A LONG DRINK

How many outside faucets does a $400,000 home need? Mine has one. One lonely faucet, bravely clinging to the side of the house like it’s guarding Fort Smith. I don’t know who decided that a single spigot was enough for a home this size, but I suspect they’ve never watered anything more demanding than a chia pet.

After the hottest, driest summer in Northwest Arkansas history, I’ve spent more time dragging hoses than sleeping. Right now, watering the yard feels less like gardening and more like punishment from the Weather Service.

Rain—four simple letters, so peaceful, so refreshing, so completely missing. We’ve had so little water that my lawn officially qualifies as a “crunchy snack.”

Meanwhile, my daughter moved to Washington State, where rain still falls from the sky like it’s showing off. She fell in love with a flowering cherry tree—Prunus serrulata ‘Kanzan’—and sent me a sapling, presumably believing Arkansas still had rain.

This poor tree arrived bright‑eyed and hopeful, unaware it had been shipped into a climate suitable for drying laundry, jerky, and human tears. I sacrificed every other plant in my yard for it. The marigolds? Gone. The tomatoes? Dust. The hydrangeas? Hydran‑NOPE. It wasn’t the tree’s fault—it just had the misfortune of being loved by someone who moved away and mailed it to someone who stayed.

I even saved my dishwater to keep it alive. Did I worry about detergent harming my “baby”? Absolutely not. That soap is famous for saving wildlife in commercials. If it can rescue a duck covered in crude oil, surely it can handle a thirsty cherry tree.

Still, every time I watered it, the tree begged for more. I misted its leaves one by one with a spray bottle, like a dental technician trying to calm a panicked client. It longed for a long drink—a pull, for those fluent in bar slang.

And then—finally— It happened.

Sunday, September 20, around 7 PM. A sound. A sensation. A miracle.

Tiny drips at first. Not the usual Northwest Arkansas raindrops—the ones so big a single drop can fill a shot glass and knock a squirrel off a branch. No, these were polite drips. Shy drips. Drips that didn’t want to cause trouble.

I set out buckets, garbage cans, my gardening cart —anything that could hold water; if it could hold water, it was drafted.

Slowly, the rain grew stronger. Beautiful. Hopeful. Alive.

At long last, my daughter’s cherry tree—my dishwater‑bathed survivor—finally had a long, glorious drink.

And I swear, if trees could sigh, mine did.