Welcome to this week’s Reno News & Review.
I hope y’all survived the flood intact and unscathed.
Overall, compared to ’97 and ’05, it seemed like everyone was more prepared—from city, county and state workers to business owners and concerned volunteers. I can’t remember Washoe County schools ever being canceled days in advanced like that before. (I’m sure it’s happened, just not since I’ve had kids in the district.)
I was moved by columnist Sheila Leslie’s account of canvassing homeless folks down by the river, warning them to move to shelters or, at the very least, higher ground. It’s especially remarkable to hear how some folks would refuse to respond for fear of entrapment or shame or some other reason. It’s hard to give up a patch, no matter how small, once its been fought for and won. Read Sheila on page six.
My own experience was less noteworthy. I had a mildly stressful drive across town on Sunday evening to evacuate my dear mom, who lives at a low elevation point in southeast Reno. It wasn’t a required evacuation, but they started closing up the roads near her home, and she got, understandably, worried. We figured better to get her out early before they closed more of the roads. And, either way, it was nice to bring the family together during a night like that when the weather raged with unpredictability.
The trek was strange and cinematic. I was alone in the car, and there weren’t many other vehicles on the road. There were huge puddles and twice I had to stop, turn around, and adjust my route after bumping into a section of road that had been closed off.
What’s nice about experiences like that, for me, is that it reminds me of the value of music. I had no choice but to experience that storm—and, as a loving, dutiful son, I had no choice but to rescue my mom. But I got to choose the perfect music for a stressful drive during a deluge. And I chose Disintegration by the Cure. And I was thankful that was the biggest decision I had to worry about—unlike those folks that Sheila had to help move away from the tiny shelters they call home.