I'm not sure who looks more ridiculous, my dog in her cone head or me in my sleeveless shirt. At least my dog has an excuse. I put the plastic cone on her head to keep her from scratching at her "hot spot," a rashy, nasty dog thing that happens to Golden Retrievers who spend a lot of time in the water and heat.  I have no one to blame for my fashion, save myself. I cut the sleeves off my t-shirt in an attempt to beat the heat. It's an old trick I learned growing up in Virginia, ages ago when that look was both practical and fashionable. Maybe I pulled off the look as a teenager (it seemed to go with my "skater" haircut) or perhaps it would register as trashy regardless of age, time, or location. Nonetheless, I paraded the dog and my cut-off shirt around my Seattle neighborhood this evening. None of my neighbors seemed to mind my DIY fashion or rashy pooch. They're all hiding from the heat inside their dark houses or in the deep shade of their backyards.

In these sticky times of tactical retreats to cool office buildings and tepid neighborhood pools, it's time to count our blessings. Seattle gets this weather in bursts. We're not numb to the heat and humidity like my southern friends. Our neighborhoods don't drone all summer long with the soft mechanical hum of air conditioners. We don't rush from one climate controlled location to another. Our deep, cold Puget Sound gives us cool nights and restful sleep, and even room for a bit of reflection. Maybe, as the sweat drips down your nose and you're aiming a murderous, heat-induced glare at your loving partner, you can think of this heat as a Seattle Teachable Moment, a chance to turn an old t-shirt into a tank-top.

My backyard's brown grass is a shirt sleeve that I would love to shred to pieces. Two reasons keep me from ripping the whole lawn out: my partner and our dog. They both want this brown lawn, so it stays, but my natural tendency toward efficiency (or laziness) finds a bit of drought upside. Dead plants are a perfect opportunity to say I told you so about all those drought tolerant plants we planted, about this ridiculous pastoral metaphor that Americans preach with their lawns. But I like to pretend I am too sophisticated to say I told you so. Instead I remember these moments for later seasons, when my partner and I are pondering our garden through a rain streaked window. I wait to ask summer questions of our fall garden. I wait to temper spring optimism with drought realism. I could whine about this heat now, but I prefer to sing a song of thanks for bringing my brilliant, yet unheeded recommendations, to farm fresh clarity.



My partner is willing to see now, that our backyard is a mess. The native plants, though taxed, are still thriving without water, while we take turns placating the thirsty hydrangeas and the beds of cut flowers (his ideas). This is why we work as a couple. I'm never happier than when the shit hits the fan and we all have to hunker down and suffer together, whereas Bo brings exquisite cut flowers to our table in a vase. Over time I've come to appreciate how his exotic roses look against the backdrop of my native salal. Of course it helps that the roses are just fine without watering. 

I ripped the front lawn out completely. I tore those sleeves off and added the bare-midriff fringe of raised vegetable beds and fruit trees. The front yard is a revelation. Neighbors stop us to ask after our tomatoes. "What's a fava bean? Is that corn?" The other day a woman stopped to give me seeds she'd picked up at her church. Our front yard preaches a new gospel. It was a fashion risk to move away from the tailored adornment of our neighbors, but a risk rewarded in praise and produce. Our front yard is a place we're willing to spend our precious resources because we're literally nourished by it.

So at the risk of looking ridiculous (I'm way past caring about sounding ridiculous), I suggest you find your scissors. You must have an old shirt somewhere that you haven't worn in a while, maybe that black one with the drawing of the wolf on the front, perhaps something with a salmon pun. I want you to take that shirt and cut those sleeves right off. Now I want you to take your new fashion on a liberating walk around your yard. I want you to take a hard look at everything that is dead or dying. You might want to make a list to help you remember next fall or spring, when your good intentions are turgid with weeks of rain.

Now put that shirt in a safe place, maybe by your best fleece, because you'll be wearing your cut-off again next fall or spring when you head over to the nursery center with your new list, your list of stuff that works in these summer droughts and winter rain.  You'll be wearing it when you recognize all of your fellow gardeners, who are no longer summer hot, but now smokin' cut-off hot. You'll be wearing your cut-off when you rip out that water guzzling lawn and plant your natives, when you build your raised vegetable beds and install your rain barrels. You'll be wearing your cut-off next summer when you're relaxing in the sun with your book instead of watering your garden.