This is the part of the relatively sweet non-innocuous collection of posts where I turn off the honey and step onto the soapbox. I fear it may sound and feel like vinegar, but it is a reality here in Farm Country, and it is called drought. Very few places that have agriculture as part of their main commerce escape having a few years of less-than-stellar rainfall.
The area we left (Virginia Beach) for Scottsville was 2-4 feet above sea level, and in retrospect was definitely (hydrologically speaking) wetlands. It probably should never have been developed. But, in the early 1900s, it was probably the only land that the poorer black families in the southern end of our county could afford. So, they settled there, adapted farming techniques, and many of the descendants are still there today.
We bought our house there because late in the 20th century, it was one of the only places that our self-employed family of five could afford in Virginia Beach with wood floors, well water, and over an acre of land. The soil was decent, like cake, actually. At 6.5 pH by the time we left, slightly acidic, with several 25+-year-old scrub pines, hollies, and cedars that did a good job of providing dappled shade in our yard, if making it also quite unfriendly to bare feet.
Anyway, though we had a shallow well and occasional short bouts of drought, it never seemed to last long, and indeed our area of Virginia Beach (Creeds/Back Bay) was surrounded by riparian forests, rivers, Back Bay, Currituck Sound, and it was only a couple of miles from the ocean. Water was everywhere, and there were always enough drops to drink and water the garden.
This beautiful flood-enriched fertile soil and adequate rainfall most likely contributed to my surprising success as a beginning gardener (plus a few of my early years spent in a thriving creek-side vegetable garden with quite similar soil). Likely, that easy success seduced me into believing that MORE would be better. Not more rain, or more water, but more SOIL, meaning more LAND to grow on. My rationale was that this would enable us to be MORE self-sufficient.
We moved three hours west to another much smaller town in Virginia. It was a tiny village compared to the metropolis of Virginia Beach/Norfolk/Hampton Roads, but ultimately closer to many things than our previous location. In Back Bay, we’d been 45 minutes from the nearest shopping areas and grocery store, but our move to the outskirts of Scottsville (pop. 55o, give or take a few) was only three miles to a surprising array of cool restaurants, a grocery store, hardware, and auto stores, a gift shop, bookseller, and a health food store. We felt like it would be a good move; there would be less wasted gas, and we wouldn’t be so housebound since the town’s center was only three miles away. Three miles was an easy hike/bike ride if we were sans car.
Admittedly, we’ve rarely walked to town, but most aspects of our migration west have been good. But one thing I did not count on was the entire lack of rainfall in this area. That was a rude shock, after having been surrounded by an abundance of both fresh and salt water.
We employed rain barrels at our previous address, not so much because we lacked water, but on principle. I do not care for the idea of waste…I believe almost everything is a resource, well-used or not. And water is precious which most people can agree has been abused in this age of technological wonders and rapidity.
If hand-watering plants versus using a sprinkler or a spray nozzle on them help me to slow down and appreciate each individual green living item and find some peace within myself, then I am all for it.
But, in 2002, and now again, (written in 2007, Ed.) the hand-watering I am able to do with the minimal amount of our new 350-gallon rain barrel has captured is welcome, but also a very tangible reminder that THIS IS IT. Our bigger rain barrel is only worth something to us and our land when it rains.
In 2001, when we were heavily dependent upon a mountain spring in North Garden for our drinking water. We also “borrowed” water from friends and a laundromat where we spent many quarters down the hill. We used five to ten gallons per day for our household of five, for our entire cooking and bathing needs, plus whatever we were able to capture in our rain barrel.
Our camping potty was waterless, of course, and we used the aforementioned Laundromat to keep our clothes clean. Our bathing was done mostly via a solar shower which used 1-3 gallons and non-electrically heated the water by the aid of its black plastic sitting out in the sun. We really were quite excellent at the conservation game, because we had to be. We wasted very little, and all of the remaining soapy non-greasy dishwater remaining after dinner was used to tend our 16’ long straw bale garden. The garden itself consisted of the seeds I’d saved and brought from our last house, compost we made on-site from our food and coffee grounds, and the bales we cleared out of the loft of the barn that we have since converted into a passive solar house.
