I think about a dreaded drought like an irrigation-less farmer. He studies and ponders The Farmer’s Almanac along with the cloudless sky. Farmer John’s is a physical reality, especially in the Southwest. Mine is real too, but it’s not physical – mine is mental.
I’ve seen those kind of farmer’s eyes. Root beer brown Cherokee eyes. The ones with the worn out skin surrounding them that was as jagged and dry as the Southwest desert surrounding them. They looked hopeless, especially as they searched the hopeless sky, then the endless rows of pathetic crops.
My grandpa always had a fifth of whiskey stashed in his pocket to help him make it through the day. Those work days would last longer than the vicious sunshine. More whiskey and his harmonica would get him through the night. Now and then he’d find inspiration to scratch down lyrics to a new song.
I’m not a lot like Troy, but we do have some similarities. Music and writing is in my blood, along with some of the bad tendencies my grandpa’s had. I still struggle with a short fuse and have a memory like an elephant. Genetics are a peculiar thing.
A dreaded drought is inevitable for all of us regardless of what we do. Nothing earth shattering or profound or productive happens in the midst of a drought. But just like rust, our minds never rest.
I’ll keep pushing my rope up the hill of words that seems as steep as Everest right now, but I know the day will come when I do reach the top… then the downhill side will put an end to this dreaded drought.
As vast and endless as the empty Arizona sky is, it’s full of promise, just like the mind we’ve been given by God almighty. I know I’m not the only soul stumbling through a dreaded drought. Hang on. The rain will come.