It is dry outside, as parched as the inside of my mouth on the morning after a Troll’s bender in the late 1970s.

But you already noticed.

I am writing this hoping that by the time you read it we will no longer be in need of rain, or at least as much as we need now, somewhere between a couple of inches and a Hurricane Matthew – a strategic reverse mojo if you will.

Thunderstorms are in the forecast again today, which is Thursday, and throughout the weekend. That has been the case all this week, when 40 percent chance has pretty much meant the proverbial snowball’s chance in the oppressive heat outside.

Age has changed my perspective on summers in Southeastern North Carolina. I used to could walk 36 holes in 98-degree weather and 90 percent humidity, but now I cannot walk outside. Well, I can, but know better.

More succinctly, summers suck.

As we old folks tend to do, I have been checking the forecast as well as the radar almost hourly for a couple of weeks now, hoping for relief. This week, in particular, Mother Nature has been doing the Big Tease, showing storms approaching from the south but hitting some kind of wall when approaching my welcome mat and going poof.

Northeastern South Carolina I suspect is pretty soggy right now.

Last week a buddy who sold me the zoysia grass that at that moment was as thirsty as a shipwrecked sailor hanging out with Robinson Crusoe said, “Double D, think you might want to turn on the irrigation system and provide some relief?”

I believe he felt like an animal rescue group that had placed a small pup in a bad home, and wanted to dig up the grass, carry it away and quench its thirst. Since then, I have been digging to find lost sprinkler heads and am happy to report, the zoysia is coming back to life.

We then drove two hours north to Rocky Mount to play golf on a golf course that, like me, had irrigation issues, and played on what I believe were the most parched fairways I have ever seen. The greens, thankfully, were perfect, the superintendent obviously knowing where the water he had needed to be applied.

But it is not my lawn, any golf course or even my garden, which is green from being watered by hand but stuck in neutral, that has me begging the hardest for a heavy heavenly drink.

There is a myriad of reasons I could not farm for a living. I do not like to get up with the roosters, I have no expertise, I cannot fix things, I possess no pertinent skills, but at the top of the pile, I could not live my life at the mercy of Mother’s Nature whim. Yes, I understand there is insurance and government relief programs that will surely be in play soon, but the daily torture of watching the fruit literally withering on the vine would be stress that I could not handle.

I was an editor of a newspaper for 24 years living daily on a deadline, so I know more than most about stress.

I know that when the rain comes, and perhaps it already has, that it will be too late for many crops, especially the corn. But it sure would be refreshing to hear that pitter patter on the patio, even if the background sound is rolling thunder.

Friday morning update: It rained at my place on Thursday, but we need more. The reverse mojo worked. Now we need some more.