Sirius' World

 

Sirus, back when he used to sleep on couches. 

I'm leaning at the kitchen sink and listening to a silent house. Gracie sleeps at my feet. My husband is tat-tap-tapping on his Excel spreadsheets behind a closed door. Upstairs, my fourth-born makes nary a peep.

When suddenly there erupts a symphony of crackling papers. 

Rustling.

Ripping.

Crumpling. 

I'm stunned for a single beat, but then I remember. And I smile.

* * * * *

A couple weeks ago, in pursuit of some free plastic bubble wrap, I hauled in my stash of recently received shipping boxes from the garage and set up shop in the dining room. As I sorted through the boxes, I extracted the bubble wrap and stacked it neatly on top of the table, and tossed the less desirable (for my current purposes anyway) paper wrappings under the table. Various weights of tissue paper and that weirdly sliced expandable paper - honeycomb packing paper, I've since learned it's called - were discarded in devil may care fashion onto the floor where I promptly forgot all about them.

Until an hour or two later, when I tracked back into the dining room to pick up my mess and found, lo and behold, my good cat, Sirius, sound asleep on top of the paper wrappings. 

Oh. So cute. I left the pile and the sleeping cat be, and figured I'd let him have his nap and gather up the mess later. 

Well.

One nap turned into another; days passed and still Sirius slept on the paper heap. 

Now Sirius has always been one to move around the house quite a bit during the day, choosing a couch here, a chair there, a sunny spot on the floor, and of course, free range on the beds upstairs. He's always been one to mix up his choice of sleeping spots every hour or so.

But I noticed that Sirius was spending an inordinate amount of time in the nest, as I came to call it. 

Oh, and he fights with it too.

At first I thought my kitten was simply rearranging the papers as I heard him thrashing around in his nest. But no, a few discreet peeps revealed that he was wrestling armloads of the papers; kicking and biting them in a full-on grudge match. Then, exhausted, he'd simply close his eyes in the spot where he lay, and drift off into another long, lovely nap.

* * * * *

By now, Sirius's nest has become a charming part of our household routine. I find him there many times each day. Every now and then, I zhuzh the papers back up into a pile for him, but I'm not sure he really cares. 

Is it:

the texture of the papers, 

the warmth of his body heat captured in the layers, 

or the satisfying crinkling that so satisfies his little kitty soul?

I don't know.

All I know for sure is that rustling noises from my dining room are a new normal for me. They tell me that my little Sirius is curled up in his nest, and all is well in his world. 

P.S. Sirius' brother, Luna, has discovered the nest and fallen in love with its magical soothing powers as well. I'm happy to report that they take turns nicely.

Equinox

 "To love beauty is to see light." -Victor Hugo

Spring peepers, yes.

Pale pink cherry blossoms.

Spunky purple crocus.

Greening grass and slowly leafing trees.

And sunny days that sneak up and surprise us, delight us, warm our weary bones.

These are all vanguards of spring, brilliant waving banners that announce our side of the planet's tilt toward the sun.

But more than anything else, what heralds to me the change in the season is the light.

As the sun's angles shift, afternoon rays stream through my south facing windows. Golden sunbeams pour into my home in fresh and exciting ways; patterns of light play against every surface to announce the new season.

Spring has finally come. And, once again, its beauty leaves me breathless.

Dealing With It

"I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection." 

-Sigmund Freud

^ You know what else I've been doing lately? Shopping at antique stores. Here's a haul from late December, clockwise from the top right:

Old wood frame; the bird art will be flying away soon.

Tiny wicker rocker

Artificial apples - more on those below

Wood organizer.

Silver pitcher

Three tiny teddies - more on them below too.

So I've been going to counseling lately.

I've been before. Over the last fifteen years or so, I've gone on and off for a variety of reasons. But never before have I gone to counseling specifically to work on my childhood trauma. So last fall when our family therapist suggested that I might want to work on this part of my life, I figured that this was a great time to check in with myself and see how I was doing.

