Better Really Late Than Never

I'm about a year late in writing this and I probably won't get through the whole thing in one sitting.  If I'd written it in a timely manner, I might have named it "What I Did on my Spring Vacation 2010", or "How I Spent My 2009 Tax Return", or "I'm Glad I Did It Once But I'd Never Do It Again".  Or maybe "Heather's Opus".  Yeah, I think I like that last one.  Let's go with that.

I've always wanted a pond.  A pretty, tranquil pond with a few fish (preferably koi) swimming languidly about.  Never came close to having one, but it was always in the back of my mind.

So let's go back in time about 365 days.

When spring begins to even hint of coming around, I go somewhat mad.  I can't be trusted near a garden center with a credit card (I think I've told you that before, but I'm getting old and repeating my stories, so just be quiet and listen), and if I don't end the day with dirt under my fingernails and mosquito bites behind my knees it wasn't a good day. I can be seen unashamedly wearing my ghastly, bright yellow Black Kow T-shirt, (obtained with proofs of purchase), which loudly declares "The Mature Manure".  I once saw a man in a store wearing the exact same shirt and I knew he was a kindred soul.  "Proofs of purchase," I asked?  "Yes!" he beamed.  It's a sickness.

Anyway, Spring of 2010 rolled around. It had been a really long, crappy, freaking cold, winter (please imagine those last few words in huge, bold, capped, red letters) and I decided it was my year for a pond.  Just a tiny one, you know; oh, say, 3'x3', maybe in the little corner of the flower bed by the back porch door.  I'd have to relocate the hydrangea, but that wouldn't be a big deal. 

So off I went to the library to get some books on the subject.  I'm big on books.  I get that from my dad.  Whatever the project is, you start out with research - lots of it.  By the time you're done researching you sound like you know what you're talking about.  You know all the in's and out's; all the equipment, what to expect in general, how to prepare for it, and you could do whatever it is blindfolded.  With my preparation skills it's quite possible I could have been a Boy Scout, if they hadn't had the good sense to say "No Girls Allowed". 

Now, first of all, let me say I read a lot of books on the pond subject, ten or twelve altogether (plus a couple on koi)...surfed a lot of web sites...bought a few magazine from Lowe's (again, a dangerous place for me to be in Spring).  Frankly, it didn't look much like rocket science.  Most of the people in the photographs shown building the ponds were women.  Their hair was all in place, their boots and gloves were clean, and their faces smiling with the pure pleasure and ease of it all.  Now, mind you, I wasn't entirely fooled.  I knew it wouldn't be quite as easy as they were making it look.  But, in keeping with my favorite motto, "How hard can it be?", I plunged ahead.

Before the Pond

The first thing to do was finalize the location.  The spot by the back porch door was good, but if I were going to go to all this trouble, why not make the pond just a tad larger and put it somewhere else (read: cha-ching!).  Besides, the hydrangea is so happy in that spot.  My yard is itty-bitty, and surrounded by huge oak trees all belonging to my neighbors, so options were limited.  There was a great spot - perfect, really - behind the wisteria-draped pergola, underneath the towering, old oak at the back southwest corner.  It was pretty much wasted space back there; a somewhat pie-shaped affair, and a bit of a no-man's-land that landscaping and leaf-raking forgot.  Falling leaves from the towering oak would be an issue but, as my brother pointed out, that was going to be a problem anywhere in the yard.  So that decided it.

Only the Beginning

         Job One, Day One, was to clean out the area corner behind the pergola.   I hauled out more than 15 big bags of leaves, noting that this would be the approximate amount of leaves which would fall in the pond every season.  (I wasn't far wrong, by the way.)  Then I dug up the walking irises and put them in a bucket, hoping they would live.  I pulled up the pavers from the area where the pond itself would go.  Several, which were cemented to the posts of the pergola, I had to beat to piece with a hammer to remove (nothing like having the right tool for the job).  I saved the extra pavers and the fragments.  The whole blocks I used to extend the patio on the right side, and the various pieces were used to shore up the waterfall area.  Then I marked out a circle where the pavers had been as a guide for the pool portion of the water feature.

First Shovel Full

My initial plan for the feature was a "spring," with a small pond as the "headwater," back near the property corner.  The spring would spill into a little stream, which would step and wind gently down and fall into a deeper pond, which would extend out between the columns and in front of the pergola - oh, perhaps 5' or so in diameter.


The first two days of actual digging commenced with excavating the spring pool, and then digging my little stream bed.

PVC blocking my stream

Day Two (of many, many more than I anticipated to come) wasn't easy.  It wasn't long before I hit a speed bump in the form of running into buried sprinkler lines.  Mulling over what to do, I finally decided I would have to dig new trenches, cut the lines, and relocate the PVC.  It wouldn't be easy.  In fact, it would be a real pain in the keister.  But it was smack in the way of my stream bed and I knew how to cut PVC, owned a pipe cutter, and have used plumber's dope more than once.  How hard could it be?

Back to digging.

Broken Shovel, Day One

By the end of Day Two, I had also broken my relatively new, supposedly indestructible, Tru-Tuff shovel - the one with the lifetime guarantee.  But Tru-Tuff was no match for Heather and the oak tree's root system (of which, as it turned out, there were a total of three levels, at varying depths, and increasing diameters, below the surface of the dirt).   I spent some time trying to collect on that lifetime guarantee, until I discovered the company was located in Mexico and realized they were never, ever, ever going to return an email.  Good way to save money on those pesky warranty claims.  So I bought a new shovel, which can be chocked up to Expense #1 Of Many On Which I Had Not Counted.

