Rain

We have rain in Novato, my yes.

Perhaps you’ll remember, however, that Novato is only one of the micro-climates of the San Francisco Bay Area. It is a desert micro-climate and features the polite rain Arthur sings about in Camelot:
…The rain may never fall ‘til after sundown,
By eight, the morning fog must disappear …

Our rain appears in November, after announcing itself with some mildly gray clouds for a few days. It departs in April, and if we get rain after Mayday there is much anxiety and talk of sacrifice to the gods.

Folks characterize San Francisco as the land of fruits and nuts. Not really. In it’s own way San Francisco is more button-down than Yale in the 50’s.

First, we don’t say “fruits.” Humor regarding our gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender brothers and sisters and whatevah is socially forbidden. Unless, of course, they’re Republicans.

We all love animals and rejoice when our friends show up at our homes with their dogs or wallabies or Komodo dragons. “Isn’t that long tongue just darling?” This is predictable behavior and any inkling that you don’t want any domestic creatures is close to an admission of sociopathy.

It’s predictable that San Franciscans accept any new idea that comes careening down the pike – Tibetan chanting medicine, American Native herbal sweat lodges, yoga coaches in the state assembly chamber. Being unkind to a new idea, no matter how illogical, will not be entertained. One idea is just as good as another; they all come from the heart, right?

The Bay Area is comfortingly predictable. Everyone loves children – so honest, so creative – and everyone consistently votes down property taxes that supports local education. Everyone advocates solar, wind and tidal power. True, the per-capita use of energy is enormous. The mighty and pious Prius electric is the People’s Choice for San Franciscan transportation. Even though the People dismiss energy audits that suggest the global manufacturing process and the shipping of Priuses (“Priae”?) to our shores via auto carriers that burn bunker oil all the way across the Pacific Ocean is not sound energy conservation.

Logic be hanged, it’s the heart that counts, and San Francisco social attitudes, seasons, politicians, traffic patterns, mating habits, and – yes – weather, are reliably fixed. The Wild West was tamed not by the Colt Peacemaker but by whorehouse madams and cheap railfares. San Francisco was tamed by the immigration of eastern yuppies with enough money to drive prices up. They sprayed the upscale, post-hippie, better-hygiene, young-professional ‘Frisco Culture with firm-hold hairspray and it’s holding firm.

I’m discovering that Florida is a more spontaneous and unpredictable place than San Francisco. Every Floridian is encouraged by the hothouse sub-tropical climate to go rogue at intervals and Shake Things Up, rant in the street in the front of the house. There’s no special disapprobation if you Bullit-drive after the floozy who, during the post-game party, looked moon-eyed at your man, screeching after her through the suburban streets and throwing high-heeled shoes at the hussy’s car from your own convertible. You tell her, girl!

Small churches are tucked into little country or city nooks, with their particular versions of Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses that would not merely irritate the Vatican, but confuse billy-hell out of the cardinals. Snake-handling, gay-bashing, Koran-burning, abortionist assassinating and full-gospel massed bagpipes are unusual but not, here in  what’s-next extemporaneous Florida, surprising.

I’m discovering that Floridians expect to be surprised, and it doesn’t bother them that much. Last month, here is Gainesville, a large black bear was seen walking across  4th Avenue SE, about half a mile from the Gator Swamp stadium (it’s expected of me to add “Go Gators!” when it’s mentioned) at the heart of the city. Was there a hue and cry? Villagers with torches and double express rifles? Nope. “A bear? Humph. How ‘bout that?”

Weather is a tipoff. Yes, Novato has rain, but there is rain and then there is Rain.

Rain arrives here like a meteorite ploughing into your toolshed, whammo. Big rain. The kind of rain I’d forgotten about, coming down seriously so that the far side of 12th Avenue, NW, might have been washed away because we can’t see it. Rain crashing down in solid masses, raindrops as big as quail eggs. Rain that makes side streets tributaries to the sudden river of 12th Avenue, swelling a hefty current so that the big splashes appear to be hurrying west, down to the Gulf of Mexico, sweeping leaves and twigs rapidly past our porch. It roars, a soft monotone. It insists, then relaxes, reasserts. It can taper off across a day. It can stop now, a sun of enormous heat sliding out from behind the retreating clouds as if to say, “There! Good job of it!”

This is the sub-tropics (or as near as damnit), with heat and moisture pushing blooms, developing fungi and giant bugs, proliferating a riot of plant and animal life. Micro-climate? Hell, no. Florida is a big-assed macro-cooker for weather and unusual biota, including genuinely surprising characters. Hell, I’m becoming more unpredictable, myself.

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself is savoring new territory. He hyperbolizes, but he always does. I'm not about to attempt behavior modification at this late date, and it's what he does best. He generalizes about San Francisco, which I know he loves, and he misses some of the adventurous factors in California life. But he's quite right about it being a more rigid social atmosphere than many other venues. Liberal, yes, but not malleable.