We go through dry summers every year and every year people complain that this time it’s really bad. But the thing is, that’s what they said last year and the year before that. Tell someone the rain is giving forecast and you’ll hear Well we need the rain. Okay, I get it. It’s easy for me to not think about it because I’m on a drilled well. Water isn’t an issue at my house – and no you can’t come here to have a shower!
When I was a kid, things were different. Every summer was about two things for me: fresh strawberries from my father’s garden and “watching the well”. Every drop of water was rationed until finally, that inevitable summer day would come when even the number of times the toilet could be flushed was monitored. I think you know the rule….”If it’s yellow let it mellow”. SUPER GROSS. My father had built his own garage complete with a little “outhouse” on the back. It had a little window overlooking the vegetable garden with a pink frilled curtain cira 1955. There was a calendar nailed to the wall which I always found weird. No reading material. Just a calendar. I hated that place. It’s so unnatural to hear your own bodily functions hitting a pile of sawdust and cedar chips. And then you just walk away and leave it there. At least my aspirations were attainable. Had an adult asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I would have said, “I want to BE in a house where it’s okay to flush the toilet.”
And here we are again, complaining about the drought. Except this time it DOES seem different. How can I ignore the crater on someone’s lawn that used to be a pond? Or what about Lake Milo? I can’t remember ever seeing it that low. No need to fish, just walk out onto the dry bed and pick the fish up off the ground. Pretty sure they’re just lying there, one eye sunny-side up, gills desperately sucking in what water is left.
Mike washed both cars with the garden hose yesterday. Out in the open. Cars slowed down as they passed the house. I’m pretty sure someone gave him the finger. I don’t know; maybe it is really bad this year. All I know for sure is that it’s not apocalyptic until someone makes me poop behind a bush.
So far; so good.