Of the many things we can be thinking about as summer approaches, for those of us in some locales, seasonal flooding is near the top of the list. Although many communities' current priority is grappling with NPDES Phase II requirements, even there sorely needed flood-control measures can eat up the bulk of a capital improvement budget. They also garner greater attention when they don't work; people might be mildly concerned or even diligently watchful about water quality most of the time, but when a washed-out road cuts them off from their neighborhood or when their living room is filling with mud, their attention is riveted.

Getting the public to support funding for stormwater and flood-control initiatives can be a bit like the cautionary children's tale about the monkeys in the rain forest: Although perfectly capable of building a rudimentary shelter, they rarely do, and they find themselves drenched and unhappy every time it rains. Once the rain stops, they forget about the urgency of building and spend their time frolicking instead–until the next storm, when they once more sit wailing and dripping under the leaves.

A small-scale example of reacting after the rains start left an impression on me years ago. I grew up in a desert community crisscrossed with "dry washes," or arroyos. Parched for most of the year, during flash floods these corridors can channel a literal wall of water moving at more than 10 miles an hour, eroding their banks. Nearly 20 years ago, during what was termed a 100-year flood, an astute producer from the evening news set up a camera near the bank of a flooded arroyo, let it run, and eventually captured on film a brand-new two-story office building toppling as the water relentlessly carved the ground out from under it. As the footage was endlessly replayed on television, zoning restrictions suddenly got a closer look. The situation plays out on a large scale all over the country.

Some cities, such as Tulsa, OK, are especially successful at using what they've learned through soggy experience. In the '80s, Tulsa County (in the Midwest's "Tornado Alley") earned the dubious distinction of being declared a flood disaster area by the federal government more frequently than any other area in the US. A massive and deadly flash flood on Memorial Day in 1984 prompted Tulsa to develop wide-ranging floodplain and stormwater management measures, including a flood-alert system, and residents have since approved millions of dollars needed for capital improvements. Houses have been cleared from flood-prone areas of the city. Both FEMA and the Association of State Floodplain Managers have singled out Tulsa for its outstanding floodplain management program.

Even the best planning can't avert all damage, but having a strong system in place beforehand certainly helps. In 1980, Fort Collins, CO, created one of the country's earliest stormwater utilities, which funded drainage improvements over the next two decades. When a 500-year flood hit the city in the summer of 1997, the destruction was tremendous: five deaths and hundreds of millions of dollars in property damage. However, the city credits the utility's improvements for preventing even worse consequences. Since 1997, the utility has continued its floodplain management program–including new restrictions on where development can occur–and formulated new rainfall criteria to use in designing stormwater facilities. Since the flood, too, the residents of Fort Collins have been extremely supportive of continued improvements, even encouraging the utility to speed up some planned projects and move ahead with a flood warning system funded with FEMA grants.

Especially in growing cities where expanding impervious areas shunt more water volume into already overburdened drainage channels and storm sewers, adequate flood control and floodplain management is an evermore critical–and expensive–need. As those who've gone through the process of trying to build a stormwater utility have noted, nothing rallies public support like a major flood.