It’s been a wet year so far in the Bay Area. Rain, rain, rain–and the drought is officially over.

Drought has been a way of life for as long and I can remember. Usually state officials and experts say, yes, it’s been a lot of rain, but we are still in a drought pattern and the rain may not carry over to next year. We have to wait until we have enough. We have to wait until we’ve had enough for several years in a row. 

Now, suddenly, it’s over in our part of California. Reservoirs are full and overflowing, snowpack is at record levels, and it’s only January.

I don’t know how to live without being in a drought. Do we take longer showers and put in pools and fountains? Do we plant water-loving plants instead of succulents and hose down our porch and steps? Do we wash our cars in the street without a bucket? Do we flush every time and let the water run when we brush our teeth?

Maybe I  have Post Drought Syndrome. I feel like the depression-era people who continued to live frugally after living through the depression. It’s hard to feel comfortable with abundance after living with scarcity.

My grandparents were in their young-adult years in the Great Depression in the United States. Their stories were fascinating to me as a child: how they had to stretch small amounts of canned corn beef or tuna into casseroles for the whole family and make fake apple pie with Ritz crackers and spices when apples were scarce, and search through the cushions of every chair and couch hoping to find a few coins dropped there by careless visitors so they could treat themselves to an ice cream cone.

It wasn’t a specific story or action that I remember most, it was a mindset: There might not be more, so we have to be careful with what we have. Throwing things away or wasting food made them uncomfortable, like the sound of a neighbor’s water gushing unattended makes me.

Last summer I heard that sound and traced it to water pouring down the next-door driveway. I opened the side-yard gate and followed the stream into the backyard to investigate. I found the hose on the back patio running full-blast.

“What the hell?!?” I yelled as I cranked the faucet closed. The words had just burst out of my mouth when I saw the precious drops being squandered in what I assumed was my neighbor’s absence.

Once the water was off, I calmed down and looked around, noticing for the first time the open sliding door. I ran back out to the street. The renters who were living there were from another country, perhaps one without water problems. Maybe it was on for the small children to play in, or maybe the kids had turned it on and left. Embarrassed by my reaction to wasted water, I crept back into my house, hoping they hadn’t seen me, but pretty sure they had heard me.

That same summer, driving to the house of some friends, we noticed that everyone in their neighborhood had brown grass; they had stopped watering because of the water shortage. We were playing Petanque after dinner in their water-friendly backyard, and while I waited for my turn, I stood on tiptoes to peek over the fence into their neighbor’s backyard, curious about the size or layout–or just nosey. I was shocked to see lush, green grass covering their yard, thick and moist, in stark contrast to the dead front lawn.

I gestured for my friend to come see; she was shocked, but we kept our voices to a whisper, in case they were outside. I’m not sure if she has forgiven the duplicity of her neighbor’s public austerity and private indulgence yet. We were all supposed to be sharing what little there was.

Today, I stood in the running  shower for a long time, my mind drifting, feeling a little guilty about the water flowing down the drain, but letting it go anyway, tired of worrying about it. The drought is over, just like that.

I rejoice that there is no longer a shortage, but I almost wish they hadn’t told us. It’s a little too easy to go back to my wasting ways. I hope it makes me a less judgmental neighbor, though.