But I was not deterred.

Day Three (and I pretty much quit counting days after that) was a show-stopper all on its own. 

I continued forming the spring and stream bed, carefully avoiding treading on the PVC, which I decided (based on my habit of always postponing unpleasant tasks as long as  possible) I would move later.  I have a pretty bad back, so I have to take things slowly.  Late in the day I found a small pet collar buried eight inches or so below the surface.  "Nemo," read the name tag.  "Hmm.  Wonder how that got here?"  Dig, dig, huff, puff, dig, dig....and then....I hit a heavy-duty, black plastic trash bag with something in it.  Let's see: Nemo's collar and, a foot away, a loaded trash bag.  Not a good combo.

That screeching noise you just heard was digging coming to a very speedy and abrupt halt.

Nemo's final resting place (and, by the way, if the irony of that name is lost on you, you're probably thick, but drop me a line and I'll explain it to you) lay smack in the path of my stream bed.  There was no way literally or figuratively to get around it.  I hadn't been looking forward to the several extra days' work relocating the sprinkler line would add, but I REALLY wasn't looking forward to relocating Nemo (may he rest in peace, amen). 

So I decided to scrap the whole spring/stream plan and switch it to building a berm and constructing a waterfall over Nemo instead.  Yeah, I'd lost a couple days' digging, but I'd saved the time and cost involved in relocating the PVC, and Nemo could continue, undisturbed, sleeping with the fishes.  (Get it? "Sleeping with the fishes"?  Oh, never mind.)      

There were several things I didn't consider when making this fateful decision.  First, I had no clue whatsoever of the immense amount of extra work, and incredible physical toll it would have on my weak back.  Nor did I even think to calculate the skyrocketing expense I was in for in switching from lowly stream to lofty waterfall.  If I had, I might have changed my mind and rudely disturbed Nemo's peaceful slumber.

But I also didn't realized how much more beautiful it would all turn out to be.  So, in my usual state of ignorant bliss, I plunged ahead made the right decision.

To be continued.... 

Pavers Out, Pond Marked

  
With my plan finally gelling, and my work cut out for me, I began digging in earnest.  The area where the pond would go is surrounded by oak trees, azaleas, and wisteria.  Just beneath the surface of the dirt, kept mostly dry from many years of pavers being in place, was a tough, tangled, fibrous, web of fine roots.  It was difficult to dig through and headway was slow.  Each shovel-full of dirt, from whatever direction I was digging, had to be thrown back into a pile where the falls' berm would be, covering the sprinkler lines and Nemo once and for all.  Digging was hot, slow, filthy, hard, and back-breaking.

Once through the initial surface root system, the digging got a little bit easier for a while.  Then, about a foot down, I hit a second system of roots; this time with fewer, but larger, roots about 1"-3" in diameter.  These I hacked out with my little, old hatchet (again, right tool: right job), and continued digging.


Finally, about three feet down I hit larger roots, of which there were quite a few.  These were up to 5" around, hard as steel, and I had nothing with which to remove them.  My cheap, old, long unused, chainsaw quit on me within minutes of being fired up, which was just as well.  It would no longer keep the chain tight and I was more than a little concerned it was going to fly off at any moment, separating my flesh from my kneecaps. 


I hacked with my little hatchet, and then tried a hacksaw, but I might as well have been using a butter knife.  

Then my brother came to the rescue.  He loaned me his jigsaw, and I whipped them out in no time.  Finally, the right tool for the job!  I dug out from around the roots, cutting way back beneath the dirt, so no root would touch the pond liner when it was in place.

By this time many days had passed.  In-between my real job, I was working full time on the pond, digging with every spare bit of time and energy I had. 

The earth beneath the patio pavers was hard, dry and compacted, but once I passed the third level of roots the digging got easier and I was working with a vengeance, for which my back dearly paid for months to come.  Several trips to the chiropractor can be added to the list of expenses on which I had not counted.

Starting to Look Like Something!

I made a trip south to a rock place down in Ocala and purchase my first of many loads of rock, and loaded them up in the back of my faithful, little Honda Element.  My friend Sarah went with me, and we selected the four large, flat rocks over which the water would spill, as well as a small assortment of periphery stones.  

The relocated pavers and first small load of rock.

Later, I found another rock place, Hillbilly Rock, just north of town, where the rock was much cheaper, the people far more friendly and helpful, and the selection better.  By the time it was over with I was on their frequent flier program.  

Since I didn't have a wheelbarrow, and didn't want to add yet another large expense to my tally, I hand-carried each rock from my driveway to the back yard.  Some were too big to carry, and those I rolled, cringing as they clanked down my sidewalk, hoping they - or the walkway - didn't crack.  Smaller rocks I lugged back in a bucket.  The three largest rocks I paid someone to carry back for me.  

Several weeks later, the berm and pond excavation were nearly completed.  I had read the berm needed to settle for quite a while, and I watered it down lightly for many days to hasten the compacting.  

I carefully formed the stair-step falls, and pools beneath them.  The lovely sound of water is created and enhanced not just by the water itself dropping, but by the hollow behind the falls and the depth of the pool into which it falls.  Each overspill of water was carefully planned and the pool beneath it dug deep to create a soothing gurgle.  I viewed the falls from many angles in the yard.  The the main vantage point would, of course, be poolside, but I wanted it to be aesthetically pleasing from any angle in the yard.  I also turned each spillway one way or another just a bit, so that the water did not drop straight down, but rather winded down a bit, adding to the naturalized look I hoped for.  The final drop into the pool was a tiny one, just a couple of inches, so that the water spills over gently, not disturbing the surface of the quiet pool.

