Summer is only a week old and I’m already sick of watering my flowers. I have this vague memory of something called a rainy day and I sort of recall waking up in the middle of the night to the gentle tap, tap, tap of raindrops on my roof.
Not this year, however. It seems that the only rain we’ve had comes in sudden storms that dump water on the ground so fast that it’s hard for the cracked earth to absorb it.
That means my husband, Eric, and I spend a lot of time with hoses, watering cans and sprinklers. Eric has the sprinkler placement down to a science. We have one that’s like a water cannon, shooting water across the yard. Then, there’s the oscillating one he places in between two flowerbeds, so it gives them a drink both coming and going.
Thankfully, we have a good well – at least for now. If that would change, we could always haul water up from Gunpowder Falls, which meanders along our property.
Of course, I’d have to quit my job since that would be an all-day job. Plus, I’d have to go to bed at sunset to rest up for the next grueling day.
Gee, it would be so much easier if it would just rain. Please.