make a snowman.

But at least it’s not January.  That’s kind of a glass only half-full-of-snow optimism speaking.

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Congratulations to our General Assembly for proving me wrong.  Recommended pay raises for elected officials have been approved, their first raises since 2008. Enough of our State Representatives refused to disapprove  of the recommendation that it has gone into effect. The House needed a two-thirds vote to reject the recommendation and it came up about ten votes short of disapproval.

Good for them!  The legislators won’t benefit until their next terms, if they get them.  The statewide officials will get 2.5% hikes in each of the next two years.

Your faithful observer can’t be correct all the time.  Our forecast a few weeks ago that the raises would be refused again was wrong.  And that’s okay.

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Late-night talk show hosts are facing a grim reality now that we have a new president.  They need to do a lot of new shows because re-runs of the shows of the past four years that have featured Trump-based humor, or what they hope was Trump-based humor,  are terribly dated. Donald Trump’s exit from the Oval Office must place enormous strain on the writing staffs because, well, Joe Biden is so relatively bland. Where’s the humor in somebody who puts fighting the COVID pandemic at the top of his to-do list?  HAVING a to-do list, at least one that is not self-centered, is a poor match for what they’ve been writing about for four years.

The low-hanging humor fruit has fallen off the tree and rolled to Mar-A-Lago.

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Speaking of the aforesaid ex-chief executive—-we watched the town hall gathering last night with the current chief executive. We thought he wandered more than necessary, interrupted himself too often, talked around some questions and went on excessively to the point that some of the answers to particpants’ questions got lost in the talk.  But we also thought, “Can we imagine his predecessor doing this?  Just talking to folks about the concerns they have?  Would he ever have reassured a child she shouldn’t live in fear of the virus?” Some people care about other people. Some people care about themselves. We think we know which one we saw last night.

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A bill in the legislature would bar any state law enforcement officer, or other state officers or employees, from serving as a law enforcement officer or sheriff or community police officer if they enforce, or try to enforce, any federal firearms law the act defines as illegal in Missouri, the Constitution notwithstanding.

Unfortunatley, this proposal doesn’t go far enough.

During the recent political campaign, one party accused another party of advocating a “defund the police” policy.  This proposal simplifies the process.  Just “de-police” the policy instead.  And let me be the first to suggest that after de-policing the federal law, the funds used for the police could be given back to taxpayers—who could use them to buy guns.

Genius!

As long as we are forbidding Missouri law enforcement officers from enforcing federal gun laws, let’s think of other things our Missouri peace officers should be banned from doing. How about taking away a Highway Patrolman’s badge and banning him or her from any other law enforcement job if they write a ticket for speeding on a federal highway? Funds saved under that program could be used to buy more ambulances and pay for more EMTs who could be stationed on those roads.

You might be inspired to suggest other amendments that would extend this idea to other areas where state officials have no business enforcing federal laws. You may suggest them in the comments box at the end of this entry.

Let the fun begin.

 

This the First Day of Winter

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As far as your conscientious observer is concerned, it is.   We are headed into the worst month of the year. Cold. Nasty. Snowy and icy. Bundle up before you go out. Rearrange your coat so you’re comfortable after you get in the car.  Wrestle with the seat belt when layers of clothing make it hard to reach around in back of you to get the thing.  Then getting it past all that fabric into the slot. Nothing is easy in January.

Scraping the windshield. Waiting for the car to generate enough heat for the defroster to work.

January is one damned hassle after another!

At least the shortest daylight day of the year is ten days past and there’s some benefit to knowing in the back of our mind that the days are starting to get a little “longer.”

BUT IT’S STILL JANUARY!!!

January is only moderately more acceptable now that I am not getting up at 4:30 and suffering my way to the newsroom a little after 5.  Go to work in the dark. Come home in the dark.

A bowl of hot clam chowder helps elevate the spirit a small notch.  Hot cocoa helps, too.  A blanket on the lap with a cat sleeping on top of the blanket brings some peace.

Some of you think you can play in winter.  You’re crazy.  Keep your stories to yourself about going to Vail for a week of skiing.  The last thing I can think of as fun is trying to avoid the trees while hurtling down a frozen slope on snow three feet deep with the temperature hovering around fifteen.

Forget December 21 as the scientific start of winter.  It’s four days before Christmas and the good feelings that go with it.  But when the afterglow of Christmas fades there’s only January.  . It’s just a frigid, grim march to February—a short month during which men begin to play baseball and race cars start to run hot again, and there’s the sweetness of Valentine’s Day and the snow doesn’t seem to last forever and sometimes the thermometer hits 40 or 50, temperatures that bring hope that we might have made it through the worst after all.

A few years ago I found a little book called If This isn’t Nice, What is? It’s a series of graduation speeches given by the famous author, Kurt Vonnegut.  The first entry is his graduation address at Fredonia College, New York on May 20, 1978. In that speech, Vonnegut correctly observed that we are wrong when we think there are four seasons and when we let the sun’s position determine what they are.  There are six, he said.