The edge of the pool itself I dug in an inexact circle, again to make it seem less a man-made "necklace" (as the books all called it) of stones and more as if Nature herself had put it there.

Dumpster Diving

The books also suggested a cushioned layer between the pond liner and the dirt beneath it.  You can buy specialized padding from pond stores, but I went dumpster diving out behind a local carpet store for scraps.  I'm pretty sure the carpet salesman thought I was a complete nut case, but he humored me anyway I came home with the back of the Element full of somewhat smelly carpet scraps with which I lined the pond hip-deep pond.

By now, a month had gone by, the berm had had time to settle, and I could commence again.

Filling for the first time.

The next step was the only one I didn't do "all by myself."  My neighbor, Mike, came over and helped me stretch out the liner.  I had calculated the necessary size (13'x20') carefully, measuring dips and hollows, and, though there was extra to be cut away in some areas, I had just barely enough in several others.  

Pond Liner in Place and Filled with Water for the First Time

It would have to be drained out again, but together Mike and I watched the pond fill, pushing, pulling and tugging the liner into place, as the weight of the water fitted it into the nooks and crannies of the pond.

I began placing rocks here and there around the feature, both to anchor the liner and let it all settle, as well as get an idea of what would go where and how much more rock I would need.  It didn't take long to figure out I was going to need a whole lot more rock, a realization I continued to have anew on multiple occasions throughout the construction.  But I was pleased with how it was all taking shape.  

The First of MANY bags of mortar

I left the pond filled with water and the stones in place for several days so everything could settle and then I mixed my very first bag of mortar.  

I mixed in cement colorants - a combination of rust and black - to naturalize and darken the color from the stark, concrete-gray, mortar.  The bags weighed 80 pounds each and, like the stones, I hand carried each one from my car to the construction site.  I lost track of how many I ultimately used, but I would estimate 15 - 20.  

First Few Stones Set as a Base Beneath the Peripheral Flagstones

I had never worked with mortar and stones before, other than mixing up cement in which to set posts and such.  So I began with a little trepidation.  The mixing process was, for me, quite difficult, but by the time it was over - several weeks to come - I was slopping it on like an old pro.  

I worked day, by day, usually making it through at least one bag of mortar.

I ran out of stones many times and made multiple visits to Hillbilly Rock, where they were always pleased to see me pull in.  All told, the rock cost about $700.  The liner was about $40. 

Every stone was hand-selected.  Though some were less important "filler" rocks, harmony in color, and between the types of stone, was critical to an overall natural, woodsy look.  Much of the rock is Tennessee Field Stone, some is slate, among others.  Many stones were selected for their exact ultimate location already in mind.  It would have been cheaper to have utilized the native Florida sandstone, but I did not care for the color or texture in this application

Though far from finished, significant progress has been made.

To be continued....

My pond is in its third year now.  After the photograph above, I continued to "rock in" working from the base upward, mortaring in smaller, flat stones, until you can no longer see the liner.  This contributed substantially to the cost and work involved but the effect is very natural, as if you happened upon it in the woods and worth the extra expense and effort.

I initially installed a $130 750-gallon-per-hour PondSmart pump with a UV light which kills algae which I purchased from Lowe's.  The pump contained a small, on-board filter which, depending upon the time of year, had to be cleaned out once a month or so.  The only other routine maintenance is skimming leaves occasionally.  Overall, the maintenance is pretty low-key.

Every spring I use a wet/dry shop vac to empty out the contents, and then scrub and refill it.  This spring I replaced the original pump which, though it still worked, had slowed considerably.  The new pump is 1,000 gph and is almost overkill.  It does not contain the UV light so we will see how the algae fairs without it.  I also attached a box filter which has added clarity to the water the smaller pump's filter did not offer.  Both of these are the Tetra brand and were purchased through Amazon.  

 

I felt the dimensions of the pond were insufficient to comfortably house koi (who also like to devour lily pads) and opted instead for fancy-tail goldfish.  They have spawned the past two springs, with a few fry making it past the sushi stage.  Other critters of all sorts are drawn to my backyard oasis, including resident bullfrogs, thirsty squirrels, birds of all sorts who also use it to bathe in the gurgling waterfall, and dragonflies who dip into the tranquil surface and hover on the irises.   

 

The pond made a beautiful addition to my home, adding countless hours of joyful peace, and my friends and I have enjoyed it immensely.

What the Squirrels and the Bulldog Haven't Eaten Yet

Boy, you just wait 'til I get my hands on you....!

COMMON NAME: Squirrel

SCIENTIFIC NAME: Treeis Ratus

GLOBAL POPULATION: 80 bajillion


TERRITORY: My back yard and pretty much everywhere else, too.

NOTES:  Don't get me wrong, I love squirrels.  I used to know a guy who trapped them in his yard, stuffed them in a sack, tied the sack to his car exhaust, and then gassed them with carbon monoxide.  How he justified such an atrocity, I will never be able to comprehend, but I'm pretty sure there's a special place in the next life for people who hurt little animals.
 
