Rain Reflection #2

These days, I love the rain.

My rainbarrels are full, even overflowing today.

I bought my rainbarrels two years ago from http://www.rainbarrelsandmore.com/: 60-gallon recycled food-grade barrels used to ship olives and pickles to the United States. There's a side brass spigot attachment, and at the bottom, I attached a dual-release valve with on/off toggles. If the rainbarrel is almost empty and the water level is below the brass spigot, I can still harvest water from the lower valve.

The lower valve also attaches to a soaker hose that winds through my garden like a black garter snake. I can flip a switch and walk away, and the rainbarrel will water my garden slowly and evenly.

I've been thinking about small acts of conservation for a long time. 20 years ago, a writer friend served me dinner with a folded bandana as a napkin. I loved the idea of cloth napkins--why is it we only see them in the fanciest restaurants?

Ever since then, I've used cloth napkins instead of buying paper ones. Think about it: How much paper waste can one person can diminish with just a small choice like that? My friends and family always feel special when they come over to eat. I might be feeding them chili, but the cloth napkins change everything.

I digress. As usual.

The rainbarrel lid twists off like the top of a jar. Rain enters the top through holes; the holes have aluminum screens to filter bugs, leaves, and debris. Sure, the smaller particles (pollen on the roof) get into the rainbarrell.

Did I mention the obvious? You don't drink water from your rainbarrel (nor do your pets).

People passing the house often stop and ask about the rainbarrels. ("Bootleg whiskey," my husband says.)

What's the point?

Over the past two years, I've harvested at least 3000-4000 gallons of water to use on my gardens. Maybe more. And all the money we've invested in landscaping since moving in? Our plants are flourishing. When we traveled to Rome, we left the soaker hoses on and came home to a verdant spring garden.

P.S. Check out writer what Lisa Samalonis thinks about recycling and writing:
http://lisabsamalonis.blogspot.com/2009/06/recycling-ideas.html

Rain Reflection #1

It's raining today.

The light of the day is dark and my mood sinks.

Then I remember Steve.

I worked with Steve at the Governor's School on the Environment. His enthusiasm for learning, his wild sense of humor, and his expansive physicality left me--a young teacher--in awe. When talking about his travels, he would suddenly lurch into an impression of an elephant: his right hand on the right side of his rib cage was the elephant's ear, while his left shoulder met his nose to be come the elephant's trunk. Noises and movement followed.

Steve taught us how to play dominoes like they do in Costa Rica, slapping the tiles down with frantic speed. When describing something from World War II, he'd tell you that Truman said to Hitler, "DON'T EVEN." (You have to say this out loud to understand the effect.)

Steve taught high school in West Deptford, NJ before he retired--we're not sure, but we think his wife bought him a cabin in Montana. He grew up in Paulsboro, right near WDHS and except for his travels--teaching exchanges in Russia, fly fishing vacations in Montana--he stayed in the same area his entire life. Paulsboro is a tough little town off 295 S: a Sunoco oil refinery emits a tangible smell, home values are often 60% lower than the rest of the state, and young people try to make it through and get to somewhere else. Steve and his 8 siblings were raised by a single mother, and for him, this was a badge of honor, a detail he bragged about, as if every time he mentioned his mother's accomplishments she rose further in his esteem.

I taught with Steve for about six years, and here's my favorite memory.

Rain.

There'd been no rain that spring or summer yet. Now here is was. Torrential rain. The faculty clustered in a group, soaked through our rain gear, trying to decide if we should still hold class out in the field. Steve approached, walking sprightly in his full-length, bright yellow raincoat.

"This is great!" he said. "We need the rain."

I looked at Steve. In that moment, things changed for me.

It's a choice: how to see the world.

Dreary rain?

Necessary rain.

A wonder and a blessing.