Burning, burning, burning, a ring of fire!

 

Burning, burning, burning, a ring of fire! 

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My hen-and-chicks, a succulent in my rock garden, is burned to a crisp. The leaves look like ashes.

While April, May and June are our hottest months, here in Jalisco, relieved by a welcome cool-down when the rains begin late June, the old-timers tell me this we experience now is extreme, unusual. A day or two of ultra-high heat followed by a windy reprieve; that is the usual. The old, former usual.

We have experienced weeks, multiple weeks, where the daily temperature climbs into the triple digits. If it only hits 99, believe me, it feels no different from the high, thus far, of 104, 103 having become the norm. 

I’ve lost more than my favorite hen-and-chicks, both in garden pots and flowers. At this point I try to keep alive the herbs and the chili peppers.  Everything else is on its own.

We have very little water, some days none at all. The valve controlling water flow to the Rancho, to two campgrounds and two farms beyond our own casas was changed to the same size valve which controls my own house water.

This valve reduction is a political move or a retaliatory move by the out-going power-that-is. I’ve no idea the motivation. A delegation visited. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

Add to our severe water reduction, the States-wide power outages, which means the city water pumps are turned off in the evening to prevent burn out, and our tinacos cannot fill, even at night. Therefore, no water into the house.

Fortunately, the dribble from the garden hose is enough to fill a garbage can. I am patient. This garbage can has become my water source.

Also, by fortune or foresight, I have a collection of buckets and dish pans. So in the morning I haul in water to fill the dish pan in the kitchen sink. With care and forethought, I use this to wash my daily dishes in the evening. A bucket of water sits on the drain board for rinsing.

In the bathroom I have a bucket of water for flushing the toilet, used when necessary. In the evening I fill another dishpan by the bathroom sink with sun-heated water for my daily bath.

In the morning I use my previous bathwater to mop the dust off the floors. Then I lug both dishwater and bath/mop water outside to pour onto my herbs and the most desperate looking flowers, a few, one or two.

I hand wash what is most needed in yet another dish pan/bucket configuration at the outdoor sink. No plant has refused this refreshing drink, the elixir of life. What’s a little soap!

You can imagine, each daily task is given much consideration.

Some plants seem to be glorying in the heat. My mango tree is heaving with fruit, so heavy that we had to prop the branches with stilts to prevent breakage. The tree looks like a hedgehog on its back.

The papayas are growing visibly. My lime trees produce new babies on a daily basis. And I have two pineapples in pots which seem to think these conditions are the cat’s meow.

Yes, pineapples. Not my idea. I am not responsible for the whimsical acts of my compost bin. It greets me regularly with surprises. Who am I to say no?

Our water situation is in the hands of the great unknown. I hope it is temporary. I’m coping.

Meanwhile, I go to sleep each night listening to the cicadas sing. It’s no worse than some other ‘music’. Local lore says the cicadas sing down the rain. Oh, may they sing it down soon. This is only the middle of May. Early days. But who knows?

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

Burning May

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