The human body is said to be 60% water. But my wife and I must be part amphibian, having absorbed abundant rainfall in Pennsylvania for a couple of decades. Then we moved to Colorado, which is like Punxatawny Phil moving to Great Sand Dunes National Park for the waterfalls.
How dry we are.
As enthusiastic gardeners, we frolicked in Pennsylvania鈥檚 forty-one inches of rain annually. Our yard was home to dozens of species of plants, many of which had drinking problems. No worries. We cranked the hoses, the rains came, and our plant friends hiccuped greenery and flowers.
Then we packed our car with beloved plants and drove west. We went from hydroponics to high desert. It felt as if the South Dakota Badlands extended all the way to our front door in Fort Collins. Our Pennsylvania greenery gasped and gave up.
It鈥檚 not like we were blindsided, of course. Before our move, I had read Where the Water Goes, David Owens鈥� picaresque pursuit of the Colorado River from its headwaters in Rocky Mountain National Park to its drainage in Mexico. Except, when Owens crossed the border, he found a dusty river bed. The Colorado River doesn鈥檛 go there anymore. Our thirsty neighbors in Utah, Wyoming, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and California soak up what we don鈥檛 use in our garden.
Those fountains at the Bellagio, in Vegas, might as well be spitting champagne.
Water is that precious.
Soon after our move, we enrolled in Fort Collins鈥� xeriscaping classes, to find plants that looked alive despite being made of rhinoceros hide.
Xeriscaping was coined by the Denver Water department in 1981, as a way to cure waterlogged easterners of their wasteful ways.
They saw my wife and me coming.
After taking the xeriscaping course, we became nativists when it comes to garden plants. We learned to equate Kentucky bluegrass with farm-ageddon. Out with the azaleas, in with the potentilla.
And we replaced greensward with mulch and scenic boulders. Parched can be pretty, too!
And once you start saving water outside your house, you look for ways to save it indoors as well. Back east, I showered twice or even three times a day鈥搖pon waking, after a workout, and often, after reading the news. Now that we live in desiccated Fort Collins, utilities watchdogs send me concerning emails, comparing water use among 鈥渁verage households,鈥� 鈥渆fficient households,鈥� and accusingly, 鈥淢E.鈥� It鈥檚 like being put in a stockade for overconsumption. To improve our standing, I quit showering so much, and started asking my wife how much I stink. And in what way, specifically?
In winter we hold our own with the city鈥檚 water ratings. A recent email revealed that, during non-gardening season, we鈥檙e using 66 gallons of water a day, one gallon less than households with an 鈥渆fficient鈥� rating.
Hey, a gallon saved is a gallon we can dump over our heads in a July heat wave.
We鈥檙e super-sippers,compared with 鈥渁verage households鈥� that use 101 gallons per day. But it makes me wonder: What are our besotted neighbors up to? Water balloon fights? Wet t-shirt contests?
Compared with these water wastrels, we feel pretty good about ourselves鈥揳t least from October to April. Which means that right now, we鈥檙e on the verge of an aquatic breakdown. Colorado鈥檚 last-frost date is around Mother鈥檚 Day, which we celebrate by turning on our irrigation system. We go from teetotalers to drunkards overnight. Suddenly the city begins sending alarmed texts, worrying that we鈥檝e sprung a leak. Which we have done from time to time.
Soon after we moved in, my wife attacked an especially big dandelion with a pitchfork, and pierced a pressurized irrigation pipe. A jet of water shot over our roof and hit the neighbor鈥檚 house.
We had our very own Bellagio, right here in Old Town.
So if you鈥檙e ever walking in Library Park and spot the Hanging Gardens of Whedbee Street鈥攖hat鈥檚 our house.
If I鈥檓 working out front, don鈥檛 get too close. I haven鈥檛 showered.
