Not only was Fernando already ashes, but where else would he want his ashes to stay but here, on this small plot of desert near the mountains?“When we got water from the tap, it effervesced in the glass,” Fernando told me.This summer they’re letting it burn, 150 acres so far, practically nothing when you consider that 1.1 million acres of the American West are on fire and that 5 million acres have already burned in Alaska and 7.2 million in Canada.
Not only was Fernando already ashes, but where else would he want his ashes to stay but here, on this small plot of desert near the mountains?Tags: Critical Thinking Questions For Nursing StudentsEssays About Why U Want To Be A CosmetologistHow To Write A Nonprofit Business PlanEssay Outline For A Rose For EmilyBusiness Plan Flow ChartSci Res EssaysPersonal Vision Statements For Principals
The winds were hurricane force, I heard on the radio.
The lightning was spectacular and the water was pounding down from the sky, sheeting across the windows. I didn’t know where my parents and my younger sister were.
I wasn’t very clear on logistics in my apocalyptic imaginings: How would I keep neighbors out of my gardens, especially since I’d already shared my zucchini and chard?
How would I be able to deny them food for their hungry children? I knew the water was pumped from artesian wells deep beneath the surface of the earth.
One-fourth of the yard was planted with corn and pinto beans, the wire fence secured by rebar with upside-down Coors cans glinting in the sun to keep the birds at bay.
The grapes tumbled down from the arbor over the vegetable plot, the tomatoes sometimes boiled in their skins before I could pick them, and the neighbors shuttered their windows when they saw me approaching with yet more gigantic zucchinis in my arms.
My father had told me that the Tucson basin was like a big bathtub filled with gravel and surrounded by mountains.
When it rained, he said, the water seeped through the gravel to the bottom of the bathtub where it stayed for eons—ancient water from the runoff of ancient rains. I was fourteen when my family first moved to Tucson from Colorado in 1968, and I remember standing at the living room window in my parents’ house, watching the rain. It was the first time I’d seen the monsoons, the heavy summer rains.
Then he used duct tape to fasten a plastic bowl over each leak to catch the rainwater.
Bowls were hanging from nearly every ceiling; it was easier than moving all the furniture.