We are in a severe drought here. All fireworks are banned, no one can grill using charcoal, and all open fires are prohibited. The city fire works display has been cancelled. Our town usually resounds with the sound of fireworks the week before and just after July 4. It is always illegal to shoot off fireworks in town, but the police rarely enforce it. This year we were told the local constabulary would be “heavy handed” in enforcing the fireworks ban. No one wants their house or neighborhood to go up in flames, and people are being very careful.
Ranchers are selling their cattle, CPR land has been opened up for emergency grazing, and farmers are pretty depressed. It is really too late for anything but the pastures to recover if we would get some rain. It isn’t promising. The high temperatures are predicted to be around 100 this week. We have sufficient water to keep the gardens going, thanks to an upgraded city water system and the Missouri River. I scowl, though, when I see people watering lawns, especially when they are watering in high winds and more water goes in the air than on the lawn.
The governor has declared our county and several others to be disaster areas. This is a slow, painful disaster that will take a long time to see a recovery. We need a good long stretch of several days of rain, and that never happens out here.
How have you coped with disasters?
Trail Baboon 
How ironic. We got .27 of rain last night.
LikeLiked by 4 people
When I moved to northwestern Oregon, the universal comment people offered was, “You’re gonna get sick of all that rain, especially in winter.” That’s what people say about that region, just as the default comment about Minnesota is, “It gets cold there, doesn’t it?”
People could not have been more wrong. I arrived in Oregon as it was experiencing a sharp five-year-long drought. I learned that a rainforest without rain is a weird contradiction. Snow-capped mountains without snow are ugly. Salmon streams minus the streams are a blight and a tragedy. I hated the drought.
Then, in 2015 and 2016, it rained and rained. Empty reservoirs filled. Mountain streams once again flowed to the sea. Mountains once again sported mantels of pure white snow. Waitresses again greeted diners with tall glasses of ice water.
Rain fell day after day for weeks. Some areas experienced flooding. TV meteorologists fretted and expressed unconvincing hopes that Oregonians would some day see the sun again. And this old Minnesotan was thrilled, just thrilled to see all that rain. It seems so simple: water is life. Rain is life.
LikeLiked by 4 people
Husband and I tried to estimate how much rain we would get last night. I pessimistically predicted no more than .10, while husband predicted .15. I am glad it wasn’t a gully washer. Now we don’t have to water the garden until Wednesday or Thursday.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Well, really, if all it takes to produce rain in a drought is a blog post, you are going to be a mighty powerful woman shortly! You must have discovered the art of dealing with a disaster.
LikeLiked by 4 people
Rise and Shine Baboons!
I approach most disaster with a certain amount of denial. If I can pretend “it just ain’t so” for awhile, it delays the process of pain and grief. Not enough good things can be said about unrealistic hope and sunny optimism. And many times it works really well if the disaster does not hit.
Then I descend into panic. Tornadoes and storms cause immediate panic for me. As a child, I witnessed a lot of storms that were pretty scary, and I still get scared. Then if the disaster is eminent I get a plan together and start coping.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Darn autocorrect. I know I typed imminent,
LikeLike
Sure you did.
LikeLike
I’ve experienced only one disaster. I responded by walking my dog and reflecting on things.
LikeLiked by 1 person
In 2005 we had an early snowstorm during which we lost power and heat for three days. After that, we had a gas fireplace/stove installed in the family room. It turns on with a remote starter, so we can operate it even when the electricity is off. We haven’t lost power during a snowstorm since, though. Hmm.
LikeLiked by 1 person
At least that was the sort of disaster we could prepare for if it hapoens again. There really isn’t much you can do to prepare for a drought.
LikeLike
I’m usually pretty level headed. See if there’s anything that can be done, if not get the heck out of there.
LikeLike
I moved during a record heat wave and drought in 1988. The temp hit 105 on July 31st. I coped by drinking a lot of water.
During power outages, I am reasonably well prepared with candles, flashlights, and a French press coffeemaker. If it’s summertime, though, I find it hard to get along without at least a fan to keep the air moving in the house.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I remember that summer–it was beastly hot and desert dry.
LikeLike
I remember that summer also since oldest daughter was born in late June. Being pregnant in that heat was nasty but having a fussy newborn wasn’t much better.
LikeLike
Disaster seems like such a big word, and I’m not sure that any calamity that I’ve experienced in my life rises to that level. Perhaps it’s a sign that I have lived in Minnesota too long when my reaction to pretty much everything is, “Well, it could be worse.” Or perhaps Jacque is right that it’s “unrealistic hope and sunny optimism” at work. Whichever it is, I feel fortunate to have made it to senior citizen status relatively intact. That’s not the result of any particular strategy for coping with misfortune on my part, but more likely pure luck.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I hate it when anyone I know is living in a place where there is drought, or flooding, or even when I just hear the news about famine or plague (now there’s this cholera outbreak)… I hate knowing that this is always going on SOMEwhere in the world, and it really makes me wonder about this great experiment called Life on Earth.
LikeLike
Then there are cooking disasters. Once some friends of ours decided to roast a turkey in an underground fire pit. When they dug up the turkey at the time appointed for it to be done, they found that the fire had gone out and the turkey was raw and they had a houseful of guests and no main course.
LikeLike
We could probably do a whole blog post on cooking disasters.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Then there are garden disasters, when there’s a minor drought and you forget to water the new perennials you’ve put in.
And family disasters that can cause a limb of the family tree to be lobbed off.
There are party disasters, mostly back in college…
And sunburn disasters when you’ve forgotten the sunscreen on that boating trip…
LikeLike
I’m envious of gardeners who get rain in summer. Where I live, we have a “Mediterranean” climate, which means rain in winter (too much sometimes) but hardly any in summer. So gardening means watering.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Bay Area California was like that…
Welcome to the Trail… Where do you live, Audrey?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Victoria, B.C., Canada. A lovely place, but redistributing the rainfall a bit would make it perfect.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Love Victoria. We lived in Winnipeg for 6 years.
LikeLike
Then there are disasters of the political kind. This seems to be a particularly dark time in the history of our country. I don’t much feel like celebrating the 4th.
LikeLiked by 3 people
That’s what I’ve been thinking all day, too, Linda. There’s hardly enough “unrealistic hope and sunny optimism” to curb the overwhelming sense of dread I’ve felt ever since the election.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I also awaken with dread – it’s like a nightmare only it doesn’t end. I swore that I’d quit keeping up with the news, but then decided it’s important to stay current so as not to be shocked by breaking news.
LikeLike
Last winter, when it was -30, my furnace went out. I thought I’d be fine until the power came back on, but I didn’t count on it being out for 12 hours. I went to bed in a parka, wool socks, and hat, with my cats curled up under several blankets. In spite of all this, I got chilled to the bone and was shaking. In the morning, when I came into the living room, all of my beautiful plants were dead. Including that amazing coleus I’d transplanted from a window box to an indoor plant for a year. It’d grown from 8″ high to almost 3′ high. That meant that the temp got down to 32. If this ever happens again, I’ve learned the hard way that I need to get the hell out of here and put sheets around all plants first!
LikeLike