Rain is drumming gently on the skylight directly above my head. Before last night (it’s the third week of July), I was starting to wonder if it would rain again this summer. After several dry weeks, I get like that. Kind of panicky, you know. Still, the skies only delivered 2.2 millimetres after dinner. It was nice to know it could rain, but .086 of an inch (for those of us, me included, who still relate to precipitation in inches) is next to nothing for a landscape that could use literally 30 times that amount. Or more. Preferably not all at once. I felt, earlier this year, that we were off to the agricultural, garden and lawn races. We actually had moisture; a huge proportion of the Saskatchewan crop went into soil damp or wet enough to encourage germination. Big win compared to a couple of years ago.

But now, the crops are struggling in many parts of the province; indeed, the nearby Rural Municipality of Dundurn has declared an agricultural disaster. How quickly things change. Meanwhile, our potatoes are flourishing, but of course they get water sprinkled upon them dailyish by my attention-paying spouse. The cucumbers are less vigorous but hanging in there. The lawn, for a millisecond, actually looked like a lawn. We have an AWFUL lawn. I blame it on the conifers, largely. It’s patchy and weird, no matter what we try. But most of it, for the aforementioned millisecond, was a sort of green colour, with these little blades sticking up all over the place. What on earth? Oh . . . grass. Got it. We no longer feel like the only lawn pikers in the neighbourhood. I’d say 75 per cent of these rather dumb patches of grass look grim: scritchy, brown or yellow, weedy and sad. One day, I’m going to up-dig the whole darned thing and plant rocks. Maybe a few shrubs. A flower. We’ll see.

I don’t know about you, but between the hazy skies, the orange sun, days of choking wildfire smoke, the dearth of rain, the struggle to grow edible things . . . it kind of gets me down. Well, not kind of. Some days I find myself thinking, I’m going to run away. I don’t know if my brains means “get me out of here to a wet climate with a sky you can see” or “forever,” but I am definitely having a flight response. But where would I go?

Much of the United States is similarly afflicted by fire, drought and smoke (which last thing they are largely getting from us. Some neighbours, eh.) Most of Canada has been on fire this spring and summer. There is normally-damp Vancouver Island, but how long will it be before it sinks into the ocean? Yeah, I’m afraid of earthquakes and tsunamis. Might as well admit it. Meanwhile, Europe is experiencing possibly record-breaking scorching heat. I’m afraid a move to India is out; it’s always too hot for me there. Ditto Africa. And there is zero chance of Russia. I don’t like its leader very much. China poses significant language barriers, as does Japan. I suppose the Caribbean holds its charms . . . but hurricanes. I could go on, but you probably get the idea. Where else would one go? Besides, I love this place. It’s home. So, I tell my brain to please shut up and get on with things. We’re having a tough time in some respects, but it’s still the best place on Earth. That being said, we have to get on stalling climate change, and meanwhile come up with workarounds. Pronto. We’re in trouble — all of us, everywhere — so let us turn our brains to that, instead of running away. So, I will stay, and fight instead of fly. Maybe I’ll finally dig up that lawn next year.

-Joanne Paulson