Sprinkler days

When driving to work the other day I noticed a sign along a parkway that read “Grass under renovation.” The sign was dutifully pegged into the lawn every 50 feet or so, as though people would drive by and take serious issue with some browning on a lawn. (Come to think of it, this is Irvine we’re talking about – of course someone would take issue with a brown lawn. In Berkeley people would probably take issue with a very green lawn). Irvine is very particular about how its grass looks – it waters regularly and with great gusto – this city is notorious for not only the ridiculous daytime sprinkling (where most of the water evaporates soon after it comes out of the sprinkler head) but also the generous watering of the sidewalks in the process. Seeing this amusing “Grass under renovation” sign took me way back, to August 1999.

Very soon before we started dating, Keith and I were at a barbeque at a community picnic spot in graduate student housing. It was a late summer afternoon, gorgeous warm weather, bordering on hot. At around 3pm the sprinklers went on. I had had a few beers, I was happy, excited to be spending time with friends, particularly in Keith’s company. I took off my shoes, walked over to the lawn, and walked around in the water coming out of the sprinkler. It felt glorious on my legs, and I imagined I looked relaxed, happy, carefree. I knew Keith was watching me, and I imagined he was thinking “What a fun person to go running through the sprinklers, just like a kid!”

I came back over to where everyone was gathered, talking. I approached Keith who was standing with another graduate student from my department. This other grad student looked at me, his lip slightly curled in disgust, and said “You know that’s reclaimed water, right?” It was then that I looked around and noticed the myriad of signs saying “Reclaimed Water – do not drink” around the lawns. I noticed the iridescent sheen on my bare legs where the water – the lip curling reclaimed water – had coated my skin. I noticed the slightly metallic smell I now carried. The image I had of my sprinkler play, of a carefree young woman enjoying the sprinklers on a warm day now was completely shattered, and in its place I now saw a naive grad student trying too hard to look carefree and happy, getting coated in metallic and who-knows-what-else scented reclaimed water. I didn't even really know what it meant that the water was reclaimed - reclaimed from where? - only that it had to be disgusting no matter where it came from. I looked up, trying to hide the mortification I was experiencing. Keith – bless his heart - smiled warmly at me, shrugged, and said “Well, at least it looked refreshing.”