“The poetry of four seasons is all wrong for this part of the planet, and this may explain why we are so depressed so much of the time. I mean, Spring doesn’t feel like Spring a lot of the time, and November is all wrong for Fall and so on.  Here is the truth about the seasons.  Spring is May and June!  What could be springier than May and June?  Summer is July and August. Really hot, right?  Autumn is September and October. See the pumpkins? Smell those burning leaves.  Next comes the season called “Locking.”  That is when Nature shuts everything down. November and December aren’t Winter. They’re Locking. Next comes winter. January and February. Boy! Are they ever cold!   What comes next?  Not Spring.  Unlocking comes next.  What else could April be?”

I am Vonnegutian in my understanding of the seasons.  I am locked in to January and February, waiting only for the arrival of Unlocking, warmed only by my inner curmudgeon, and comforted only by the fact that I remembered to write “2021” when posting this entry.

Oh, by the way—Happy New Year.

Notes from a quiet (and perhaps flooded) street

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Might one offer an observation about the extensive coverage of rainfall by the television weatherfolk?    They do an excellent job when weather is awful except for one thing.

What does it mean when they say the Missouri River is expected to crest at—for example—32.3 feet at Jefferson City?   Will there be 32 feet of water over the Jefferson City Airport?  Or in the River Bottom area west of the Capitol?  Will the community garden in what once was Cedar City (and the nearby Highway 63) have 32 feet of water over it?

Uh, no.

When we did flood stories at the Missourinet, we never used numbers like that.  Here’s why.

Flood stage at Jefferson City is 23 feet.   That means that a Corps of Engineers river gauge is someplace that measures the bank of the Missouri River at 723 feet above sea level.  The altitude changes as the river flows east or downhill. (Bank full at Washington is only 720 feet, or “20 feet” as is commonly said.)  Any water higher than that means the river is out of its banks.

So, 32 feet means the river is nine feet above bank full at Jefferson City.  It always seemed to us to be more meaningful to report the river was expected to crest nine feet over flood stage.  And a flood stage at 30.2 feet at Washington means the river will be about ten feet above bank full there.  Nine feet and ten feet are more meaningful to people who are five-feet-ten inches tall than thirty-two feet.

The record flood crest at Jefferson City in 1993, by the way was 38.65 feet, or as we reported it, 15.65 feet over flood stage.   There’s a graphic example of the accuracy of reporting flooding using the 15.65 feet standard we used.  Go to the restaurant at the airport and look at the markings on the door which record the levels of various floods.  The mark for the 1993 flood is almost at the ceiling level of the restaurant, about sixteen feet up, not thirty-two.

Having gotten that out of my craw—-

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A few days before the end of the legislative session, your observer watched some of the debate in the House about whether undocumented immigrants living in Missouri should be denied in-state tuition and financial aid when attending our state colleges and universities.

Among those banned from paying in-state tuition and financial assistance using tax dollars were the DACA people, children brought here at a young age by their undocumented parents.  The legislation says the state universities can use their own resources to provide that assistance or to make up the difference between in-state tuition and international student tuition.

The Columbia Daily Tribune had a story about then noting there were 6,000 people in Missouri approved for the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, or eligible for it.

 

A thought occurred during the discussion: Why couldn’t our universities, state or private, offer a course for those students that would lead to American citizenship, online for adults and especially for DACA high school students and current college students?  Might solve a few problems.

Might not be a bad idea to have a lot of our non-DACA students enroll, too.

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Come to think of it:  The capitol is awash in third-graders each spring, students who are taking their courses in Missouri government.   They sit in the visitors’ galleries for a few minutes and are introduced by their legislator and given a round of applause and then go downstairs to look at the old stage coach and the mammoth tooth.

It will be nine years before they graduate, months ahead of casting their first vote.  That’s a long time to remember what they saw and learned as third-graders.

I THINK I can remember the name of my teacher and the building I attended in third grade.  But that didn’t make me qualified to cast a learned vote the first time I had the chance to do so.

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I was driven out of retirement this year to lobby for the steamboat museum bill in the legislature.  The opportunity to help do something great for my town and my state forced me back into coat and tie more times in the last four months than I have worn them in the last four years. I found that I was regularly turning the wrong way to get to a meeting with a legislator in the most efficient way.  I had forgotten my way around the Capitol.

I confess there are some things I liked about being a lobbyist and being back in the capitol while the legal sausage was being made.  In all of my years as a reporter, my contacts with legislators were arms-length business arrangements.  As a lobbyist I got to spend a half-hour or more—sometimes less—in the office talking to lawmakers. And I met some REALLY interesting people, particularly the members of this year’s freshman class.

But, boy, did I miss my guilt-free naps. (A few times I hid behind a column in a side gallery of the House and snatched a doze—but those instances sometimes ran afoul of a school group that came in to see five minutes of debate that I’m sure didn’t teach them a darned thing about their government in action.  Or inaction.) And living by my own clock.  And going around in tennis shoes all day.  And going to the Y three days a week for the fellowship there that replaced the relationships I had while I was working.

