I tucked into the yard with a vengeance, moving azaleas, planting a wall of forsythia and ridding the front of a termite-eaten split rail fence. I re-graded for better drainage, dug out a small pond, created a vegetable garden behind the two-car garage. I planted bulbs and rose bushes as well as a bed of asparagus. I dug in potatoes, chased deer away, encouraged ladybugs and praying mantis. I hoed, sprayed, pruned, mowed, transplanted and fertilized. Once oin a great while, I harvested. Over time I put in flagstones around the pond, brought in three large rocks from a quarry to become the centerpiece of the yard, bought outdoor furniture and wired lighting. In time, it became a lovely, haphazard place, a small piece of land with many colors and no rhyme or reason. Sometimes things died, other times unknown species bloomed at a frantic pace.
Over the winter, a series of fluke storms deposited almost five feet of snow on my
Now we’re almost back to normal, though I have yet to repair the external pond filter that split when ice formed in it. The fish don’t seem to mind. Next week will be the fish census, when a friend and I empty the pond and take stock of who’s in there and who’s not. I’m hoping Pantagruel, my prize, 7-inch long not-quite-a-koy-yet goldfish made it. I’ve already noticed a couple of small, new occupants, including one adventurous black and gold guy with a black dot on top of his head. Life goes on.