Squirrels are adorable and entertaining.  They get into my bird feeder, make a huge, wasteful mess, and I don't mind.  I just fill it back up, making sure there are plenty of sunflower seeds because they like those, and then watch them dangle from the branches above to get at it again.  They dig up my flower beds all year, alternately hiding and retrieving acorns.  They live in the roof of my back porch, raising their litters in the false ceiling (usually two per year), scampering around all hours and raising cane.  Their ingress is right above my kitchen window, and I can see the tiny babies poking their heads out on their first visit to the big world.  I talk to them and they look down on me with wonder.  It's probably not the best of places for me to let them stay; Heaven knows what kind of mess they're making or what wiring is up there which they might be gnawing on.  But it gets so cold in the winter and I just don't have the heart to block them out. 

But I'll tell you this: IF I CATCH THE LITTLE SON-OF-A-GUN WHO HAS BEEN EATING MY IRIS BUDS, JUST AS THEY ARE SWELLING AND ABOUT TO BURST INTO BLOOM, I'M GOING TO BOP HIM ON THE HEAD!!!

Happy Morning

I awakened this morning to an uncustomary cacophony of chirping.  My first thought was, "The robins are back!"

American Robins in my backyard pond

"Turdus migratorius," as they were unpoetically named by some long-dead ornithologist, pass through twice a year.  Though there are always a few small bands of stragglers, they never stay more than a day or two.  I am always sorry to see them heading south for winter, taking summer with them.  But they spend the cold months in the Bahamas and Bermuda, among other places, so they're probably having a better winter than I here in frozen north Florida.  Their all-too-brief passing in spring makes me smile.  Soon the earth will reawaken and the flowers will bloom again. 

It is far too late for them to be heading south and seemed a bit too early to be heading north. But sure enough, I peeked into the back yard and the ancient oak tree was alive with robins, their cheery conversation filling the crisp morning air.  Thronging around my little pond they chattered happily to each other as they bathed, drank, and splashed in the icy water.

Within a few hours, as quickly as they came, they were gone.  Their brief sojourn brought a happy smile to my day.  And I couldn't help but wonder what robins talk about on long journeys.

Wonders never cease....

How old is Bambina now… nine, ten years old?  I can never remember whether Wes found her his junior or sophomore year.  “Bella Bamina Diablita,” we named her.  Very loosely translated, “Pretty Little Devil Girl.”  For such a tiny kitten, she was awfully feisty. 

She loves her “brother,” Banger….rubs against him, sleeps next to him, follows him in the yard.  Like any brother, he alternately tolerates and ignores her…but they’re chums, you know, pals.  I frequently come home to find the two of them on the couch (where animals don’t belong), curled up next to each other. 

Anyone who knows Banger, and I am sure Bambina is no exception, knows there is something wrong with him now.  Her brother is sick and she may not quite know why, but she knows.  He has good days and bad days anymore; sadly, more of the latter.   A stroke or two will do that to even the best of old dogs. 

His favorite thing in the world was always a walk… gotta mark the entire neighborhood, you know.  As important as territory is, though, these days he’s not always up to claiming it.  His gait is sometimes awkward and he often looks up at me, confused and unsure.  But tonight, after working a twelve hour shift, and really just wanting to fall into a chair, I came home to find him looking like he was up for a stroll.  So we gathered leash and bag and set out the door.  Tonight was a good night for an old dog.

Bambina followed us out the door.  Never venturing past her own driveway, she waits for us to come home, frequently hiding in the bushes and jumping out to scare us as we turn up our walk.  But, half-way down the block, I turned and was amazed to see a silhouette slinking along behind us.  Never has she followed so far.  When we reached the corner I thought surely she would turn for home, but onward she came.  Another half block, and she was still with us, slinking from shadow to shadow.  I marveled as she turned another corner, and another, following us the duration of a 35-40 minute walk, always on the dark periphery, but always close at hand. 

What, after ten years of waiting at home, while her brother and I headed out on our strolls, made her decide to tag along tonight?  It was no different than any of a thousand nights.  After a decade, did she suddenly become brave and curious?  Or, like me, does she worry maybe her brother’s time is short and she’d like to spend as much of it with him as possible?  I’m sure I have no idea. 

But as we strolled along together in the darkness, the smell of night-blooming flowers in the air, and trees dripping from the recent rain…just the three of us…it was one of the happiest moments of my life.  Theirs, too, I am sure.  

++++++++++++++++++++

Bambina never went on another walk with us.  Banger died October 9th, 2010, three weeks short of his 15th birthday.  We miss you, dear old friend, but we'll see you again.

of False Starts and Flowery Finishes

Armed with the Nikon F-301 film camera my son gave me, and a fresh roll of film, I set off to Kanapaha Botanical Gardens bright and early. And, on the pretense of keeping it running properly while he is away on deployment, I also took his sporty convertible instead of my boxy Honda. You can't be too careful about vehicular maintenance!

I had been looking forward to seeing the gardens again. Kanapaha has a couple of big plant sales each year, the biggest of which are Spring and Fall. In the fall, the accompanying orchid show is a treat, and I was eager to work with my camera some more.

Arriving at the Gardens, I followed the somewhat circuitous path indicated by the kids volunteering from NJROTC, and made my way to the parking area in a field out in the back forty. Entering from the far side of the park, the first stop is the Water Gardens and I positioned myself for what I hoped would the first of more than a few terrific, if lucky, shots and pushed the button. The camera made a lugging noise, beeped uncooperatively several times, and then refused to do anything else. I'm no engineer, but I deduced that perhaps the batteries were dead so.....

Back to the car I traipsed...back out the winding path to the main road...and off to the nearest gas station. OK, so maybe I'm a bit of an idiot, but I had a dickens of a time figuring out where the batteries went. But about the time the Indian behind the counter inside was probably starting to wonder what on earth I was doing out there, I located a little screwy knob on the bottom of the camera and - voila - battery compartment. That little chore done, back to the Gardens I drove...back around the circuitous path...back to the parking field to a new and improved spot which offered shade under an oak tree (and also birdy poopy on the seats when I returned later in the afternoon)...and back to the Water Gardens.

