The summers of my Maryland childhood were filled with days so hot the tar at the edge of the road in front of my house would bubble.  But those days often ended with showers that would send us out to splash barefoot in the cool torrents that rushed in the gutters of that same road.  I remember the smell of those showers – the metallic tang of ozone as the storm approached; the pungent steam rising off baked ground as the first massive drops painted dark circles in the dust; the intense perfume of honeysuckle when the storm had passed.

I think of those days often during this my first summer farming trees which is happening under the worst drought Maryland has seen in years.  I stand looking out over a planting of trees already diminished by about 10% as dark fat clouds drift by unwilling to offer relief.  Each day, a chance of precipitation is in the forecast and the air hangs heavy with damp.  But each day passes rainless, and my baby Christmas trees offer up sapling screams of anguish.

Water has never been this lot’s strong suit.  The property had a well in place when we bought it.  Sure, it seemed odd that they’d chosen to sight it at the top of the ridge by the road when there was so much room further down the slope.  But, we were newbies and thought, ‘What good luck -- a well in place; we can spend the cost of digging one on better cabinets or some landscaping.’  So, we ran the water lines from that well to our house and barn only to learn, that like all the wells on that ridge, production was low.  At a depth of 300 feet, we were only getting 2.5 gallons per minute.  We bit the bullet and paid to go deeper; another 100 feet only gained us a half gallon.

That unproductive well has carried this family of five (sometimes seven) and band of four to six horses for 25 years.  But relying on it has taken a toll.  Only when my kids went off to university did they learn that running the tap while you brush your teeth isn’t a capital offence and that most folks don’t turn off the water in the shower and stand naked and cold while they lather their hair and body.  And, I’m pretty sure it’s only OCD if I go back to the barn TWICE in one night to be absolutely sure I’ve shut off the hose after filling the stock tank. 

So, with this water-trauma brain, I nightly do a new calculus.  Will tomorrow be the exception, the day when the rain in the forecast actually materializes as something more than the hazy sky blowing a raspberry in my face?  Or, do I wake up at 5:00 AM and spend two hours before the real work day starts filling a tank awkwardly balanced in the bucket of my tractor, driving it down to the field of trees, and walking from tree to tree with a hose that’s very inclined to kink?  If I do choose to water the trees, what needs to get punted – laundry, changing the water in the duck pool, flushing when it’s just pee?  But, if I don’t choose to water, tomorrow will I find another wilted, brown tree among the green? 

I’m still reticent to call myself a farmer. It just seems wrong when I’m growing trees and flowers, not food. But, all my friends laugh and tell me I’ve officially crossed that line. It seems all I can talk about is the weather and how much better everything was when I was a kid.