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Brain Farts :: 9.23.2004
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Flood Watch
When I first visited Pittsburgh, I asked, “What happens if it floods?” I was assured downtown was protected with the Army Corps of Engineers’ intricate system of locks, channels and reservoirs. To my surprise, the downtown Pittsburgh business has survived the worst flooding since the 1800s. Sure, Point State Park went under, but that’s not as disastrous as having flooded skyscrapers.
Hurricane Ivan’s effects are still being felt here in Pittsburgh. I wasn’t in town during the storm, but five days after the rainfall, I still hear stories about people sitting on their housetops, waiting it out; people who had to abandon their cars and swim to safety; others who couldn’t reach 911 because reporters were too busy “getting information.”
Pittsburgh is known for its three rivers. The Allegheny comes from the north and the Monongehala winds from the southeast, coming together to form the Ohio River at a place known as Point State Park. The junction of the river looks like a Y, turned ninety degrees clockwise. On any given summer day, a visit to Point State Park is pleasant and beautiful. If you’re facing the Ohio, downtown’s steel and glass skyline sits behind you and Mount Washington looms off to your left.
My ride to and from work takes me across the Allegheny on the 62nd Street Bridge, also known as the R.D. Fleming Bridge. This bridge is (you guess it) about six miles east of downtown. Cross it from the city side of things and you leave city limits and enter the little borough (that’s what they call little towns in Pennsylvania) of Etna. Etna got hit pretty hard. And like the neighboring boro, Millvale, Etna is the subject of a lot of talk. I even read that George Bush is touring these boros today to see the disaster for himself.
When I did my own tour of the boros today, I tried to imagine how exactly a president tours a disaster area. Does his motorcade really drive through the one-lane, sewage silted streets? Does he walk the townships with bodyguards on all sides, stopping to step inside ruined basements and first floors? Or, for fear of a flood-victim-turned-terrorist, does he view the entire scene by helicopter?
Whatever way he sees it, I’m pretty sure that I got a better picture today for what’s really happening on Grant Street in downtown Millvale. Streets are covered in brown—presumably sewage—dust. Back hoes and bulldozers push around soaked waste, placing it in county dump trucks to be hauled away to the landfill, where workers see their daily trash limit erased and overtime hours increased. National Guards people direct standstill traffic that tries to clear way when a truck needs through.
A record store I’ve always wanted to visit, but never made it to, The Attic, is unfortunately not housed in an attic. Rather, the first floor music shop’s albums and collector’s editions sit in a wet pile, roughly the size of an economy car. While I pedal within inches of these trash piles, I think of all the horror stories I’ve read—no flood insurance, fixed income, social secutiry-strapped elders, fledging businesses; very few opportunities to recover what’s been lost.
My trip back to the office takes me through Etna, and since I’ve last pedaled through, a water main has broken and the trash collecting has ceased to help direct energy to the flowing water. I am stopped by a policeman who tells me of the situation. And although he doesn’t bear that same grimace that W always seems to carry, and his voice sounds nothing like the past four years of CNN audio clips, I swear, it had to be George Bush.
Regretfully, I just pedaled on…
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