A Simple But somehow Complicated Fish Pond

I figured I could handle installing and caring for a little fish pond since hey, I raised six kids and we all survived, and that had to be harder.

You buy the plastic form, find a willing person to dig in into place, fill'er up and toss in the fish. right?

Well, yes, but that's the easy part.

I found my willing digger and the form went in. Come to think of it, that was the last time I ever clearly saw the bottom.

I found the fish at the pet store, stored in a tank in a back room for 29 cents each. Dear mother in heaven, what could they possibly be sold for besides residing in a pond? Anyway I broke the bank and bought six.

They settled in nicely and grew to three and four times their original size and I was so proud.

Then I got the idea that it would look good, in fact brilliant, to pile rocks upon rocks around the pond and then I could play with the idea of waterfalls here and there.

I scouted nearby building sites and loaded the car several times over with heavy but promising rocks, brought them home, unloaded then one at a time from the car parked in front, carted them along the goat path to the back deck, up two steps, way down to the end, down two steps, drop the rock and go back for the next. You get the idea, this was a labor of love.

And here it is, ready to face its first winter, looking beautiful. Look at those waterfalls, two of them.

Once I got some advice from pond people about over-wintering the fish, we did well right up to the moment the snow melted and the ice pushed and shoved every rock out of place, mostly right into the pond. It wasn't a pretty sight.


It took a while to pull away the debris and shovel out the mudslides.

Now I am so much sadder and wiser and the stones are arranged with a view to keeping them securely in place and you can forget those waterfalls--you want to see that then hike to Niagara Falls. They have plenty and god knows the rocks fall into the water there also.

I had almost learned my lesson but Attic boy is here and he did one more little thing for me.

I had lugged home an eighty-pound mirror from Habitat for Humanity and he managed to install it over the pond on top of an existing mirror without lasting damage to the fish, the pond or our relationship.

Rock on Attic boy and on to the next brilliant idea.

My kind of House Guest

Some people my age (older, dishevelled but downright interesting) get all mushy when they cuddle a new grand kid; me, I get sort of mushy but you really want to turn my crank, you look me in the eye and say, "Hey J.P., anything need doing around here.?"

Already I am slavering at the sound of those words and the answer is, "Oh god,yes"

When I moved in three summers back there was little privacy between my deck and the deck next door and it was hard to pretend you couldn't see one another.

This is what the divider looked like then:



The following summer I hung some canvas curtains and hoped everyone would be distracted by the stained glass. The first high wind, and we get a lot of those, sent those windows hula-ing to a dangerous level and they were exiled indoors.



So now we are almost up to date and my son the Nomad Carpenter, answering to "Attic Boy," dropped by to figure out where he would work to save for the next trip overseas.

Unfortunately for him, he asked the question that brings music to my ears and his time was taken for the next few days. Free labor. I allowed him time for sleeping, eating and bathroom breaks.

Here is Step One of the new project, removal of the lattice:



Now comes Step Two where we make that whole sucker a tall wall, sort of Alcatraz style.



We are, done, finished,privacy at last, or as private as we will get unless the neighbors develop agoraphobia and then I'm set.



My house guest is tired, since the temperature rose to the high 30's (think Celsius people) just about the time he started.



Thank you, Attic boy.

Spring Hasn't Sprung

The good news is that our winter was delayed until mid- January and the bad news is that spring has been delayed also and today I turned on the furnace to keep from developing frostbite. Okay, maybe a minor chillblane.

The tulips were beating their little chests with pride this time last year.



And here they are this morning, looking pretty sad.



The pom- pom tree was spilling over the fence nicely last May.



But so far it's put all it's energy into shivering.



this is called The Graveyard because the soil is so lush, quite different from the other parts of the garden.
This was its first planting last year.



Now it is living up to expectations and is bulking out nicely this year



I wonder what did go into enriching this soil?

An Unwelcome Visitor

I'm used to watching Hawks swooping down into fields to nab unsuspecting mice and since I don't get sentimental over mice, this worked fine with me.

I just wasn't prepared for one of these predators landing in my yard and demolishing one of of my beloved mourning doves, and his meal seemed to take forever.

I know he's doing what he's supposed to do but I'd rather did did it somewhere else, thank you.

