I love being on the road. And, I had to come home, but my first duty home was to stop by my local grocery and grab a six-pack of Black Butte Porter. I was only out for a short stay but a girl’s gotta have access to a decent dark, chewy, hoppy beer once in awhile. (Jim calls it motor oil.) Even the stores where we shopped didn’t have a decent craft beer I could buy.
Another thing they didn’t have was an olive bar. Those little French picholines, dark green, spiced Scicilians, Greek, kalamatas, Spanish sevillanos, luccas, manzanillos, yummmy.
My trip home was smooth. My cameras was deep in my carry on and I didn’t take pictures from the plane, but the rice fields and canals and flooded fields from the air, gave the impression there is no water shortage in California. All the lakes and reservoirs had yellow soil lines showing how low the levels are. We had never heard of a 500 year drought record until this year. Now we know what it is like. Summer in winter. Not good. So little snow. Time to deepen my well. Get ready to pay higher food prices as the drought continues.
A group of Churches and faith healers are up on a nearby peak as I write to send up prayers for rain today. I’m not a believer in such things, but I don’t oppose the effort. Jim’s son is quite willing to send some snow our way, but, as we know that doesn’t work either. Time to move to Alaska, but they don’t have olive bars or BBP there. Whatsa girl to do?