* * * * * 

Long story short, my father was a cheater. For the first ten years of my life, he had a series of long-term affairs that he didn't even try to hide. Needless to say, that created an explosive environment at home and I found myself living smack dab in the middle of a war zone. When I was ten, my dad left once and for all, and I saw him only two or three times in the rest of my childhood. Left to my own devices to sort through the emotional fallout, I grew up really fast and thankfully settled into my early adulthood with my head on fairly straight

Then came my own marriage and kids. Determined not to make the same mistakes as I'd lived through, I married a man with a storybook childhood and loving parents. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to protect my daughters from my traumatic past, while also telling them the age-appropriate truth about my dad. Walking that razor's edge was never easy but I did the best I could. 

Cut to 2016. My parents, long since divorced and thoroughly estranged, died less than two months apart. That kinda freaked me out. But to be honest, I breathed a sigh of relief because I thought (and fervently hoped) that their passings would bring me a certain level of peace and a sense of resolution.

But that's not what happened at all.

Within hours of my dad's death, I found out that I had a brother from another mother. Yep, my father had conceived a child from one of his long-term affairs who was immediately handed over to an adoption agency and hush-hushed for the rest of my father's life. This secret, carried so successfully to my father's grave, didn't bother me at all - in fact, I love my newfound brother and I'm grateful that we've found each other. But it did open my eyes to a new level of lies and deception that my father employed against us all. Like waves crashing on a beach, the trauma kept a-rollin' in. 

^ One of the stalls in the local antique mall has been going out of business; I learned that the owner fell down a flight of stairs, broke her leg in multiple places, poor thing, and decided that it was time to shut down her sweet little shop. Among her last few pieces, I found these apples  - for which I have a specific use to be explained later - and in her enthusiasm to be done, she gave them to me for free. How incredibly kind. 

* * * * *

This week, after three months of weekly sessions and a deep dive into my past, my trauma therapist pronounced our work as complete. 

And here are six new lessons I've learned about my childhood trauma:

1. My trauma is worse than I've let myself believe. Like many people who suffer significant trauma, I have spent years trying to minimize it, push it away, tell myself it's not that bad. But what I really need to do is face that big ol' elephant in the room by pulling her out of the shadows and keeping her clearly in my sights. 

2. My trauma will never go away. Dang. I wish it would. But while the waves of emotion may settle quietly at times, I'll always carry the pain of my past, and need to be prepared for the fact that it can crash down over me at any moment.

3. Trauma is readily handed down through the generations and I can't fully prevent that from happening, Still, I care very much about protecting my daughters and my nieces and nephews from the worst of the family trauma they inherit. I feel deeply responsible to each one of them and do whatever I can to help them feel connected and loved.

4. Trauma is something we can only understand when we live through it. True, we all experience some levels of overwhelming emotion in our lives - we endure physical, mental, and spiritual pain on the daily. But people who have never experienced the profoundly disruptive events of "big T trauma" - especially when inflicted during childhood - can never fully understand what that feels like. 

5. Talking about my trauma often makes me uncomfortable. Not because I'm ashamed or afraid to share my story, but because I need to feel safe before I open up to another person. For me, writing is usually the best way to process and share my feelings.

6. Trauma has changed me. There's no telling how I might have turned out in a happier world, but then again, I know that my trauma has made me a stronger and more compassionate person. And you know what? I really like that. 

^ Back in the 1990s, my mom developed a passion for collecting teddy bears, and specifically, the super popular Boyd's Bears. When I found the bear from that brand, on the right, complete with angel wings, well, you know I had to have it. Suddenly, a vision of tiny teddy bears decorating not only my Christmas tree but gathering in the space below the tree popped into my brain, and just like that, my own passion for collecting teddies was ignited. 

* * * * *

I'm excited to be done with this leg of my journey. Sure, I know now that my trauma will be with me for the rest of my life, but I have confidence - stronger than ever before - that I'm up to the task of dealing with it. 

* * * * *

More stories about my mom, my dad, and our journey together:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

My Mother And Me

Spinning Gold Out Of Straw

Fresh Air

On Grief

My Newfound Brother

Never Mind. I'll Do It Myself.

Every Single Day

"I'm just living daily and I thank God for every day that I have." -Daniel Jacobs

"Good morning, Mother. Have you considered serving me breakfast in bed?"

I'm one for starting the day off with a freshly made bed.

I usually sweep my bedroom floor to boot, and straighten up any stray socks my husband may have thrown on the floor.

Just kidding. My husband has literally never thrown a single sock on the floor during our nearly four decades of married life. Not even once. Into the clothes hamper they go, just like clockwork.

