Analyze

the floor of the valley has dropped in recent decades with increased groundwater pumping by farms, meaning more land might be subject to inundation,

Flood protection in California is largely a local affair, with water agencies, special districts and private companies building and maintaining the infrastructure. Smaller towns, like those in the San Joaquin Valley, often don’t have the money to develop their own levee systems, and while the state and federal government help out, winning investment from them isn’t easy.

The Tulare Lake basin also doesn’t have major Army Corps of Engineers flood projects to buffer large amounts of water as do some areas such as the Sacramento region.

The current crisis is the opposite of the usual one--instead of fighting over who gets access to water, groups are fighting over how to get rid of it.

Farmers, residents, municipal work crews, and hired contractors are reinforcing levees, pumping out excess water, and evacuating livestock, equipment, and homes.

One group was hired to protect a supply warehouse 3 miles south of Corcoran.

J.G. Boswell Company, which mainly produces cotton, owns most of the lowlands that are the Tulare Lake bed. They have allowed some fields to flood in efforts to protect other areas (the most productive farmland). The County Board of Supervisors forced them to cut another levee and flood more land because they weren't doing enough to protect populated areas.

"Flood protection in California is largely a local affair, with water agencies, special districts and private companies building and maintaining the infrastructure. Smaller towns, like those in the San Joaquin Valley, often don’t have the money to develop their own levee systems, and while the state and federal government help out, winning investment from them isn’t easy. The Tulare Lake basin also doesn’t have major Army Corps of Engineers flood projects to buffer large amounts of water as do some areas such as the Sacramento region."

Tulare lake used to be the largest body of water east of the Mississipppi. It had ports, steamships, elk and antelope. 40 different Yokut groups lived on its shores.

This map is a fascinating and important image as it does NOT show the many sites of (ongoing) nuclear radiation contamination in communities impacted by uranium extraction and processing. For example, the Navajo Nation has around 270 unreclaimed open pit tailings piles. This is not official "waste" but is quotidian waste that creates longstanding environmental harm.

Pb. Atomic Number 82. 

Divorced from its placement on the periodic table, the element finds itself exposed in a garden, nestled between bioretention and a bus depot. 

Researchers came into to town and made the lead in the soil ledgible and knowable. Soil was tested and this dirt pile was labeled a hot spot. The soil, through analysis in a lab, became suddently differentiatiated from it's environment.  Speculation on the origins of now changed earth ran rampant. Yes, the lead is a chemical legacy, but from where or from whom? Perhaps a long shuttered paint store was dumping its expired wares behind a shop. The chemical legacy proves persistant, but its origin story has degrated with time. Would there be any purpose to tracking the origin of the spot? Are there even actors to hold accountable? Should resources be spent to remediate the small environmental harms when others lurk that are larger in scale in and in affect?

While we ponder, the site is marked by a material more durable than our more human legacies. A concrete marker, or bench (depending on your tolerance for risk), tells a visitor of a history bound the earth. To intervene, the site is covered with dirt, a sign cautions the curious to resist the urge to disturb. To remediate this spot would take time, money, and expertise when all those resources are in short supply. Instead, the area is stewarded to make visible its contents. A delightfully perverse cue to care, inviting disuse and intentional avoidance. Let the earth lie.