A Cat's Life

Harry doesn't curl up neatly the way cats do in story book illustrations. He's a slumper. There isn't a wall he doesn't like for that purpose.



Max is more of a traditionalist; just point him towards a bed, any bed and he turns into a fur collar right before your eyes.

Harry Has A Bad Day

Poor Harry.

He was checking the outdoors for any stray aliens passing by and found himself nose to nose with a myopic young mourning dove.



He tried head-butting the glass, surely leaving him with a view of the galaxy and he made those funny throaty cat sounds, but his mission failed.

Little Mister Dove continued to gaze at his bird world without actually taking note of his adversary.



Go play with your toy mice Harry. You can win at that.

You Don't Want To Take it With You

When I pop off into another dimension I'm leaving behind a special legacy to complete strangers.

My kids will remember me however they wish for as long as they wish, and a grand kid or two may have a few recollections and that's the end of the memory trail.

This is where my legacy comes in: I've put my heart into eight or so gardens in my lifetime and when I move on I leave footprints for just the right seeker.



The next owner after me might carelessly reduce the place to poison-drenched lawns and very little else. But then there might follow a woman who surveys the nothingness until she spots somewhere in the corner a little cache of snowdrops that escaped the toxic attack and she'll build her new garden around this small treasure.

I tuck special ferns back in a shaded nook where they will eventually flourish if left alone along side beautiful golden hostas.

What a rush to find the place you moved into during the winter gifts you with masses of daffodils, free-form tulips (no regimental rows for me thanks) and tiny crocus peeking out here and there. This was another woman's legacy and she'll get a silent thank you from me.

I'll learn what her favorite colors were and whether she loved free form planting or was she a tidy by-the-book person?



Three houses back, in a fiercely ambitious mood I tore out the back lawn, had simple raised beds built, then made pathways and detours lined with pea gravel and planted shrubs, perennials, bulbs and small trees. My trusty helper cluck-clucked throughout but when it was done he was amazed and delighted and added landscaping to his resume.

I left behind the beautiful wooden pergola my son built me with the trumpet vines meeting at the middle and spilling over the sides in a thick tangle and that is still flourishing when I drive past to take a quick peek.

The magnolia tree planted at our downtown Toronto house stands out like a glorious beacon while its in bloom.


So there's my legacy,left to strangers for generations to come.

On the practical side my kids should find enough money to give me a rowdy send-off with a few sips of champagne.

Then, compost me and that's an order.

Big Foot, Ontario Style

Tourists go to great extremes scouting the bushes for Big Foot, but just detour into Waterloo and I can show you the real thing, only slightly tamer.

Max is your average sweet-natured Himalayan cat, but those feet.

He loves when the front doorbell rings so he can thunder down the stairs and slide across the hall to greet the caller. Trouble is, his feet reach the door two or three seconds before the rest of him.

They don't look so bad here, but trust me, they're big. They're like like pony hooves.



He looks like your average cat here with Harry. They're resting after a tear-up-the-house chase with lots of snarls and screeches. Just boys being boys.

Well, Duh

David Hasselhoff says tape of him drunk in Las Vegas made him think

Attic Boy is Back

Life was quieter when Attic Boy departed for India and Thailand but when he finally decided he needed a place to wash his clothes and catch up on his blogs, he returned.

He doesn't exactly have one home. There's Vancouver where two of his brothers live; then there are various friendly ex wives in Alberta and now we come to Waterloo, where he has a sister and two brothers. And me, his mom.

He's a carpenter and a few visits back he reluctantly invaded my attic goaded on by his sister, and he wired three rooms for center ceiling lights.



This is my favorite shot:



Funny thing, it's time to pick up more work to save for the next trip, but his sister managed to grab him by the scruff-of-the neck and he's busy building her a swishy laundry room. Swishy in as much as she will no longer have to climb over boxes of hard-to-store junk to reach the washer and now the dryer is hooked up to an outside vent instead of using that strange pail of water gizmo. Oh yes, and now she has a laundry tub.

This is our strategy for keeping him here with us as long as we can.

We always get into mischief when A.B. comes to town and this time we are trying to figure out how and where to buy a three-family property for us all to be close together and carry on with our fanciful plans.

Welcome back Stevie.