On Sunday I thought we had found our new home town. We cruised its neighborhoods in the rain, finding them attractive, the demographics acceptable, and prices potentially affordable. And Lake Forest Park Mapquested in at 11.54 miles from my husband’s office, with an estimated 20-minute drive.
On Monday, Lake Forest Park, along with most other Seattle suburbs with or without the word “lake” in their names, made the Seattle Times Waterworld Photo Gallery. Virtually every town bounding Puget Sound or any lake, creek, or stream in Washington had inflatable boats, floating cars, or salmon in the streets, and homeowners in heavy raingear are seen futilely sandbagging their foundations. The expense and inconvenience in human terms are eviscerating.
My husband, whose years in practice as a construction defect litigator have given him a queer hatred for floodable basements, cities with only one road in and out of them, and floodway living in general, has nixed Lake Forest Park. He has nixed every place with “lake” or “creek” or “river” in its name. This would be the perfect time for me to put in a pitch for Phoenix, but he has other reasons for hating Phoenix, as, come to think of it, do I. What Phoenix has going for it is a Reformed Baptist church with a no-fragrance policy. That is a virtue, but not one offsetting completely the downside of Phoenix.
There is no question that our spot in Tacoma has been a little pocket of mercy throughout every storm. But yesterday, because of traffic rerouting and long backtracks necessary to dodge flooding, my husband spent 2-1/2 hours driving to his Seattle office.
Life is not always convenient. My discontent magnifies convenience when change allures with its fictive enticements. “Change” always hisses the covert pledge, “better.” But I see pictures of firemen tugging apartment dwellers to safety in inflatable boats, and life in my own dry house, lights on, tea on hand, routines intact, seems pretty convenient.