(But no pictures.)
Next month, my family is walking as a team in The Prouty in honor of my father (the handsome guy on that page). There are so many places that are desperate for money right now, and budgets are tighter than ever, but I am grateful for every dollar of sponsorship.
Jinx spent last Thursday at the vet’s office after throwing up all over the place, including one bit that looked bloody. After last year’s adventures with poor Boadie, I freaked right the hell out. It turned out to be an expensive tummy ache, and he’s fine now, but geez louise. I think we both lost weight.
Things are boring on the outside because they’re exciting on the inside, and writing is going well. In the meantime, I’ve been thinking about water.
When we were in Colorado in February, I said something about how much I like Denver, and my friend Dan said, “You can’t move here unless you bring your own water.” That got me on a line of thought about snow barrels (like rain barrels, but for snow), and how I’ve always lived in wet places, where we think of water as something that could trap you, could get in the house, hardly ever as a precious resource.
When I was 16 I spent a couple of weeks on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, and that was the first time that I learned to think about water. We had been bathing in the river (using Dr. Brommer’s soap), much to the amusement of the fine folks of Red Shirt, SD.
“You’re out here to help us, but at least we have indoor plumbing,” one lady said. She invited us into her cinderblock house, where we sat around warming up and drying off for a little while. She was washing dishes, and she kept turning the water on and off.
If I were a cat, I’d have been dead of curiosity decades ago, and I am rarely afraid of looking like a fool, so I asked why. She talked about how scarce water can be out on the plains, and about how you have to respect resources, because they’re holy. Keep things clean, use only what you need.
Since then, I turn the water on and off when I’m washing dishes. I turn it off while I’m brushing my teeth. Even in this damp place, where even the air is wet. I don’t have any idea whether this makes any difference in my actual water usage – clearly, as a citizen of the developed world, I use way more than I actually need – but paying attention is important to me. I try to stay awake inside my own life.
re snow barrels, if you don’t know about them already you might be interested in the Seljukid and earlier ice houses of central Asia (images 6 and 9 here) – big conical mudbrick buildings where snow and ice from the brutal but short central Asian winter were stored, against the brutal and long central Asian summer. I like to think of Alp Arslan or Timur sipping sherbets under those grave cooling towers, lackadaisically plotting future conquests, taking refuge from the griddle of the sun on the scrubby desert just outside their pavilions.
I *knew* it was useful to collect snowmelt! People kept saying to me “oh no it’s too heavy and you don’t get enough water out of the snow blah blah.”
Made me want to move to Colorado, put a tank in the ground, and shovel snow into it all winter just to SHOW THEM.
(Not that I am in any competitive. Ever.)
I grew up in Los Angeles during the drought years of the 80s…I didn’t realize until I was an adult that other people didn’t wash dishes by turning the water on and off. I think everyone should have at least one drought experience in their lives to learn not to take water for granted.
I agree. And it’s not as if one *loses* anything by turning off the tap while brushing teeth.
You gain, actually, by turning off the water, as you tend to brush longer. Our rain barrel is wondering what the &^%$&*^%$ is going on, as it is constantly being overrun by deluges. Also, it smells funny, as there is vegetable matter in it. But it did not blow away yesterday, which I was nervous about. Also the rickety tree didn’t fall down.