Gonzo Girl

“Now, turn it all the way until these padlock rings line up. Exactly.” Standing over our water meter, my neighbor, Chris, guides me in the nuanced skill of turning off, or on, water to any of the 73 homes in our neighborhood. It’s one of the jobs I’ve acquired now that I’m a board member of our community water system.  It’s not the cushy sort of board of directors you might imagine sitting around a large table in a windowed office.  Instead, I’m wearing my Carharts and rubber barn boots – ankle deep in mud. I am suddenly aware that I am definitely no longer a city girl.  With a lot to learn, I haven’t made the full transition.  But, it’s clear that my life has become decidedly rural. 

Living in the country, away from typical metro services such as water, sewer and garbage, requires an overhaul of mindset.  That is, when there is a problem, it’s not up to “them” to fix it or somehow prevent inconvenient things from happening.  Nope.  It’s up to me.  And with this comes the realization of just how closely we are living with Mother Nature.  More than close really.  We are grown ass adults, living in Mother’s house.  We depend on her care and support.  Everything’s fine – as long as we follow the house rules.  But if we get a little lazy and start taking advantage of her generosity, well, let’s just say, she’s not afraid to let you learn your lessons the hard way.

These lessons come with different levels of impact.  One of the first such lessons was really quite simple.  Right after we moved into our home a few years ago, my first project was to weed and then add a good quality top soil to our fenced garden area.  This was accomplished in the fall, so with winter approaching, I was not planning on planting anything until spring.  One of my neighbors popped by and in a conversational way mentioned all that lovely soil I had added.  “Of course, you’ll want to cover that for the winter to protect it from the weeds.”  Sure.  I’ll cover it.  Which I never did.  And, Mother blew in her bales of weed seeds so delighted to give them a home in “all that lovely soil”.  Lesson?  Listen to your neighbor who has lived here her entire life.  She knows Mother.  I mean, knows her.  

And so does her daughter.  

We have a lot of wildlife in these parts. Luckily we have a 10 year old naturalist living next door.   My schooling started with a little argument.  I was proudly pointing out a pair of Eagles, as if to a small child that has never seen such a sight.  “Look, there is a pair of Eagles.  Can you see their nest?”  

“Yes, but that’s an Osprey nest.” 

 “No. No, that’s an Eagle nest, they are sitting right inside.  See?” 

And then the lesson.  In simple words, my 10 year old teacher explained that no, the Osprey built the nest last year.  The Eagles came in and dominated the Osprey in the Annual Spring Face Off.  Osprey vs. Eagle. 

Well I’ll be damned. What do you know? Every spring it’s the same. Who will win?  Osprey or Eagle. It’s a popular topic of conversation in the ‘hood right about April when the Osprey migrate north.  

Or the time she announced, “Did you see the Otter coming down the driveway this morning?”  What?  No. Otters can’t do that. Right? Wrong. Unlike Sea Otters, River Otters can. They have better land paws and scramble all over the place. Lately, they make their way through our yard from Mats Mats Bay behind us, to the open water in front of us.  They are wreaking havoc on a small blue spruce in the backyard too. In my entire life, I never, ever thought I’d curse the “cutest ever” Otter.

But in the end, it comes back to one of the most essential elements provided by Mother.  

Water. 

Our community wells, fed by a mountainside watershed, provides water to 73 homes.  When I was first elected (strong-armed) to the Water System Board, all newbies were given a tour of the catchment area.  Beautiful, pristine land.  Sloping up the side of a hill.  A few cougars have been spotted in this area, along with other assorted wildlife.  Abundant and green. It is from here that, as another neighbor pointed out, numerous streams, brooks and wetland tracts are fed.  “Look here. This is water from the mountain. It’s our job to steward that water.”  Now, that’s humbling.

But, last summer, Rick and I completely forgot those important words. I mean, we had a wedding to host in our yard, right? And, to make a long and painful story as short as possible, we were the only home to have a bright green lawn in a sea of brown dormant grass.

It’s painful and embarrassing.  Our biggest lesson to date. Overwatering your lawn in the hottest months of the year puts a strain on the stored water supply. It was to the point that in combination with another person that accidentally left his hose on full blast for 48 hours, we depleted our holding tanks to the extent that the entirety of our 73 home system had to stop using water for 2 days until the tanks could refill. 

Mother was pissed.  And, so were a few neighbors.

Most neighbors were kind. “It’s a wedding. Of course, you wanted it green. But, you won’t be hosting any more weddings very soon, will you?” I did get a string of toxic emails from one person.  It ended when I invited her to call or visit me to talk.  But, I’m not sure that offered enough public humiliation.  

But as I think about it almost a year later, maybe the humiliation was needed. Maybe, as part of a community Rick and I needed to understand our impact on the whole group. Maybe, it planted just enough remorse to never, ever water my lawn again and then go on to write a blog about it because I’m still really sorry about it.  

For me, this whole switch from urban to rural is an incredible journey. I think it’s like the difference between buying a skinless chicken breast versus raising a chicken, gathering its eggs and then butchering it for dinner. When we first moved here I thought the whole idea of country living was terribly exotic and interesting. Without understanding, I was a part of the gentrification of a rural community. Sort of like an old-world colonist, I attempted to bring values that didn’t fit into an environment that was already thriving.  Another embarrassing confession.  

So, I’m hoping to atone for my sins. Hand water the garden. Install drip irrigation. Use water barrels and other catchment devices. Shorten my showers, wash a full load of laundry. And let the grass turn brown. Allow the community to absorb me, rather than pushing in like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

And that means I just need to listen to my community.  You see, they know Mother way better than me.