The Water Gardens, including its ponds, streams and waterfalls, as well as irrigation throughout the park, are supplied with reclaimed water from Gainesville Regional Utilities' nearby Kanapaha Water Treatment Plant. The reclaimed water is high in nitrogen and phosphorous, and the perfect brew for the many species of water plants, including the world's largest water lily, Amazonian Water Platters. Now, all that greenie stuff is well and good, but what I really like is feeding the koi!

Electing to bypass the orchid show and plant sale for the moment, I entered the path which winds from Garden to Garden, meandering around the periphery of a wide expanse of meadow which is the center of the park.

The first display is the Vinery, where wisteria and Confederate jasmine cover the arbors and trellises. Bumblebees and butterflies feast on nectar from more types of flowering vines than I can name, including honeysuckle, passion flower, and lace ferns.

From there, the path leads into the Nature Trail where, on your right, is a giant ship's anchor found off the coast of St. Augustine, the oldest city in America, in 1939.

The Nature Trail is North Central Florida in her next-to-natural state. The meandering path curves though an at once wild, and well tended, hardwood hammock of native species such as cabbage palm, Southern Magnolia, live oak, laurel and sugarberry trees. And, as is not uncommon in this part of Florida, the Nature Trail also offers prime examples of sink holes!

The long path through the shady Nature Trail opens up into the enormous Herb Garden, which is tended by my friend, Jonathan. Hundreds of herbs, for countless purported applications, are arranged in geometrical, maze-like patters. The "Knot Garden," though now past its seasonal prime, is planted in a classical Celtic knot. Informational signs offer names and uses of each plant, some of which are familiar and some highly unusual.



According to ancient writings, Buddha found enlightenment sitting under a Bo Tree. This is Jonathan doing his best to get a clue under a Bo sapling! It takes a Bo Tree hundreds of years to mature, so this may take a while! ;)

One of my favorite displays at Kanapaha Gardens is the bamboo forest, which is the largest collection of bamboo in the state. It is peaceful there, in the shade of hundred-foot-tall forests. The wind rustles the leaves and gently rattle the canes, as water trickles from the shishi-odoshi fountain.

Walking slowly, trying to take it all in, I made my way from garden to garden. Each time I walk the paths I see something I missed before; some new treasure of Nature, the simple appreciation of which brings me peace and contentment.The photos didn't come out half-bad, either!

(click to enlarge)

Hey, come back here!

Despite my specific request for a long, Indian Summer, Mother Nature is toying with the idea of changing the seasons on me. She's been vacillating about it for a few weeks now, dropping a cool morning here and there, before waffling right back to the customary 95-degree heat and 95% humidity of a late summer in central Florida.

She seems to be getting a bit more serious about it now. I awakened this morning to a crisp 55-degrees and only 80% humidity. The activity at the hummingbird feeder has slowed to virtually nil; my brave, wee friends have departed for their 20-hour, non-stop flight across the Gulf to Mexico. I miss them already. Late summer flowers are fading, and the sun is getting lazier about getting up in the mornings. The nurseries are all stocking orange and gold chrysanthemums (gack!). Fat acorns, ignored by squirrels who are more interested in the never-ending cornucopia of free sunflower seeds in my feeder, are pelting my car and falling unheeded to the ground. There may be a sad correlation between this and the wisdom and effectiveness of some of our social programs, but I digress.

Despite the protestations of this hater-of-all-things-cold, it is evident Summer is truckling happily away behind Mother Nature, without giving me so much as a backward glance. I suppose the only thing left to do is embrace Fall, if somewhat begrudgingly. In keeping with that vaguely positive attitude, I am enjoying the late-blooming purple ginger and will be attending the annual Fall plant sale and orchid show at Kanapaha Gardens this weekend.

Hey, just trying to do my part!

A Country Mouse in the Duckpond

It’s been years since I have had neighbors less than acres away, or paid a water bill, or had a street light, or suffered from a paucity of parking. But, through a series of complex events - the sort through which life sometimes has a way of herding us in unexpected directions - I suddenly found myself the proud payment-maker on a charming little house in the Duckpond.

Though the decision to move to The Big City had been made, “Plan A” entailed dipping my toe in the pond before plunging in head-first, and I was shopping for a rental house in the neighborhood. By some folks’ standards you “pay more for less” in the Duckpond but no other place in the city has the same feel to it, the same sense of history, pride and community. I love the varied architectural style of the old homes, each with their own story, the tree-lined streets, and character of the neighborhood, and that you can step out the front door to any number of things to see and do. I knew this was where I wanted to live.

After several days of driving around looking for rentals I stopped in front of a newly-placed For Sale sign on 5^th Street. The unimposing, little 1957 concrete block house wasn’t going to make the history books, but it had an air about it and, out of curiosity, I called the listing agent to obtain permission to let myself in. From the terrazzo floors and funky kitchen cabinets which remind me of my Mamaw’s, to the open beams in the dining room and esoteric bamboo and Japanese wisteria trellis in the back yard, when I crossed the threshold for the first time…I was home.

Thoughts of a rental clattered to the wayside, replaced with the requisite brief waltzing over the price, and 24 hours later a contract was signed. Thanks to having a bank president for a friend and well-established relationships with title companies and appraisers and such, we closed seven days later. I’m not sure whose head was spinning more – mine or the seller’s – but I began moving in that afternoon, passing him in the doorway as he hauled out his last load.

