H2Oh No!

Is there such a thing as WaterHolics Anonymous? If so, I need all twelve steps. Maybe thirteen. WRITTEN, ILLUSTRATED, and EVEN SPOKEN by PETER MOORE

Mar 22, 2025

One of my favorite gigs is the one I do for NPR, making fun of myself on a semi-weekly basis. This time out, I justly pointed the finger at people like me, who think water grows on trees. I just found out that actually, it makes trees grow! But only if there’s any around, which is increasingly not the case. Why else would we be spontaneously bursting into flames here in Colorado? If it’s too much trouble to read, click here, and I’ll read it to you!

THE HUMAN BODY is said to be 60% water. But my wife and I must be part amphibian, having absorbed abundant rainfall in Pennsylvania for a couple of decades. Then we moved to Colorado, which is like Punxatawny Phil moving to Great Sand Dunes National Park—for the waterfalls.

How dry we are.

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As enthusiastic gardeners, we frolicked in Pennsylvania’s forty-one inches of rain annually. Our yard was home to dozens of species of plants, many of which had drinking problems. No worries. We cranked the hoses, the rains came, and our plant friends hiccuped greenery and flowers.

Then we packed our car with beloved plants and drove west. We went from hydroponics to high desert. It felt as if the South Dakota Badlands extended all the way to our front door in Fort Collins. Our Pennsylvania greenery gasped and gave up.

It’s not like we were blindsided, of course. Before our move, I had read Where the Water Goes, David Owens’ picaresque pursuit of the Colorado River from its headwaters in Rocky Mountain National Park to its drainage in Mexico. Except, when Owens crossed the border, he found a dusty river bed. The Colorado River doesn’t go there anymore. Our thirsty neighbors in Utah, Wyoming, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and California soak up what we don’t use in our garden.

Those fountains at the Bellagio, in Vegas, might as well be spitting champagne.

Water is that precious.

Soon after our move, we enrolled in Fort Collins’s xeriscaping classes, to find plants that looked alive despite being made of rhinoceros hide.

Xeriscaping was coined by the Denver Water department in 1981, as a way to cure waterlogged easterners of their wasteful ways.

They saw my wife and me coming.

After taking the xeriscaping course, we became nativists when it comes to garden plants. We learned to equate Kentucky bluegrass with farm-ageddon. Out with the azaleas, in with the potentilla.

And we replaced greensward with mulch and scenic boulders. Parched can be pretty, too!

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Once you start saving water outside your house, you look for ways to save it indoors as well. Back east, I showered twice or even three times a day—upon waking, after a workout, and often, after reading the news. Now that we live in desiccated Fort Collins, utilities watchdogs send me concerning emails, comparing water use among “average households,” “efficient households,” and accusingly, “ME.” It’s like being put in a stockade for overconsumption. To improve our standing, I quit showering so much, and started asking my wife how much I stink.

And in what way, specifically?

In winter we hold our own with the city’s water ratings. A recent email revealed that, during non-gardening season, we’re using 66 gallons of water a day, one gallon less than households with an “efficient” rating.

Hey, a gallon saved is a gallon we can dump over our heads in a July heat wave.

We’re super-sippers, compared with “average households” that use 101 gallons per day. But it makes me wonder: What are our besotted neighbors up to? Water balloon fights? Wet t-shirt contests?

Compared with these water wastrels, we feel pretty good about ourselves—at least from October to April. Which means that right now, we’re on the verge of an aquatic breakdown. Colorado’s last-frost date is around Mother’s Day, which we celebrate by turning on our irrigation system. We go from teetotalers to drunkards overnight. Suddenly the city begins sending alarmed texts, worrying that we’ve sprung a leak. Which we have done from time to time.

Soon after we moved in, my wife attacked an especially big dandelion with a pitchfork, and pierced a pressurized irrigation pipe. A jet of water shot over our roof and hit the neighbor’s house.

We had our very own Bellagio, right here in Old Town.

So if you’re ever walking in Library Park and spot the Hanging Gardens of Whedbee Street—that’s our house.

If I’m working out front, don’t get too close. In summer, I don’t shower for weeks.