But the truth is that I have a different problem in my morning cleaning routine. 

She is eighty pounds of Irish delight and her name is Gracie.

And the truth is also that she isn't trying to cause me any trouble. 

All my darling girl wants to do is catch a few last winks as I prepare to go downstairs, and she just happens to like to do that on my bed. Preferably on my husband's pillows. 

But have you ever tried to make a bed around a large and lazily lounging lady bear? It's not easy but I have found a way.

I encourage her all the way up to the top of the bed

Then I gently slide the covers out from under her furry self.

And I simply make the bed over the top of her.

When I first tried this, I figured she would leap out of the bed the instant I pulled the comforter up over her already toasty warm body. My previous setters would have stood for this nonsense for a total of zero seconds before kicking their way out to freedom.

But Gracie seems to quite like her cozy nest. She watches with interest as I continue to smooth out all the wrinkles and plump my pillows just so. I don't dare touch the ones she's using. 

And she reclines with regal ease as I finish up whatever chores remain.

Only when I am completely done do I walk to the door, open it, and as I step out into the hall, call "Come on, Grace. Let's go down."

Then she gracefully slips out from the covers, tiptoes across the smooth blankets, delicately hops to the floor, then thunders down the stairs like a runaway locomotive. 

Thus another day with Gracie begins. Every single one is a good one. 

Christmas Colors

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." -John Keats

Still available for 50% off MoMA Design Storeat the 

Bang! Boom! Pow!

For the past decade or so, my Christmas decorations have featured sweetly organic whites and shimmering silvers and golds. As my life was moving though a swirl of sadness, grief, and loss, I craved the quiet, calm energy that neutrals provide. But now, as the storm clouds have mostly cleared away, I'm reclaiming joy in my life and accordingly, I'm back to seeking out the brightest, boldest colors of the season.

While I'm not sure I'll deck out the entire house in these eye-popping combinations of complementary reds, pinks, oranges and greens, you better believe these brilliant tones will be center stage come Christmas 2024.

These colors make my eyes hum with delight and my heart explode with joy and - like a pulsing star in a sky filled with angels - isn't that just exactly what Christmas is all about.

Christmas At Last

Two little girls are snuggled in their beds

Pretty dreams of Christmas running through their heads.

Downstairs is quiet, cozy as can be,

Shining like the lights on the Christmas tree.

Candles have been snuffed out, fire warms the hearth

Santy Claus is traveling all around the earth.

Tis the night before Christmas and everyone's asleep

My Christmas house is finally done; so happy I could weep.

* * * * *

Four - count 'em, four - years ago I started building this tiny holiday doll house. Though my vision was clear and my early steps certain, I eventually fell into a state of indecision and my project spluttered stalled in its path.

Yes. I know. There are monumental decisions to be made in the world of miniature crafts, and I dared not make a wrong move.

Anywho, this year, I decided, it was high time to bring some closure to this half-done holiday home. And wouldn't you know, as soon as I set my jaw and took a firm upper lip with myself - See here now, we're going to finish this once and for all! - the decisions came quickly and every little detail fell into its charming place.

* * * * *

PS You may notice that there is only one little girl asleep in her bed. The second one is currently in Ukraine being carved from a small bit of alder tree, and will be here very soon to accompany her sister. Thank goodness sister has a cat to keep her cozy till then.

* * * * *

For more on how this creation began:

My New Project

Ready To Fly

Tonight.

My home is a place where I feel comfortable.

Safe.

Secure.

Able to be fully myself.

Ready to take chances and try on new wings to see if I can fly.

And when, as it was this week, my home is tucked under a blanket of snow, it feels like magic too.

Thirteen years ago, on this very day, I began my blog. And ever since, it has been a place where I feel comfortable.

Safe. Secure. Able to be fully myself. Ready to take chances and try on new wings to see if I can fly.

And when, as I do today, I write on a snowy day, my words feel like magic too.

So here's to a fresh new year of writing. 

May I take chances, 

write about hard things, 

be honest about myself, 

and always, always be ready to fly. 

* * * * *

My first blog post ever. I still think it's very sweet.

Snow Makes All Things New

Gracie's Grandma

My mom, for whom my dog, Gracie, was named, was obsessed with quilts.

She made them, by hand and by machine, with infinite patience and precision that boggled my mind.

