In many ways, I live on an alien world.
Last Thursday, our eighteen-day streak of temperatures over a hundred (usually with highs between 103F and 108F) finally broke. Okay. Our high was still 98F, and the next day we went back to 100F but, as many people in many locations unaccustomed to these highs are learning the hard way, there’s a lot of difference between 108F and 98F.
(We’ve had a high this year of 112F, and I’m really hoping not to top that.)
Our weekend actually was, for us, cool, with highs in the high eighties, and lows in the sixties and even, one astonishing night, the high fifties. We’ve even had clouds, although, as of this writing, no rain that wasn’t in the form of individual, nameable drops.
People often think that my part of New Mexico is like the stereotype of Arizona: hot, no “real” winter, towering cactus, like that. Leaving aside that the stereotype of Arizona doesn’t apply even to Arizona as a whole, it certainly doesn’t apply to my part of New Mexico.
We get cold temperatures well below freezing. The only reason we don’t get more snow is because on the whole our climate is too dry. And, as mentioned above, we get hot enough that we could probably (although I’ve wondered why anyone would want to try) fry eggs on the sidewalk. Our rain comes in seasonal monsoons, the establishment of which watched for with a fervor that goes back long before the arrival of colonists from Europe.
The opening photo illustrates the extremes that our yard has to deal with. On the left is our pomegranate shrub. If you look carefully, you can see the dead limbs poking out of the green. That’s cold damage, a result of our nighttime temperatures in October dropping without warning from the high forties to well below freezing for four nights. It also hit our ash tree and apples, as well as killing a couple of established shrubs.
On the right you can see our squash plants. The yellowing on the leaves is not a result of insect predation or disease; it’s from dealing with temperature extremes. Even with only a few days of temperatures below a hundred, we are seeing indications of recovery. If we’re lucky, the zukes will start setting fruit. The plants only twenty feet or so further east, that get less sun, grew much more slowly, but seem to be setting.
When I first moved to New Mexico, back in mid-1994, I came from a very pleasant area in south central Virginia, where growing things was almost ridiculously easy. Here I had to learn a bunch of new skills, new plants, and face new challenges.
Of course, there are bonuses, too. One of Jim and my dreams was to create a habitat that would invite quail to come into our yard. When we achieved that goal, we hoped that someday they’d actually bring their chicks to visit. As the picture below shows, we have achieved that goal, too!
In a way, my move to New Mexico gave me a lot of insight into what it would be like to be a colonist on a planet ostensibly “hospitable” to humans. The ability to adapt would be as important, maybe more important, than any suite of technological skills or access to a databank of knowledge. Unlearning would be as crucial as learning.
On that note, I’m going to enjoy every breath of cooler air while I dive into the final push to address the editorial notes on the second of my forthcoming “Over Where” novels, Aurora Borealis Bridge.
Jane Lindskold: Wednesday Wanderings 