The Hills Turn Brown in Summertime

Ailey in the garden

 It is a rainy day today, which is my very favorite kind of day. I don’t think there is anything I find more romantic than the sound of rain. It literally gives me butterflies. It makes me think of clean, cream-colored sheets, new books, freshly bathed skin, candles, kisses, tea. The contentment that comes with knowing the desperately dry earth is drinking in the clouds’ ecstasy; of knowing tomorrow everywhere I look will be satisfyingly lush green splendor. Last night I thought I heard rain but I was wary about getting my hopes up. The experience of living almost four decades in an increasingly arid climate has ironically dampened my hopeful spirit in terms of rainy weather. That, coupled with the fact that earlier in the day I had listened to a decidedly sobering report from a water resource specialist in our state, discussing the fact that we are entering our third year of historically unprecedented drought. There was no way I was going to believe my own ears when I heard the first tentative notes of my favorite water-song as I tiptoed back to bed after checking on my children in the middle of the night.

Aloe arborescens

Our days begin early. It is always dark when we wake up in the morning. Because our house is very small, it is almost impossible for Adam and I to get more than five minutes alone before the rest of the house starts rustling around. Our oldest, Alako, is always the first one up, immediately energetic and ready to chat, which is entirely the opposite of my own temperament at the start of the day, but appreciated nonetheless. I will admit that some days he is greeted with more enthusiasm on my part than on others, but he has yet to be deterred in his quest for pre-dawn human interaction. So, no doubt you have guessed who noticed, and loudly announced, the rain first this morning (lucky for him, rain is one of the few things I will tolerate someone loudly announcing to me at that point in my day). As I stepped out onto the back patio, I drank in the relief of knowing that, for today at least, watering the garden was officially crossed off the to-do list.

Watering conservation is my number one concern in terms of sustainability. Right now, I am trying to reconcile my feelings about what I consider to be socially responsible and personally justifiable water use, while also taking into consideration the increasing importance of becoming somewhat self-sustaining, specifically in terms of organic, readily available produce. When I look around at my property on a beautiful, damp day like today, when everything looks exponentially greener and rejuvenated, it’s almost difficult to imagine just how dry it will become. That there will be days this summer when, try as I might to adjust my irrigation times to the very middle of the night, the task of maintaining proper moisture in my soil will feel as futile as trying to squeeze water from a stone. The good thing is, when I look around my property at what I can do to mitigate water waste and minimize our carbon footprint, there is plenty of room for improvement. And I truly believe that if we are going to make a difference on this beautiful, broken planet, not to mention expand our possibility of a survivable future on it, we must immediately work to improve ourselves and the spaces immediately surrounding us. 

My children have been taught to appreciate the natural world and each one of them has a unique and intimate relationship with the outside world. Just as my mother and father guided me to deeper understanding of the plant world and the ability to produce our own food through hard work and technique, I am working to give that gift to my children. Yet it never ceases to amaze me that my littlest loves to snack on raw kale he picks for himself in the garden.  When my oldest, Alako, was in kindergarten, I volunteered weekly as the garden teacher. I would strap Alako’s little sister, Ailey, into the baby pack, usually in front because she wanted to nurse while I worked, and take small groups of children into the school garden. We would gather around the beds brimming with smooth, sun-drenched soil and I would give each child a handful of seeds to plant in their row. I made an effort to select plants with a relatively quick growing cycle that would be conducive to generating excitement from a crowd with a relatively brief attention span. Radish seeds grow extremely quickly, sprouting within 3-5 days, so each week the plants and anticipation grew until finally, about four weeks later, harvest day finally arrived. The children, giddy and wide-eyed, would proudly pull jewel-toned radishes the size of Easter eggs out of the warm soil.

Gryffin harvesting radishes, 2021

Ailey helping in the garden

Now those very same kindergarteners are strong and sturdy fifth graders, whose favorite memory of their time in the garden with me is my little daughter, Ailey. The moment she was allowed out of her baby pack, she would try to escape the garden. I would set her down, assuming she would play right next to my feet with the other children, but in a blink, she would make a break for it and hustle as fast as her baby legs could carry her out the school garden gate and down the sidewalk! For the first three seconds of every class, I would feel so accomplished while I thought I was successfully wrangling the students. Then several hands would suddenly shoot up and a chorus of high-pitched voices would cry, “Ms. Aria?! Ailey escaped!” I would try to look like I was somewhat professional and calm while at the same time my brain immediately shifted into warrior-mama mode. I had to literally sprint out of the garden after my escaping, hysterically laughing toddler, away from the class watching and cheering from inside the fence. Now, that wild and independent little sprite I used to chase down the street is a fiercely loving and astoundingly smart seven-year-old who giggles uproariously when we tell her that story. And year after year, she selects the little packet of jewel-toned radish seeds to plant in our garden, something she has grown up knowing how to do.

So, for today, I am enjoying the rain. I knew it would be a good day to, so I went out in the front yard and pulled weeds out of the moist and forgiving soil. And I made plans. I am planning to remove the majority of my ornamental plants, mostly roses, from the property and replace them with native, drought-tolerant varieties of plants, which is something I always consider when putting any new plant life on the property. We have more than thirty-five rose bushes on the property and I simply cannot justify watering them in this climate, although it breaks my heart to think of them dying so I am going to find somewhere or someone to donate them to. I have been having good luck in propagating Torch Aloe (aloe arborescens) so I am starting to imagine landscaping with them on a larger scale, in place of the roses, and I just love the wild west vibe of it. I too am a drought-tolerant, California native, and I am willing to adapt the way I do things to meet the coming days. Something tells me now is the time to live as authentically as possible. And always remember to dance in the rain