She styled her finished products with flair, draping them across the open door of an antique cupboard, folding them just so over an old trunk, or of course, spreading them out over a bed with coordinating but contrasting (she was never a matchy-matchy kind of lady) pillowcases and maybe a vintage teddy to boot.

And when it came to protecting her beautiful quilts, my mom was all over it. She washed them by hand and dried them in the fresh air, and stored them safely away from the fading rays of the sun. And while she always allowed - even encouraged - my little daughters to climb up and explore her quilts at close range, she also made a habit of subtly turning down her fragile pieceworks just before the girls hopped up into the bed at night to minimize the wear and tear.

Now that she's gone, a handful of her oldest and most prized quilts lives on in my linen closet; now and then, they come out, one by one, to make an appearance on one of our beds where they are treated with the utmost care. As they deserve.

The sturdy red and white quilt she used on her bed every day spends several weeks during Christmas on my bed. In these mornings, I wake up to find my big red hairy beast of a dog swaddled in my mother's precious quilt. 

It's a jarring sight.

And I often struggle as I imagine what my mom might say to this gross appropriation of her pristine workmanship.

But then I remember. If there's anything my mom loved more than quilts, it was big red dogs. Especially of the hairy beast variety.

And I imagine her beaming down from heaven - much closer than we think - to see her namesake puppy dog wrapped up in her lovely quilt. 

And everything feels just right.

Happy birthday, Gracie, from your grandma and me.

At Five Thirty On Every Rainy Late Autumn Afternoon

She was tucked up behind these white chairs, huddled next to the cedar fence. 

And it was not July, as this photo shows. 

Five thirty on a rainy late autumn afternoon. 

Fresh home from a grocery store run, my husband burst into the kitchen and briskly asked my daughter, "Where's Mom?" before spying me at (surprise) the kitchen sink. 

So I was already on red alert. But what he said next shook me.

"There's a homeless woman setting up camp in our yard. Do you think we should call the cops?"

My heart and mind began to swirl.

First, how sad. How truly, inconceivably, breathtakingly sad that the world has come to this. A human being squatting under my rhododendron bushes on a miserably wet and cold night, bunching up piles of moldering leaves in an attempt to make space for herself. 

At the same time, I feel a chill run through me. Homeless strangers living in my bushes? No, that's not the life I live. I accept that our culture's perfect storm of addiction, unaffordable housing, mental illness, inadequate social support, and perhaps some domestic violence sprinkled over the top, has led to tent cities, cardboard shelters, and people literally dozing in sleeping bags along the storefronts as an everyday reality in our city streets. But in my quiet, mannerly, suburban neighborhood? Yeah, I never bargained on that. 

I wonder to myself how desperate a person would need to be to wander into my neighborhood, see my hedge of shrubs, and think, yeah, this'll work. 

So yes, let's call the police.Let's get this poor woman out of my bushes. Let's help her find a safe place to sleep tonight, tomorrow night. Let's show her a path to get back on her feet and build up her life.

My husband called 911.

An officer came to the house.

By then, the woman was gone.

The officer cruised around the neighborhood for a while, watching out for her, then looped back to check in with us again to see if she had returned.

But she had disappeared into the dark, rainy evening without a trace.

* * * * *

In the weeks since, I'm often outside around five thirty in the afternoons, coming home from walking with my dog. We've been walloped with rain lately, and even though my pants and shoes are drenched, I'm cozy warm inside my GoreTex. On the porch, I serve Gracie up a big bowl of kibble and human-grade canned salmon, and as she eats, I think over my dinner plan and imagine the warm plate of food that's soon to be set in front of me. Warm light washes over me as I open the door and step inside; despite my soggy clothes, I know I'm soon to be warm and dry, wrapped in a blanket of safety, security, and comfort inside my sweet home. 

I think of that woman who tried to camp in my bushes, and I wish her well.

At five thirty on every rainy late autumn afternoon.

Soft Spooky

^ DIY ghosties: wrap white or ivory yard around a six-inch section of cardboard a least fifty times. Slip the bundle off the cardboard and tie  a foot long piece of yarn about an inch down from one end of the bundle to fashion a head and neck. Cut open the opposite end of the bundle to create the bottom edge of your spirit. I hang mine using light wire. 

