I’ve just returned from another soggy dog walk. My rain pants and jacket are dripping on the floor, and the baseball cap I wear to keep the rain off my glasses is sopping. Not to mention the dog who – despite shaking herself off regularly along our 45 minute route – is soaked to the skin.
Water ponds in our outer yard, especially in the spots where the previous owner was over-zealous with his backhoe, compacting the soil (or what remains of it) again and again. The wetland in the hollow behind our house is full to the brim, a grey sheen of water rising ever higher against the stems of the alders that have colonized it.
It’s a far cry from last summer, when we hit Stage 4 drought on July 3rd. Given that experience, it seems ungrateful – churlish, even – to complain about the rain. We…
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