Notes from the Garden: April Showers Bring a Very Dry May

When I was young – maybe 8 or 9 years old – we had a series of droughts. A dryer than normal June turned into a parched July and August. Farm families not only make their living from the soil, but are wary yet devoted minders of the weather and Mother Nature. We still only had cistern water then, and my father would measure my bathtub water (less than an inch!) and I overheard worried conversations about the pond levels shrinking and how there would be no second cutting of hay.  One very hot, dusty, dry day, I decided to try my hand at summoning some much-needed precipitation.

The Farmer’s Almanac and sage words of wisdom.

Now, I cannot claim any Native American heritage, and what I knew about rain dance ceremonies and weather modification rituals was limited to what I learned in elementary social studies classes. But I was an imaginative kid, and I figured it couldn’t hurt.

I chose a prime location in front of our main barn (so I had shelter if I succeeded), and at the hottest part of the day, I let loose with my rain dance.  There was much hopping and jumping and spinning about,  but what I really remember is wishing all the time for the skies to open up and for a huge storm to commence.

It didn’t work, but it did eventually rain. I’ve never forgotten how desultory and grim those summers were though, even though as a child I was sheltered from most of it.

Our unexpected wildflower garden – sown last fall – has proved to be a delightful surprise! It is on the site of a former trash heap on the farm.

Now I am grown up (or something like that), with a farm and children of my own. And I’ve turned into my parents (with fewer children and city water, but still).

There’s a big “six weeks at a glance” calendar on the front of our refrigerator, and every time it rains, I record the amount on the calendar. We last had rain on May 4, 2021 – 1.5 inches, and not a drop since then. I know other places in the county have gotten rain since then, but as the temperature has climbed, any hint of rain has gone to the north or south of us.

I thank the cold snap in February and resulting cool March and April for the amazing display of Zephirine Drouhin roses on our arbor.

I’ve planted six trees this spring and eight shrubs this spring, and as my rain barrel has gone dry, I’ve been forced to turn the tap on to keep my new plantings alive as the mercury has climbed to near 90 degrees.

Ninebark, peonies, catmint, and salvia seem to be faring well despite the dry conditions.

My cache of flower seeds, eagerly anticipated since the dark days of January and February, remain in their packets. I can’t add to my watering list right now, so until the weather turns and we receive some rain – I’ll water my trees and tomatoes, and contemplate teaching my oldest about the southwestern Native American tribes and the tradition of rain dances.