* * * * *

Corkscrew roller coasters.

Bloody horror movies.

Psycho clowns

And the threat of the zombie apocalypse.

We are not big into hardcore scary things around here. 

Oh, sure, spiders are fine. And the occasional snake. We all genuinely enjoy air travel and I am totally down for some public speaking, as long as I'm comfortable with the topic at hand.

We like our spooky on the soft side.

^ DIY spiders: cut up a cardboard egg carton to fashion the bodies. Paint them black and decorate however you like. When the paint dries, glue on googly eyes and punch eight holes around the body. Cut four eight-inch lengths of black pipe cleaner and weave through the holes to create eight legs. My then-twelve-year-old fourth daughter wove the web with a small ball of fuzzy white yard and a whole lot of knots. 

* * * * *

Oh, sure, spiders are fine. And the occasional snake. We all genuinely enjoy air travel and I am totally down for the occasional public speaking gig.

We like our spooky on the soft side.

^ Store-bought black cat. 

* * * * *

Take our Halloween decorations as a prime example. 

You are not going to find any life-size skeletons swaying from our tree branches, nor sinister inflatable ghosts or witches with warts on their nose.

No fake tombstones.

No zombie arms clawing up through the lawn.

No robotic grim reapers or splatters of fake blood.

^ DIY jack o'lanterns: cut pairs of circles from gold or orange felt. Cut one green felt stem and use yellow felt to cut eyes, nose and mouth as you like. Use hot glue to attach the face pieces to one of the circles; glue the stem to the opposite side of the same circle, so the end of the stem will be inside of the pumpkin. 

(My second-born, middle school architect of this project, chose to glue a two- to three-foot length of white plastic lanyard cord inside in back of the stem, for hanging. We tied thumb tacks to the opposite end of each cord, and push them into the porch ceiling.) 

When all that glue has dried, put a line of hot glue three-quarters of the way around the stem side of the face circle, and attach the matching circle, leaving a hole for the stuffing. Once this hot glue has also dried, stuff a bit of polyester fiberfill into the middle, and hot glue the rest of the circle closed. 

* * * * *

What you will find are soft, sweet, not-so-spooky symbols of the season.

Happy jack o'lantern faces

Heaps of pumpkins

Googly-eyed spiders playing on a fuzzy web

Green glow lights.

A smiling black cat.

A gently abstracted skeleton.

And my personal favorite, soft little ghosties who sway with the breeze.

^ Pumpkins and gourds from Gordon Skagit Farms.

^ Store-bought skeleton and green light bulbs.

* * * * *

As my daughters look back on their thrilling days as little trick or treaters, and I remember my own, we recall the delicious feeling of being just a tiny bit scared. And that's what we try to capture for our young visitors on the dark nights of Halloween. 

^ Gracie ain't afraid of no ghosts. 

* * * * *

Soft spooky. That's the Halloween look we're going for. And I think we've got it nailed. 

Just Do It

"You have to lift your head up out of the mud and just do it." - Teri Garr

"Everyone is different. Everyone has different styles. Just do it the best way you know how." -Vince Carter

^ What my upstairs hallway lacks in natural light it makes up for with cheery yellow walls, and many moons ago, I decided some monochromatic art would boost the vibe. 

Hey, I've got an idea. I'll run to the thrift store, grab a couple new frames, then make some art and hang them in the hall just outside my bedroom door. 

Said me about, oh, maybe two full years ago. 

^ One piece would have straight lines and the other curves. I decided that much long ago. 

I got the frames and hung them right where I wanted them. Perfection.

But when it came time to sit down and make some art, I froze.

Oh, I wanted to create something new. And I had ideas for what I might paint. Plenty of ideas. But for some reason, I could not settle down on a single pair of ideas. I kept changing my mind, looking for new inspiration, and giving myself permission to put off this project.

Ya, that last bit is the really important part.

^ I love the irregularity of the top piece. Yes, I know the darker sections are not straight and the bottom stripes do not light up precisely with the larger stripes above. That's the whole point. The beauty of imperfection.

I gave myself permission to put it off. And so this project gained weight, bogged down, and left me feeling underwhelmed with myself as two full years ticked by.

I felt bad every time I walked by those two frames, which by the way were full of semi-interesting art. But it just wasn't me. 

I wanted art that felt like me. 

