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!

"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!?