So, when we finally permanently moved into our house in June 2002, how was I to know that year would be the worst drought the area had experienced so far? We optimistically expanded the gardens, joined a CSA, and began to travel more. I was disappointed that no one else in the family wanted to include a composting toilet in the construction of our house, but the cost was prohibitive since, by code, we’d have to include a septic field despite not having a flush toilet. Conventional plumbing and simple economics won out, on that point; an occupancy permit and a $40 toilet versus a $1500 one did seem to make more sense, for us and possible future resale value.
Our previous year’s lessons in conservation helped us limit our water use, but I still could not help but feel that we’d soon forget how to limit our use as we had a pre-well and septic systems. In some ways, I was right. Ironically, just as the alarm bells began to ring in the later part of 2002, with no car washing, no lawn watering, and paper plates in effect for even the fanciest restaurants in Charlottesville, 2003 began and became one of the WETTEST on record. All of the newly-conscious conservation efforts ended, and the proverbial baby was thrown out with the bath water, in our home and others, I am sure. Nobody was thinking too much about saving each cup of water while we were almost drowning.
Once again, optimistic, we dug a large pond, figuring it would be a good way to keep water on our hill, handle our excess roof water, provide a place to grow water plants, and create a habitat for my favorites: turtles, fish, and frogs. We even added another, smaller landscape pond a few years later since we were pleased with the aquatic diversity that developed.
We were right about all of this, until 2007. That year, we had more than thirty days without rain toward the end of the summer. By then, we’d not only tripled the size of our garden but also added a 50 x 175’ plot of flowers for our first attempt at farming and growing for market, versus just gardening for our own food and pleasure. The new garden was fully mulched, so it hung on, but struggled. I’d watered the new flower field till late July, so it prospered until I gave up and wilted myself in late August.
Flowers ARE a great drought crop; they hung on until frost and produced myriad colors and arrangements and a decent profit that first year, surprisingly. The large pond finally gave up its last bit of water and dried down to a few oxygen-starved gallons in early October, when the bluegill almost all ended belly-up dead. (ONE survived).
It was with mixed feelings that we celebrated the abundant rain just two days after scooping all the dead fish out of the mud. If only they could have held on for forty-eight more hours…
If only we could ALL hold on. Since moving here to increase our attempt at self-sufficiency in 2001, we have learned (especially through this drought experience) that what we should be striving for is more INTERDEPENDENCY.
Things like seeing pre-programmed city sprinklers watering grass and sidewalks for lawns that benefit absolutely no one at shopping centers, and busted water mains gushing thousands of gallons of water into city thoroughfares due to poor “Streetscape” planning are things that no longer make me just shake my head, but anger me.
How many million inhabitants of the world do not have access to water, and what does this type of waste say to them? Are we entitled? I do not care for government intrusion into the lives and lands of people, but this also includes laws telling people that they CAN NOT have grey water systems, compost toilets, or aesthetically unpleasant rain barrels, according to one neighborhood’s “ Environmental Committee.” (WHICH environment they are concerned with, anyway?)
Anyhow, laws mandating water restrictions may hurt some businesses and irritate peoples’ sense of civil liberties, but it is so much more akin to cigarette smoking; if your actions hurt you (like doing illicit drugs) that is really too bad. But if they are causing people (in the case of second-hand smoke) to have asthma or (in the absence of clean water) to have diarrhea or dysentery, then the action needs to be mandated. We cannot make the rain fall, and de-salination is very expensive.
So, the cheapest and easiest thing to do overall is to provide extensive perks and tools for conservation, and if we have to make it chic and some kind of symbol of eco-status, i.e.: “the Joneses have a really nice water barrel,” or “Yeah, did you see the Smith’s gorgeous new compost toilet?” Or how about: “I’ve seen both, but have you seen the Courts’ water bill? They actually get paid, because they are increasing water capture…they use water barrels, grow climate-protecting trees, and use less water than capture, so they are selling it to the city”….Hmmm. I can dream, can’t I?