May 2^nd was my “one-year anniversary” of being a city girl, and four more months have come and gone since then. I have yet to regret my move, and know I never will, but it’s been a bit of an adjustment.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve lived in the city before. As long as they don’t give me too many choices, I know which fork to use when, and enough about wine to fake it with a snob. I clean up pretty well when I need to, appreciate the arts, and know when it’s okay to talk politics and when it’s better to hush (usually the latter). I know how to dress for a cocktail party and if I scrounge around in the back of my closet I can probably dig out the dress for it, but it’s been a while and I’m not sure it fits anymore.

I moved to The Country a lot of years ago. Like too many folks, life didn’t work out according to my youthful grand master plan and I ended up divorced and alone with two babies I was determined to “raise right” in an area where the schools were fast turning wrong. So nine years ago I moved from crowded south-central Florida to rural north-central Florida, finding myself in tiny Mayo, 75 miles northwest of Gainesville.

Mayo is the only town in Lafayette County, through which runs the famous Suwannee River. It’s an anachronistic step back in time where everybody knows everybody and, by the way, their business. Values, faith, and family run deep, and most residents were born and raised there. It’s a “dry” county with one traffic light - a veritable ghost-town on Sundays, when everything shuts down and everyone goes to church. Performing Arts are limited to listening to the high school marching band play “We Will Rock You” at a Friday night football game, and if it’s not related to school sports, church, or hunting season, there’s not much in the way of extracurricular activities.

Downtown Mayo is two blocks long, and when you drive down the street you recognize most everyone you see; a smile and a friendly wave are intrinsic to life there. There’s a lot of chewing tobacco, pickup trucks, well-worn work clothes and camouflage. The crime rate is virtually nil, the kids still say “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am,” and the whole town turns out for a home game. The community has strong UF ties and for us die-hard Gator fans Mayo is better known as the home town of Kerwin Bell, “The Throwin’ Mayoan” (if I have to explain it, you wouldn’t understand). It wasn’t Shangri-La, mind you, but it was a simple life with a lot of good people and I am grateful for the years I spent there. But after my nest was emptied it was not without its limitations.

So here I am in Gainesville starting over; enjoying the culture, diversity, and general “busy-ness” the city affords. I don’t recognize the people I pass on the street anymore, but I have met some really great neighbors. Frank and I chat over the fence, while his dog Bentley carries on, barking for all he’s worth (which is a fair amount judging by the ruckus he can make). I’ve met a fine young man by the name of Hunter, whose grandma pushes him in his stroller. John and Larre and their friends play Irish traditional music that fills the house and touches my heart. Brenda, who lives a few blocks east of me, has a lovely voice and sings jazz at Emiliano’s on Mondays. I’ve chatted with Howard in the drizzle after a storm, helped Jim fix his computer, and passed the time with Mike and Doug while our dogs galloped about the dog park.

I’ve been to art shows and visited the Museum of Natural History and Butterfly Rainforest. I’ve ridden the Gainesville-to-Hawthorne trail on my bicycle (well, part of it anyway), and accidentally ended up at a children’s piano recital at the Thomas Center one evening, which turned out to be my favorite cultural highlight since moving here. I bicycle to the Farmer’s Market downtown on Wednesdays, picking up fresh organic fruits, vegetables and honey; Friday evenings it’s a walk to the free music concerts, and I hear there are swing dance lessons at the Thelma Bolton Center on Tuesdays.

There’s no more hauling smelly garbage ten miles to the dump (did you know they actually pick it up at the curb?!) and I’ve learned to recycle everything under the shining sun. It used to take me half a day on a 26 hp., zero-radius mower with a 48” deck to get the lawn done; now all it takes is a weed-eater and ten minutes. What’s not to love!? It’s not 35 miles to Publix anymore, but a five-minute pedal, and if I feel like a bottle of Pinot Noir I don’t have to drive across two counties to get it. A license plate is more likely to read “BEATNIK” now, rather than “GOTMILK”, and bumper stickers proclaim “Coexist” instead of “You Eat Because I Farm”.

I attended an art gala at the Thomas Center shortly after moving to the Duckpond. On display was a collection of plein air paintings by dozens of artists portraying the byways and countryside of rural north Florida. Stroke of brush illustrated tractors and fields, cattle grazing in serene pastures, sunsets over crop rows, country stores, dirt roads and barbed-wire fences, old folks with old ways on old porches…the life I left behind. City folks in Birkenstocks sipped merlot and admired the paintings and there wasn’t a muddy workboot nor tobacco chaw anywhere in site. It was a strange, incongruous feeling to stand there in this new place, gazing at the paintings of the old place only an hour - and yet a world - away.

I realized a page in my life had been forever turned.

Full of unknown promise, new beginnings are a wonderful and scary place to be when you’re starting over alone in what amounts to a whole new world. A lot of things have changed and the transition hasn’t been without its hurdles. An old dog who had his run of woods and fields for his twelve years walks around the Duckpond with me now. He had to learn what a leash was and I had to learn about pooper-scooping. We’ve come a long way, baby!

Erstwhile and innovative, demure and diverse, tradition with an eclectic perspective - the Duckpond is home now and I love it here. This country mouse and her old dog are making our adjustments. We’re where we belong and we’re happy in our little house on Fifth Street.

War is Hell...

... and the fact that the skirmishes take place in the back yard over sugar water make it no less a pitched battle.

