I’m currently reading a book called Points Unknown, a compilation of adventure stories. We’re talking hardcore risk takers. People who insist on doing crazy things like climbing Devil’s Thumb by themselves.
One story has stuck to my brain – can’t get it out of my head. It’s the story of a whitewater rafting trip in Ethiopia gone horribly wrong; where a man drowns and his body is never found. The author feels responsible for the death and tries repeatedly to find a body, something, anything to bring back to the grieving family. The story haunts me in part because of a passage in Sebastian Junger’s The Perfect Storm In it he gives his account on what it must feel like to drown. He provides a blow by blow account of what happens to the body and speculates on what is happening in the mind. It scared me half to death.
So, where I am going with this? Oddly enough, my plants. I’m worrying about my plants in all this rain. I lie awake at night imagining their tender roots rotting in the moisture. I’m stewing in the dark, imagining their stalks saturated to bloating. I can practically hear the quiet drowning of the tomatillos, the cilantro, the dill, the cucumbers, the basil, the bok choy, and the rosemary. I planted all of them in above-ground ordinary planters with adequate drainage. Adequate for normal rainfall. Not this torrential day after day crap. I’ve taken to covering them at night with buckets. Yes, the buckets block the light but I figure at night they’re not missing much. It spares them some moisture…I think. I hope.