Too much to drink

The rain finally let up a bit yesterday, and the water in our neighbor’s driveway subsided. I can’t say the same for some of the freeways and arterials around town, and certainly down south. They finally have a picture in today’s paper of I-5 through Centralia, the halfway mark between here and Portland, and home to outlet stores and other diversions for drivers passing through.

The last time we were in Centralia, though, we eschewed the big boxes and strip malls and headed to the old part of town. The train station had looked interesting from the tracks when I went down in September, and sure enough, we found a lovely, restored train depot, still functioning as a stop for Amtrak twice a day. Nirvana for Little One, and we came home with a pocket of smashed pennies. Soaked from the rain, we headed to the old downtown right across the street, and found a dark, warm pub (The Olympic Club) for a bite to eat and some hard cider.

As I look at the aerial photo of Centralia splashed across the front page this morning, I note that the old part of town is perched just high enough that it remains above the floodwaters: the soulless boxes and even the interstate freeway, however, are still underwater, two days later. Almost as if the founding fathers had decided to work with nature instead of arrogantly trying to master it.

We are thankful to be largely unaffected (there was a small mishap with a puddle, but it only resulted in a bit of extra laundry). We are grateful to be free of the huge task of mucking out from the storm, able to indulge ourselves in small seasonal tasks: filling the bird feeder, making up a batch of potato leek soup, lighting the first candles of Hanukkah. And wrapping presents for my brother, who is hoping the waters recede and the road is repaired before he plans to trek up for Christmas.