Parched

It's been nearly six weeks since we felt more than a sprinkle of rain. Farm Dover is stressed (and so are Ed and I). Every day Ed fills up the 35-gallon water tank strapped on the back of the Polairis and heads out to water the tiny (and not-so-tiny) trees that we have planted. When the tank is drained, he heads back to the garage and refills it. He is on auto-repeat.

My herb garden and porch barrels get watered on a daily basis and the bird bath gets filled because it is not just the flora of Farm Dover that suffer; the birds, bees, butterflies and other fauna need water too. I've stretched the hose out its full length to water our orchard trees, the hydrangeas along the cottage, and my strawberry and tomato plants –– all of which seem to sigh with relief when watered.

The 60-gallon rain barrel down by the cottage stands empty; its water already siphoned off bucket by bucket to keep the newly planted ferns alive in my girl cave.

The golden rod of the fields and the tall native grasses have turned a soft sepia. The dark wildflower seed heads silhouetted against the cloudless skies sway above the grasses. The milkweed seed explodes from its pods.  My footsteps along the wooded paths make loud crunching noises from the fallen walnut leaves. The hickory trees have turned paper brown while the maples trees are making a valiant effort to put forth a bit of fall color -- at least four weeks earlier than normal.

The creek that runs along the north side of our property is completely dry. I've been walking along its bed, selecting rocks to build up three crossings. I expect to find some form of life under the rocks I pry up, but instead, find nothing but cracked and dried mud. I don't know where the crawdads and tadpoles have gone. And whether they will ever return.

Last year I harvested zinnias well into November. Now, the blooms are drying up; turning to seed.

Remarkably – maybe not surprisedly – the native flowers and grasses in our bee garden and meadows seem to be hanging in there; the drought brings out the best of their resilient nature. The asters especially refuse to give up blooming and succumb to thirst.

I can feel the dryness in the air and the weatherman confirms my dismay. September was the driest month in local recorded history with only 0.04 inches of rain. Already more days have been above 90 degrees than ever recorded in a single year.

This little patch of land that we tend is suffering, but so are patches of land the world over. Extreme weather – excessively high temperatures, heavy downpours, hurricanes, floods and droughts – all caused in part by human behaviors are threatening life here on earth. Young Greta, I hear you. We must figure this out, together.