Geese squawk on the small pond behind our house. Wings flapping makes a more pleasant sound. The sound of running water reminds me to go jiggle the toilet’s flusher chain that occasionally sticks. A very old, small fountain in my office makes comforting white noise if fed a cup of water weekly.
Fortunate to live in the Midwest where water is plentiful, I love and fear its many sounds. Seven inches of rain, our sump pump sending a geyser out of the basement, a drip somewhere in the house, ice dams are the opposite of pleasant. Even a small amount of water can destroy. Like a dried toilet seal leading to a slow leak absorbed in a basket of winter gloves, hats, and scarfs for months and molding before seasonal discovery.
Raised next to Lake Michigan, nothing sooths me as much as its gentle rhythms. Small waves touching a sandy shore. Larger waves warning of changing weather. Sparkling surfaces reflecting light. The coast and sky creating a paint card of greys when clouds dominate. Thunder heard miles before a storm will move on shore. The cawing of birds hunting for food.
In this time of insecurity when scarcity is the essence of our national feeling, I dread more struggles over who might own or control the future of our Great Lakes’ water wealth. Suburbs suing for access to water miles from borders, states diverting without permission, computer giants demanding this precious life necessity to cool their equipment.
How will our voices be heard? How will water priorities be evaluated? The small questions about watering lawns are easy. The big questions are more complex.
