We hadn’t had rain here for something like eighteen days, many of which were spent above a hundred degrees. As I said to someone on Saturday, my gardening strategy had changed from “aesthetics” to “survival.”
We’ve finally had some good rain here, in the evenings, these past three days. It comes in behind a wave of loud thunder (which can still send Mrs. W. to sleep in my dirty laundry) and then just breaks out in these huge, fat drops. With the ground so dry, it’s easy to imagine that each enormous drop must send up its own dust cloud. I didn’t look that close, of course.
But here’s the thing I wanted to share. Even with three days of rain, when Mrs. W. and I walked this morning, I could literally feel how it was barely putting a dent in the drought. It’s really only the top half, maybe three-quarters, of an inch of dirt that is actually soft and springy and, you know, dirt-like. Beneath that, it’s still like concrete.