Microwunderkammer

 Parental Artifact #3–a waxed cotton raincoat.

It has been a dry, dry summer. For the first time ever, our usually reliable well and cistern failed us yesterday—or rather, I failed them and then they failed us. I was filling the bucks’ water tub with a hose, got distracted by moving some hay around, distracted again by some suspicious behavior from one of the bucks (he was fine), and then distracted again by a need to get the rest of the evening’s chores done. It was less than two hours later that I was reminded of the hose: no water came out of the tap in the house.

I’ve run the cistern dry a couple of times before. The pump out of the cistern (to all of the hoses and waterers and the house) is faster than the pump into the cistern from the well. Before, emptying the cistern took a full day or a full night. Also, once dry, our well has been generous enough that it could fill it back up pretty promptly. At the end of this long, dry summer, though, this is not the case. Last night, the well gave us a little bit, then stopped. A few hours later, it gave a little bit more, and then stopped. After four hours, the well still had not put enough into the cistern to make the pump turn on, so the dishes from dinner remained unwashed (as did I, going to bed). The usual anxieties that sing one to sleep on the farm were joined by anxiety about the well failing. When I checked on it at three o’clock in the morning, the pump from the well was still not going, and the level in the cistern hadn’t risen perceptibly.

Fifty years ago, my family lived in Dunedin, New Zealand, for a year. My dad, a biochemist at USC, arranged to take a sabbatical year at the University of Otago (I am quite sure that my mom’s interest in the botany of the Southern Hemisphere was not inconsequential in the decision to go there). My family has always been a family of hikers and outdoorsy types. My parents met each other in the Cal hiking club, and weekend hikes in the Santa Monica Mountains and beyond were the routine growing up. No surprise then, that we did a lot of hiking in New Zealand. I was only five at the time, and I wish I remembered more of it—I do remember fields of lupines, fantastic beaches, glaciers, rivers, sheep…and rain.

It rains a lot more in New Zealand’s South Island than it does in Southern California. I hardly ever remember hiking with more than a windbreaker growing up, but New Zealand called for rain gear. So my dad, apparently (I don’t remember any details) bought this waxed cotton raincoat. It wasn’t a super fancy thing, kind of standard for a farmer or hiker in the days before Gore Tex. I remember my dad wearing it and a very nice pair of hiking boots as we tramped around on the weekends, visiting places with delightful Maori names and beautiful sights.

We returned to Southern California, and continued hiking. Whether in the Santa Monicas, or Anza-Borrego, or in the Sierras, though, we were mainly fair-weather hikers. My mom didn’t like the cold and wet, so on the rare occasions when the weather was intemperate we would usually just go to a museum or shopping. A windbreaker was plenty, and I don’t recall seeing the waxed cotton raincoat again. It pretty much slipped from my memory, and settled into the depths of a steamer trunk in my parents’ closet. When my parents once again went hiking in the cold and rain—after we had moved out and they retired and vacationed in Tierra del Fuego, Tasmania, and New Zealand—they brought with them up-to-date Gore-Tex and down.

When my brothers and I went through the contents of the closet last year, we were initially puzzled by the raincoat, but eventually remembered its story. The “made in NZ” tag helped. The Gore-Tex rain gear was more desirable, but I thought I could give good use to this raincoat. It’s nice to have a lightweight long rain coat in Oregon, and good to have something where it’s not an expensive tragedy if it catches on a bit of fence wire. Also, I’ve found that hay doesn’t stick to wet waxed cotton the way it does to nylon. Oddly, it fits me well, even though I am quite a bit taller and skinnier than my dad ever was.

So, the raincoat was hanging in the coatrack by the door when I went out to check on the cistern last night at three o’clock AM. We had been woken up by the blustery arrival of a wet and windy storm, and I thought I heard something blowing around unsecured. I figured I might as well go and check on things and give a look at the cistern while I’m up and around. The raincoat worked just fine at keeping me dry in the blowing rain. It was disappointing to see that the well still wasn’t filling the cistern. Fortunately, by morning’s light, the well had added enough to the cistern that I could fill the animals’ waterers and buckets and do the dishes from last night. I’ve been wearing the raincoat much of the day today. We’ve gotten well over an inch of rain, but the well is still barely keeping ahead of usage, and the cistern has only gained a few inches over the day. This long, dry summer is slow to loosen its grip.

The raincoat is probably going to serve me for just a few more seasons. Fifty-year-old lightweight waxed cotton is brittle and tears easily. Just from routine use, it has, shall we say, become more breathable. But it is still very useful, does the job that I ask of it without complaint, and reminds me of hiking with my dad. As a bonus, it allows me to daydream that I am that beau ideal of New Zealand farmers, Fred Dagg.