Harvesting Rain

"It's gorrrrrrgeous, isn't it?" someone said to me at the community pool yesterday. And yes, it was. Breezy. Sunny. Children laughing and playing in the cold, refreshing water.

Yet. . .

It was day number what, I don't even know anymore, without rain. It stopped raining here weeks ago, sometime in May, when the farmers were putting in the rest of their summer crops, or still trying to get their already-planted ones to take off. It stopped not long after that killing frost that obliterated almost all the Georgia blueberries, peaches and apples. It stopped long before the wildfires in South Georgia started flaring so violently that their smoke has traveled here, to Atlanta, 200 miles away, so that several days when we woke up it smelled like Sherman was on his march to the sea again. The red clay is so dry and cracked that if I squint my eyes just so, I can even see Scarlett O'Hara with a fistful of dusty earth, shouting to the heavens, "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"

And that, of course, gets me thinking. How do I never go hungry again when food security is threatened by so many influences outside my control, including drought? I was surprised to learn that watering restrictions, in place now all over Georgia, do not apply to personal food gardens. And so, just as the South rose again, my belief in the practical benefits of Victory Gardens once again rears its head.

I know I can do better with my garden in several ways:

* Planting more native plants that don't require much from me (the lamb's quarters and wild blackberries are a good start).

* Harvesting rain. Yes, I'm assuming it will one day rain again, and knowing Atlanta, it will probably come in thunderous rolls of dramatic downpours. But when it does, I need to be there, ready, with a rainbarrel hooked up to my downspout so not a drop of that precious resource goes to waste.

* Reusing household water. Hey, this may sound like "a long walk for a short drink," or so they say, but every little bit helps. It's as easy as tossing the water after boiling eggs into the herb bed, or keeping a pail in the shower to catch water for the calendula patch.

I think of Wes and Charlotte making runs to the river with their water tank in order to irrigate their fields, adding at least three hours to every workday. Or Corinna, who already lost her whole blueberry crop. Or Jessica and Jeremy, Tommy and Alicia, and Chad, who all have grass-fed animals. And I say to the heavens, "Please let it rain."

We can miss a few afternoons at the pool.

Harvesting Rain