So, I am gambling. Last night's weather forecast for today indicated at least a chance of rain, and shuffling outside earlier this morning revealed dark clouds to the west. Nevertheless I turned on the faucet as I passed and made my way to the garden. By the time I had tightened the new hose connectors I had inadequately added yesterday and thoroughly sprayed myself in the process, I could hear a distant rumble. Thunder? Really? I hadn't held out much hope.
Our water bill is set up for auto pay, which has allowed me the guilty privilege of turning a blind eye to what it has been costing us to pour water every day on these thirsty vegetables -- a little like the infant's fantasy in covering his eyes: "if I can't see you, you don't exist." A second rumble, however, brought the prospect of a day's respite from the manual dousing and its price tag a little clearer into focus.
"What's the point of obstinate routine?" I questioned out loud. Ralph Waldo Emerson, I recalled, once mused that, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines." Not wanting to add "neophyte gardeners" to the list, I closed up the shed, turned off the faucet, and returned to the comfortable indoors just to see if it might rain after all.
In the paper today was a story trumpeting this year's record breaking profits of the local casino. Apparently lots of people are gambling these days. Mine, however, feels a lot less risky. If it doesn't rain this morning, I can always water tonight.
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