Fresno writer remembers watery joys of the past, even as the drought wears her down

As if I’m a thirsty person craving my next drink, I keep thinking about water. I hear the stories. A 20-acre family farm sits fallow. Down the road, another piece of land has the same barren look. Is the problem reasonable crop values or access to water? Likely, a bucket of both.

Fresno averages 11.5 inches of rain per year. Total precipitation from Oct. 1, 2020 to date is 6.59 inches, or 60% of normal — a larger percentage than most parts of the state.

In the canal I floated down as a kid, not a drop of water has flowed all season. The irrigation district canceled deliveries. The ditch sits on a viable water table, but it takes expensive electricity to siphon the aquifer. Nearby, a large subdivision of new homes creeps its way through the loam, shiny kitchens standing where grapes used to grow. Should thirsty farmers bank on trading an agrarian way of life for a comfortable retirement? Is this how we want to erase Valley history? Answers don’t come before breaking a heart.

The family historian of my youth — at least the one who wielded the Kodak camera — died recently at age 98. When I was a kid, Auntie Helen took all our family photographs. She lived in Los Angeles back then. Most of her shots were taken during weekend visits to our farm. Still, she made the timeline of our memories look seamless.

As I prepared for her funeral, I pulled out the photo albums that are stored at my house now. The pictures were old, pressed against a yellowed adhesive backing and covered with clear cellophane. Revisiting the images, my time travel was swift. I fell back into summer vacations, holiday celebrations, even a picture of me after I had departed the school bus, my arms full of books. Wearing a dress and white knee socks, I stood around the corner of time when girls would be allowed to routinely wear pants to school.

In those days, my father liked to take our family on small road trips. He seemed to gravitate toward local water spots. Trips to the fish hatchery below Friant Dam were fascinating. Picnics next to the mist of water pouring through Pine Flat Dam cooled us. Summer outings at Burris Park in Kings County led to playground fun. Plus, I loved perusing the museum that housed Native American and pioneer artifacts. At the edge of the grounds, you could stand on a bluff and look down toward an empty branch of the Kings River. I never understood why the riverbed was always dry. The pendulum of drought to flood wasn’t apparent to me yet.

But a photograph my aunt snapped in May 1969 provides a significant reminder. The picture shows me sitting on a log next to the shore of a massive body of water. My dad had driven our family down Highway 43 from Selma to somewhere near Corcoran. He had brought us to Tulare Lake. The lake had come to life that spring, the breadth of water so large my 9-year-old eyes could not see land on the other side.

Half a century later, a complexity of issues prevents Tulare Lake from ever rising again. Fifty miles to the north, we have our own set of problems. My yard sprinklers are set to run only two days a week. I use my extra allotment of water to sneak supplements to my vegetable garden. I may remember to turn off the faucet when I’m brushing my teeth, but I can’t seem to give up long showers.

On neighborhood walks, I pass by Oso de Oro Lake Park. Maintained by the Fresno Metropolitan Flood Control District, it’s one of the prettiest parks in town. One recent morning, I walked through its gate to notice an instructional poster explaining the urban water cycle. The graphic showed how snow melt and precipitation percolate into the earth to become our groundwater.

The park’s ponding basin looked tired. Hot July days had taken their toll. The surface of the water was green with algae. Two dozen waterbirds wandered the grass or pecked the mud beside the murky liquid. Not one raft of ducks was swimming.

I stood there, thinking toward a cool rain that would eventually clear the summer dust. The ponding basin would fill again. Or maybe it wouldn’t.

My eyes took in the full expanse of water, which was no expanse at all.