A Washington Post headline reads, "California declares historic water emergency measures amid drought." According to the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California, WaPo reports, “The past three years are projected to be the driest in our state’s history, leading to drought conditions unlike anything we’ve experienced before." Moreover, "Scientists have determined that the extremely dry conditions over the past three years are part of a longer megadrought, which has persisted since 2000."
This put me in mind of a column I wrote for the Chicago Tribune in 2015 (I did not write the headline):
Let us pour some cold water on that California sunshine
By Steven Lubet
Chicago Tribune
Apr 06, 2015
When I woke up this morning, the outside temperature was a brisk 36 degrees, which was not unusual along our chilly lakefront. The calendar said April, but the weather did not remotely resemble spring — a season that seems to last only about a weekend in these parts.
We Chicagoans have long since made our peace with crummy weather — subzero temperatures, blizzards, ice storms and the potential for killing frosts that cannot be ruled out until Memorial Day. Nonetheless, we don't complain. The frigid environment builds character, we mutter as we freeze. So what if I can't put away my parka until June?
It would be fine if we could simply shiver in silence, as Abraham Lincoln probably did during his years in New Salem. But ever since the advent of instantaneous communication, that has been impossible. Just try phoning — or texting, or emailing or Skyping — someone in California any time between November and March. No matter what the purpose of the call, the subject will sooner or later turn to weather. "So how cold is it in Chicago?" your friend or relative will eventually inquire. "I went to the beach yesterday," every Los Angelino will be sure to let you know, whether you are interested or not.
And the unspoken subtext of every conversation will ultimately devolve to something like, "How can you stand to live there?" The question is not raised out of sincere sympathy or solicitude, but rather as an assertion of inherent superiority — as though the Californians themselves had invented sunshine. In February, I corresponded with a complete stranger about some historical information for a writing project, and she ended her email thusly: "Sunny and warm out here ... planting my vegetable garden today ... (gloating broadly)."
Nobody raised in a place called the Second City would ever think of gloating, but I must admit that I have recently been tempted to smirk. California is experiencing the fourth year of an epic drought. Reservoirs are at historic lows, and the mountain snowpack (which feeds its rivers and aqueducts) is all but nonexistent. Gov. Jerry Brown has called for a 25 percent reduction in residential water use, and even that might not be enough. Fountains, swimming pools and golf courses may soon be a thing of the past. Rationing has become a distinct possibility as the Golden State faces what Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti has called a water-starved "new normal."
But here in Chicago, we are sitting on the shore of a virtually inexhaustible supply of drinking, bathing and even gardening water. The Great Lakes hold more than 20 percent of all the fresh surface water in the world, with a total volume of more than 5,400 cubic miles (and that's measured at the low point). Our own Lake Michigan is the sixth-largest freshwater lake in the world. We will never be thirsty or dirty. We have, in nearly unlimited quantity, what everyone in the world needs and wants. We are the Hollywood of water. We are the Silicon Valley of water. We are the redwood forest of water.
So lately, I have been thinking about calling some acquaintances in California, just to chat. "Guess what I did this morning," I might say. "I took a 30-minute shower." But that's not all. "I left the water running while I brushed my teeth, and later today I plan to wash the car, even though it isn't dirty." It's too early in the season to brag about watering the lawn, but I could say something about doing laundry even though I don't have a full load. "And by the way," I might then gently ask, "are they telling you not to flush your toilets yet?" It must be tough to live like that. Perhaps I will contemplate it later today, if I feel like taking another shower. (Don't be alarmed, friends, I wouldn't really waste water — although I could if I wanted to, which makes schadenfreude so sweet.)
Of course, I won't really make that call, as satisfying as it might be after enduring years of mockery from the West Coast. When all is said and done, we Chicagoans take no delight in the misfortunes of others, and we don't return smug for smug. I guess those snowstorms do build character, after all.
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