Some 14' from my kitchen window stands an Asian pergola. From the end of the cross frame closest to the window is suspended a hummingbird feeder. Beneath the feeder is a row of mature azaleas taller than my head; above it, suspended from the pergola, is a thick covering of Japanese wisteria. Still higher up is an oak tree, the tippy-branches of which serve as lookout posts, offering 360-degree vantage points for hyper-vigilant Ruby-throated hummingbirds who defend the red plastic feeder with tireless vengeance.

The airborne skirmishes over the endless and ever-fresh supply of nectar are fierce; the fussing, threatening chirps, and dive-bombing constant. If I happen to have the audacity to sit in the chairs in the vicinity of the feeder, I, too, am cursed vehemently. While reading the other afternoon, a bossy little flying ace whizzed past my head, fussing as she flew, and dropped a tiny bomb directly on my book! If Baron von Richthofen had been half as determined, WWI might have had a whole different outcome!

This afternoon, standing at the kitchen window, I watched a battle won not with brawn, but brains. One of the smaller females was being bullied away from the feeder, chased relentlessly by a larger one. They circled each other mid-air, lunging and chirping, until the littler girl darted into the azaleas for cover and respite. Her pursuer hovered just outside the foliage, head cocking side-to-side, searching for her target. Unable to spot her prey, she flew upward to the oak branches to keep angry watch over the approaches to the feeder.

Moments passed and then, from the far end of the row of azaleas where the branches are thickest, emerged the little girl. Stealthily, cautiously, she skirted up the edge of the shrubs to the feeder, keeping under the cover of the wisteria as she flew. As Frau Dominatrix glared confidently about the yard, Little Girl sipped lunch peacefully undetected directly beneath her tormentor.

War is hell, but the victory does not always go to the most swift and strong. Sometimes you gotta run away so you can return to fight another day. And being sneaky doesn't hurt, either!

Taking Care of Baby

In years long-passed, my gardening efforts might have been considered a little haphazard. Though not without good intentions (and we know which road those pave), my horticultural knowledge, advance preparation, and follow-through were sometimes at a bit of a paucity. I was a too-young single mother trying to raise two kids right, working a job or two at a time, and scrambling to keep up with the multitude of life's demands. Plants in my care were often given a stern lecture when plopped unceremoniously into unprepared holes: "If you're going to hang with me, you're going to have to hang tough. I don't have time to mollycoddle you. Water, feeding, attention to pests and disease, and protection in winter will be touch and go. But buck up, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!" Some embraced the challenge like soldiers; others languished on the spot and demanded to be returned to the nursery.

The kids are grown and gone now, and I have a little more time on my hands. And though still not without my share of gardening blunders, a lot more thought, study, and effort go into it these days. But nothing compares to the effort put forth for the newest arrival.

By the time the UPS guy pulled up to the curb with my little Tamukeyama Japanese maple, I had been working on its new home for two days. I'd read, and re-read, the planting and care instructions on Pacific Coast Maples' web site. The sego palm had been removed, and, in a carefully selected location, had I dug out a hole 6' in diameter and six inches deeper than I suspected the root ball would be. I turned over the soil, removed debris, gently put earthworms back in the pile, and mixed 50% of the original soil together with equal amounts of mushroom compost and Black Kow. A light dash of acidic fertilizer, such as you would use for azaleas, camellias and hydrangeas, was stirred in to the mix. I finished preparation 30 minutes before the arrival of my prize.

Safely packed in a box inside a box and carefully tied to a tall bamboo stake, my wee maple wasn't much worse for the wear for its trip all the way across the country. I had been warned to expect a bit of stress-induced color loss in the leaves, which would normally be a richer purple-green this time of year. Other than that, there was a small amount of browning to the tips of one area of delicate leaf tips, but that, too, was to be expected. Overall, it was a lovely specimen and a healthy tree. Thirty minutes after landing on my sidewalk on the 10th of July, she was planted in her new home and being watered. She didn't get the "hang tough" speech from days of yore; instead I promised the moon and years of adulation and doting pampering to come.

When she was tucked in for the night I couldn't help but stand back and admire my little sapling, imagining what it would look like throughout the seasons, year after year....

Three days later the browning and curling of the leaf tips had spread considerably and, like a mother whose new baby has the sniffles for the first time, I suspected the worst and flew into a panic. After years of dreaming of having one of these trees, considerable expense (on my laughable budget anyway), and significant preparation, my baby was sick! What to do!?

I took photographs of the leaves from all directions and, together with a detailed description of the planting steps and current symptoms, emailed them to "Dr." Greg at Pacific Coast Maples. He called me back and patiently assured me all was well. He had looked at the photos carefully and could see that, though I might lose a few leaves, the buds themselves were still quite healthy. He reassuringly went over the care and maintenance with me again, and spent far more time with me than my perfectly healthy paltry purchase warranted.

But the babying, Black Kow, and sweet-talking have paid off. The browning ceased, leaf loss was at a minimum, and in two short weeks my little tree has grown a full four inches (I measured). A delicate burst of lacy, bright, crimson leaves have sprouted from the top, with new buds are unfurling every day.

Aw, isn't she beautiful!

"Christmas in July" or "What I Did on My Summer Vacation"

Saint Nick left his red ride and reindeer with the missus today; he's coming in a big brown truck, sporting brown shorts, and he'll be here sometime this afternoon. I know, because I just tracked his progress and he and my present are "out for delivery."

I'm waiting somewhat impatiently (and very excitedly) for his arrival, standing ready with a shovel, Black Kow, and mushroom compost. I've been very good, you see - angelic, really - which (together with sole possession of a Visa card) has earned me this festive July visit. And boy, is he ever bringing me something cool!