But the chambers are dark and cool now.  And my naps have returned.  Until January when we take a stronger, better organized run at building a National Steamboat Museum in Jefferson City.  You’re welcome to join the effort.

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It was interesting to know that some things haven’t changed at all.  About three weeks before the end of the session, the place starts to get kind of squirrelly.  That’s about when the House gets all huffy because the Senate hasn’t turned fully to debating House-passed bills. And the Senate gets in a snit because the House hasn’t switched to Senate-passed bills.  And the budget isn’t done with the deadline looming.

 

In the second week, a purported compromise budget comes out and the chambers start and stop on no particular schedule depending on who’s filibustering what bill or which chamber thinks its conferees didn’t stand up for their chamber’s priorities, and whether to stop the entire process to have more conferences on a small part of a multi-billion dollar budget, and the Senate decides a “day” can actually last until sunrise the next morning or longer.

And the last week when legislators are like desert-crossing cattle who catch a whiff of water in the distance and scramble to get a bill dead a month ago resurrected and added to something moderately akin to the topic, thereby adding to the legend that “nothing is dead in the Senate until the gavel falls at 6 p.m. on the last Friday.”   And, oh, what a blessing that falling gavel is.

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The end of a session today is nothing compared to the days when the odd-year sessions ended at MIDNIGHT on June 15, usually with a “midnight special” appropriations bill just before adjournment that created funding for new programs approved during the session. The only people who knew what was in it likely were the people who hay-baled it together in the closing hours. Pandemonium hardly describes those nights when everybody was beyond exhaustion and more than a few were seriously—shall we say “impaired?”—because of social visits to numerous offices which were well-equipped with adult liquids.

 

And at midnight, many lawmakers went out to the Ramada Inn to celebrate surviving another session.  The Capitol press corps would start writing stories about the session, a process that was not nearly as much fun as falling in the swimming pool at the Ramada. Both groups would pack it in about sunrise—except for those of us who had newscasts all day Saturday.

One of the best things the legislature ever did was change the adjournment time to 6 p.m. on a Friday night.

Now—-

If we could only get rid of term limits now—–

 

What would you save?

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We caught some video a few weeks ago of North Carolinians who had fled their homes and who had taken refuge at the Charlotte Motor Speedway, which was providing parking space for trailers and RVs, camping facilities, and food service to hurricane refugees.  Some of the folks were interviewed about what they had brought with them.

One woman’s pickup truck contained a small chest freezer with all of her home’s frozen food, ready for hookup to an electrical supply.  She also brought along a generator.  A family of seven brought five dogs.  One family brought some children’s drawings and a blanket with family handprints on it. Another family brought things it would use while away from home; the father had stayed at the house in a rural area to prevent looting.

Watching news coverage of various and recent natural disasters such as forest fires and hurricanes and floods, we started thinking about a group consensus exercise we have done from time to time.

If you had a few minutes or a few hours, to flee from your endangered home, what would you take?   We are assuming your first priority is yourself and any other family members.  But after that?  Here’s a list of possibilities.  Feel free to add others in the comment section below.

Computers

Wallet

Passport

Pets

Cell phone

Coin collection

Television(s)

Clothes

Children’s (Grandchildren’s ) Refrigerator drawings

Family archives

Financial records

Video games

Family heirlooms

Jewelry

Medicines or medical supplies

Wedding dress and/or album

Art collection (prints, posters, originals, etc.)

Favorite furniture

Mom’s recipes

Cameras

An additional vehicle or vehicles

Antiques

Baseball card collection

Food

Guns

Family Bible

Insurance policies

Sleeping bags

Tools

I’ve run consensus exercises with groups using a similar list.  Admittedly the exercise assumes there is at least SOME time to grab things although many disasters such as house fires in the middle of the night require instant escape in whatever sleeping attire is being worn—or whatever clothing can be grabbed on the way out.

The answers show generational differences.  Younger people are more likely to take the material things—the television set, the pets, the tools, the jewelry.  Older folks are likely to make memories the priority—pictures, recordings, some family heirlooms.  Younger folks grab things they can replace. Older folks grab things that cannot be replaced.

When I was a high school freshman, I dashed out the front door of my house one morning to get on the school bus.  Six hours later a man met me in the principal’s office to tell me that my parents were okay but all we had left were the clothes we were wearing, the family car, and whatever was in my gym locker.  A person never forgets what was lost in a disaster. A small nugget of fear deep inside never goes away.  And sometimes people spend the rest of their lives trying to recover what was lost (which is why I have a complete set of Fran Striker’s Lone Ranger novels on the bookshelf five feet from where I am sitting).

Many people have their family photographs, documents, and all kinds of other things stored in the cloud, which might alter the disaster-grab priorities.  But a lot of us haven’t gone there yet.

There are three places in our home where we keep family archives, one of them a basement cabinet filled with thousands and thousands of slides.  I’ve made up my mind that if I had the time, those would be the first things to go in the minivan—after the second row seats had been removed, if possible—then the computer. What would you save, beyond yourself, if you had the time to save something?   It’s worth thinking about.

Because we never know.