Frogs and Toads

Last weekend we lapped up 9 inches of rain in Batavia. It was difficult to navigate to Walmart or to church because so many roads were blocked. The retention ponds were full, the main intersection near our home flooded, and water slowly started seeping into our basement. Why wasn't the sump pump running? The automatic switch had stopped working. Something was stuck or corroded and I don't know squat about sump pumps.

Paul and I got out our handy Wet-Vac and started sucking up water. What a job! Then we moved soggy boxes and more boxes. I found that the pump actually did still work, just the sensor floaty-thing wasn't working. I plugged that pump in and we kept mopping. (By the way, Bob Vilas has a great short online video on how to install a sump pump. I think I could do it!)

By the end of the evening, the rain had almost quit, and we decided to turn the pump off and check every 30 minutes for more water. While standing by the window wells, I noticed 3 toads (or maybe frogs) staring at me through the glass. One was actually between the screen and the glass. He (or she) had found a small hole in the screen and was looking for a route to freedom.

So now there are 2 toads looking at me pathetically and 1 who is bravely inching along the window, smashed between the screen and glass. I stood there for 20 minutes watching Braveheart move back and forth along the window. He tried turning over, squishing into a ball, spread-eagling, but the hole in the screen was always behind him. I was tempted to run and get my camera, but it seemed too terrible a struggle to record.

Finally, he started backing up, leg by leg, starting and stopping, resting for a minute, then backing up some more. As I cheered him on, he almost made it to the screen hole--but then, he STOPPED and--went forward again! Oh no! Go back, go back, Braveheart! You're almost there! No, he crawled forward into the depths of the screen.

I couldn't watch any more. I had to do something, so attacked the windows. They didn't budge, stuck, refusing to open (what if I have to get out?) The other 2 toads had not moved, still looking forlorn and confused, breathing, but lost.

Walking back upstairs, I told Paul about the sad toad situation. He had been resting after doing the 3rd water mop-up. For a moment, he just looked at me blankly--What are you worried about--toads? Then down the stairs, armed with a plastic bag, my hubby went once more. He dislodged the windows with one big oomph, caught the toads (Braveheart had actually escaped the screen--what a TOAD!), and set them free!

I know we can get out of our basement windows! The new sump pump is sucking away. The basement is dry again. I live with a toad rescuer! Hooray for Paul! Hooray for toads!

Return for a day

I am now ready to write something new, it's a rainy day, with no gardening duties in sight, and--it's time to go to work--to my real job. I have put off writing for more than a year, because I cornered myself into the gardening theme and it seemed daunting to relate every blog to gardening. So many wonderful and difficult times have come and gone, and I thought "I could blog about this"--but I didn't.

So much for guilt! Someone out there is saying "Just do it!" Well, okay, this is the start--confession. Have to leave now and put on my scrubs. I'll be back.

Maintenance

Almost every day I spend about thirty minutes walking slowly around my very small garden, checking the pots for moisture, doing the endless deadheading, picking beetles off the rose bush. I snip here, pinch there, sweep the fallen blooms from the deck and brush them under the hosta (composting in a very small way). It's kind of like tidying up the living room.

When I was a young girl, I spent many wonderful overnights with my grandmother. We would stay up late watching old movies, have a snack, talk about all kinds of things. My grandfather and 2 great-grandmothers (who lived there, too) were all in bed. It was just Grandma and me, together on the green sofa, snuggled together. Sometimes I laid my head on her lap and she stroked my hair. When we both started yawning and it was time to go to bed, she would bustle around, picking up Grandpa's newspapers lying by the red leather chair, fluff the sofa pillows, take the snack remains to the kitchen, straighten the magazines on the coffee table. Everything went back into its place, ready for company. "Carol Lee", she would say, "always remember to 'red-up' the living room before you go to bed. Then you'll be ready to start a new day." I think she meant I would be renewed as well.

There is something peaceful about order in the garden. When I have finished my morning maintenance, I sit for a moment on the deck, surveying my outdoor space. It gives me great joy to take in all the colors and textures and smells of growing things. If the cardinal or goldfinch come to perch while I am sitting there, it is a double blessing. The day can begin. I am renewed.

Pruning gone wild!

This morning I was out the door at 7 am with pruning shears in hand, whacking away at the unruly day lilies, cutting all the spent flower stems and seed pods. Lilies are a lot of work to keep them neat. They bloom profusely, then their old soldiers hang around forever. So I cut off their stems and wait for more blooms to form.

My old neighbor, Tish, used to make much of my pruning, saying all plants should be left to do their natural thing. I think pruning adds more life and energy, plus I just like the looks of order, not stiffness, but relaxed order. (A stiff garden is one than can't move with a breeze at all.)

A new neighbor stopped by as I was pruning. She asked questions about my petunias (the white ones taking over the front step pots) I've pruned them several times and they keep asking for more. She has lived in the corner farm house for many years. This is the second time we've talked. I think we could become friends.

Looking back from the vantage of the sun-drenched front porch, I think my neat mounds of feathery grasses with the occasional yellow lilly look trim and well-coifed, ready to work at growing some more.

I think pruners are very useful and I just may take them on vacation. I may just find my calling on some unsuspecting vine.

So pruning encourages friendships. Any kind of gardening chore invites questions, conversation--will the morning glories bloom this year? How bout those tomatoes? My interaction with Kris at work was solely about his garden and cooking. Will the black walnuts kill his tomatoes?

Gardening is chance and patience rolled into one. You have to be prepared for disappointment

The last two days have been phenominally beautiful--75, sunny, cool breezes. The windows are open and breezes waft across our bodies before sleep. I 've had time to deadhead flowers, pluck weeds, prune, and generaly clean up the beds. It looks much neater. The vines are all starting to do their thing--vining on the fence and whatever else they can grab onto.

I missed a photo op today . There was a beautiful monarch butterfly on the speedwell and bee balm. By the time I returned, it had had it's fill of nectar and happily flew away. There are many perfect moments, but sometime only the eye gets to see them. That's why God gave us words. I'll settle for my favorite flower-the lobelia

In a few days Owen Michael is going to be baptized. It just happens to be on Father's Day. He is 8 weeks old and growing big and strong. Some of the family and friends are going to sing "Jesus Loves Me" and "Oh, how He loves you and me". Grandpa Paul is offering a prayer for Owen.

Today I sat at the piano, after watering the garden, and practiced the song, very familiar, but with a new accompiament. It was very lovely and I pictured us all standing around Owen on Sunday morning, promising to care for him and instruct him and love him into the Kingdom. Towards the end I had tears freely flowing. It is such a special privilege to be part of the Body of Christ, and this little one will be as welcomed as his dad, grandpas, and great-grandpas have been.

So sleep, little Owen and dream of all the host of God's people who care for you already.

One of the most precious parts of my life on Countryside Drive was time spent in my garden. Digging, weeding, planting, watering--changing the colors, repeating the colors--finding what flourished, what shriveled and died, what small seedling in the middle of a flower bed would turn into a delicious tomato plant. Each new season brought beauty and wonder and heartache and hope. My trumpet vine grew for years with lush vigor, but never bloomed until the year I moved--then I had to leave it.

Sometimes I would find new mysterious plantings in vacant spaces. Then I knew that the elderly and eccentric Nita had been dividing her perennials. She couldn't bear to throw away a good plant. Thus my Japanese iris are still with me, surviving the move to the open spaces of Batavia. Sun and wind are abundant and for two weeks in late May-early June, my iris are glorious. They thrive next to my fence, in my garden, as I do.