The drought persists. Somehow we missed our 73% chance of rain on Tuesday, which is more evidence that math is fake. Another reason math is fake is because I spent $800 on grass and clover seed this fall, and my truck bed still looked empty and my tires barely bulged under the payload of a few overpriced seed sacks. It’s as if numbers don’t mean anything anymore. In fact, I think my eight hundred dollars would have been more valuable as kindling for my bee smoker. I planted the seed back in early September and it has yet to germinate, which is possibly a blessing in disguise. Had it germinated, the seedlings would have shriveled up faster than fatback in a frying pan. There is still a chance that, given some rainfall, I can recoup my expenses by actually growing forage for cows, though at this point I’d probably have better odds of indemnification by attempting to rob a bank.
The one bright spot in the drought is the brightness of the dying foliage. I can’t remember a year when the maples were as orange, the oaks as scarlet, and the poplars as lemony as this particular year. On more than one occasion this fall, my wife, who is much more artistically inclined than I will ever be, has gasped at the color of a roadside tree. I wouldn’t know a Monet from a Michelangelo, unless the latter was a mutant turtle, but even I can appreciate the orangeness of the maples this year. It’s as if the ground, in all its droughty drabness, is merely meant to contrast with the foliage above, to frame Mother Nature’s masterpiece.