A Japanese maple.

I fell in love with Japanese maples, in their diminutive bonsai form, as a child. I remember like it was yesterday - dozens of enchanting arrangements, many sporting their fall colors, at a bonsai show at the state fair. I was probably 8 or 9 and, other than taking the Pepsi challenge (which I intentionally threw because, who can't tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke, and why go

Image via Wikipedia

along with the crowd?), those trees are about all I remember of that day. Some stood alone, weathered and craggy, bending over rocky cliffs; others were planted in groups of forest glade, tiny pathways worn between the mossy trunks. I'm pretty sure I saw a faerie darting behind one.

That day, more years ago than I care to calculate, began my love of bonsai, Japanese gardens, and maples in particular. In later years, I can remember my dad speaking wistfully and with great fondness about the beauty of Japan, where he was stationed during the Korean war. Well into his 70's he taught himself to read Japanese music and play the shakuhachi (wooden flute) , many of which he built himself, until the arthritis in his hands and weakness of heart and breath forced him to lay them aside.

I've never owned a maple or bonsai, let alone visited Japan, but I've read many books and done lots of coveting. But now the time has come and I've been getting ready for weeks, transforming my little yard on a small budget, to a home worthy of its soon-to-arrive sapling.

Hot, humid Florida is not the most conducive environment for a maple. In addition, the allotted space in my wee yard wouldn't allow for a large tree, so I've done a lot of research in what to buy and where to plant it. Consensus has it that the Tamukeyama, a Japanese Acer Palmatum cultivar traceable to the early 1700's, with its high tolerance of heat and humidity, and 7'-10' size at maturity, was my best bet. The Tamukeyama is a lovely, weeping lace leaf which changes with the seasons from crimson-red, to red-purple, to scarlet in the fall. The dainty Tamukeyama has won a Gold Medal from the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society and the experts agree it is the most sun resistant of all the Japanese maple dissectums. They say it's the "connoisseurs' choice in red dissectums."

Yeah, that's me - a conniesuer.

Unable to locate a Tamukeyama locally, and after scouring the 'Net and talking to several nursery owners who underwhelmed me, I settled on Pacific Coast Maples, a nursery in Temeculah, California which specializes in Japanese maples, as my source. I spent a great deal of time on the phone with the owners, Greg and Jordana, who patiently provided a wealth of information in addition to the scads already on their web site. They have an enormous selection of maples, including bonsais. I described to Greg my loosely formulated schemes of grandeur to be implemented as time and money allowed, and his maple's star role in them: the maple in the front corner of the yard, just in front of the Golden Goddess bamboo; a little Japanese shishi-odoshi (deer scarer) bamboo water fountain in the foreground, tipping water into my brown pottery bowl; a Japanese lantern; large stones here and there; and a Japanese arbor across the path. He was enthusiastic about my plan and assured me he would hand-select the very best specimen he had within my small price range. He and Jordana treated me as if I were buying a $1000 specimen instead of just a sapling.

There's been a lot of work to get done in preparation for my maple's arrival. A 7' sego palm had to be removed from the place the maple will grace. I'm not a fan of palms to begin with (though these originate in Japan and it would have added a nice touch), but mostly it was getting bigger by the day and would have overpowered my maple from day one. I did some horse-trading with the old guy who owns the aptly named Hillybilly Rocks; he and his son dug it out (or rather his son dug while he supervised), and in exchange brought me 900 pounds of Tennessee field stone. I've spent the last two days tearing out ugly shrubs, digging holes, transplanting lariope as filler, and arranging huge rocks I could barely roll, let alone lift; I ache in places I didn't know I had.

I tore out the old wrought iron arbor at the head of my walkway which, it turned out, was sunk in the ground attached to rebar driven 4' deep. Nothing is ever as easy as I thought it would be. I was kind of sorry to see the jasmine go with it, but we all have to make sacrifices. The day the new arbor arrived was a big deal, too. It came requiring assembly, but the kit wasn't short any parts, the directions were clear and concise (two miracles back-to-back), and - God bless the guy who invented the electric screwdriver - it only took me about 45 minutes to put together. Getting it moved to its permanent location a little further up the walkway than the original arbor, and sinking it in concrete by myself was another story, but I was delighted with the end result.




All in all, it's been a productive week. I haven't accomplished everything I set out to do with my mini-vacation, but I have two days left. I think I may need them to recuperate!

Power wash house

Power wash fence

Power wash garbage cans

Paint side and back of house

Clean back porch

Replace locks on front door

Paint inside and outside of front door

Prepare ground for maple

Replace trellis

Transplant roses?

Spray waterproofing on fence

Paint kanji on door

Replace post lamp

Put in water garden

Dig out sego palm

Now where is the guy in the brown truck with my tree!?

Does this mean I'm not a purist?

I've been reading a lot about Japanese and Zen gardens of late.

The ancient Japanese masters taught that a garden should "be naturally clean like a forest glade, but not aggressively neat." "A boy or an old man," they said, "was best entrusted with the sweeping and cleaning" of a garden, "because they would not be too painstaking. Leaves that have been blown about under the trees and between the stones look interesting and should not be disturbed." *

I have neither old man nor young boy to direct in the tidying of my garden, but I have found that a leaf-blower, used sporadically, has about the same end result in a quarter of the time, with a lot less whining, expense, and aggravation as a whole.





* A Japanese Touch For Your Garden, Kiyoshi Seike