Notes on the Atrocities Like a 100-watt radio station, broadcasting to the dozens...
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
The scent of freshly cut grass: you won't catch it wafting on an August breeze in Portland. In the one region in the country where it might be arguable to use water to keep lawns emerald velvet, Portland lets them go brown. No one waters the lawn, and generally by mid-August they're looking pretty bad.
Not this year. This year, they were looking bad in in mid-July, and now they're so dry that any foot traffic grinds off the little straw-y blades and leaves bald patches of dust. I worry that they'll grow back. Why, you wonder?
I fault myself.
Last spring, I foolishly moaned about the weather in Portland--the wet weather. We had some amazing run of rain (something like a three-month span with maybe 10 dry days), and presented with my own little soapbox, I complained. The gods quickly smote me for my impertinence: they cleared away the clouds in late May and it's been hot and sunny since. (Portland isn't reliably sunny until after the 4th of July.)
So what do I have to say about the endless, fiery devil-sun who blasts my west-facing farmhouse and gasping perennial garden? I say...not a peep. I've seen what that can do.