Forecast the other day was for a “slight chance of excessive rain.” What are we supposed to do with that? “Build the ark! Google cubits! Wait! Never mind!”

Used to be you couldn’t count on a weather forecast three days out, but they’re nailing it down with regularity now. When I was a small, frequently damp person, they didn’t have weather satellites. We looked out the window and our mommies jammed us into winter pants over our anklets and under our dresses, and popped us on the fanny to walk to school, where we had to remove our pants and tuck our dresses around our knees to stay warm, because, I don’t know, we were girls, or something.

Meteorologists didn’t know what was happening out at sea except what they could get radioed in from ships. Pros and weather nerds phoned in their rain gauge results, temperature and barometer readings here and there rounded out the data, and a good or lucky meteorologist could take a reasonable crack at it. Throw in the almanac and somebody’s arthritic knee and you’ve got yourself a forecast.

But I hadn’t heard of “atmospheric rivers” until fairly recently. I don’t think they’re new, although one can never rule anything out since we started bollixing up the atmosphere. But they can see them now. Big ol’ plumes just roaring over the ocean and ready to dump rain. We know we’re going to get a lot of rain here in Portland and we know it’s going to last a few days, because that there is one long strand of wetness, and it’s going to delta out over land before it slams into our mountain range.

So if the weather experts want to tell us we’re in for a deluge, that’s worth knowing. If I were near a crick that were, God’s will notwithstanding, gonna rise, I’d want to know. I’d want to get my sandbags filled or buy that spray rubber you can coat the bottom half of your house with and peel off later. That’s a thing, right? I haven’t really looked into it, because I’m on high ground. But I do want to know if I need to plug in the defroster on my bird bath or keep my hummingbird nectar warm.

And yet, I bridle a bit at the “slight chance of excessive rain.” That’s a judgment. Who gets to decide what’s excessive? The person deranged enough to plan an outdoor wedding in January, or the local salamander population? Because I do believe that one and only one of those entities has a real stake in this.

I’ve never cared for opinion in my weather forecasts. Just the facts, ma’am. If we’re farming a thousand desiccated acres, or if our town is under four feet of water and Grandma’s on the roof with the cockapoos, we might have some standing to bellow for our needs. But if you’re in western Oregon and you just think you’d be that much happier with a redundant amount of sunshine? Might be time to pack your bags.