Was I scared? Uncertain? Afraid of failure? Worried about what other people might think of my art?

Yes. 

No. 

Maybe. 

All of the above. 

^The swooping curves of the bottom piece zoom out of frame, double back on themselves, almost touch in several spots. They burst with life and energy. And that is their whole point. 

But last week, I hit a wall. Sick and tired of my indecision, I decided that I had run out of excuses for not making the art and was ready, come hell or high water, to just do it.

I still wasn't sure exactly what I was going to paint. 

But I knew for sure that something needed to happen. Now. So I scrolled through my inspiration photos one last time, trusted my instincts, and dove in.

And this is where I ended up.

^ A blurry red dog in a shadow-filled hall that, all the same, makes me smile every time I pass through. 

I know this is not the kind of art that would make everyone happy. But it makes me happy. 

Gracie seems fairly chuffed as well.

And I have taught myself the lesson once again that in this crazy life of ours, sometimes I have to stop worrying, stop obsessing, stop thinking about doing something and just do it. 

* * * * *

P.S. After composing this post, I had serious second thoughts about these photos. Too grainy. Too blurry, The colors too distorted, the reflections in the glass too disorienting, the whole effect a sodding mess. But then I remembered. Just do it. So I posted them anyway. Hope you enjoy. 

Señor Juan Aguayo

 "You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one." -John Lennon

* * * * *

I love writing Yelp reviews. So when my landscape contractor, Juan, asked me if I would write about his work for me this past week, I was delighted to oblige. Here's what I said.

^ Señor Aguayo lays a mean stone patio.

For years, I've dreamed of having a stock tank pool built into my back yard. And over those same years, several people have told me what an expensive, impractical dream that is. Still, I've carried my vision forward, trusting that someday, somehow, I would find someone to help me make that dream come true. 

Enter Juan Aguayo. In the past few years, I've put Juan's considerable landscaping skills to good use: trimming trees, building a small deck, laying a walkway, installing a storm drain. Every time, Juan's work has been right on the money - an excellent product for a fair price - and so I decided to tell him about my pool dream and see if he might help me find a way to bring it to life. 

Juan immediately saw the possibilities for this project. 

He listened to my ideas and remembered my asks. 

He proposed alternatives and patiently debated back and forth with me. 

He brought his keen eye, attention to detail, and commitment to aesthetics to the project design. 

He identified construction complexities and technical details that I had not thought to consider. 

And after several hours of conversation, I gave Juan the green light to begin. 

This was an anxious time for me. It's no small thing to trust your dreams to someone else, to trust them to capture your vision, and to bring it to life. 

^ Juan's two teenage sons work for him and both lent a hand to this project. 

I love to support a family business.

 But that's exactly what Juan and his team did for me. 

Oh sure, Juan does all the little things right too. He shows up when he promises to show up. He keeps a safe and clean work site. He manages his team well. He communicates with me and keeps me involved in daily decisions. His financial systems are transparent and fair. He got the job done on time and on budget, and left my newly transformed backyard as neat as a pin. 

Yet what Juan accomplished is so much more than all that. I trusted him to re-landscape my backyard around the stock tank pool of my dreams, and he knocked it out of the park. If Juan can make my landscaping dreams come true, he can do the same for you. Give him a call.

* * * * *

Photo credits to Alan Aguayo

* * * * *

I'm a lake lady and I need water. 

Follow along as I try to make my pool-owning dreams come true.

Commitment

Pivot

355 Days

Mud Hole

Getting Stoned

Señor Juan Aguayo

Getting Stoned

For a long time, I imagined my stock tank pool was going to be surrounded by a wood deck.

Not exactly sure why, but I think my childhood memories of years spent leaping off wooden docks into luscious lakes really locked down the notion that wood and water go together.

But last week, as my yard guy, Juan, and I were hashing through the particulars of my project, tossing design ideas back and forth, it dawned on me that Juan was anti-deck. Or at least, he was against my dream of a low circular deck  My fight or flight reflex clocked in, my debating skill roared into high gear, and I quickly lined up my strongest arguments as to why wood was the way to go.

But then, Juan spoke the game-changing words, "What if we did a stone patio around the pool instead?"

And just like that, I changed my mind.

Oh, beyond the sentimental yearnings, I'd had some practical reasons for preferring wood. 

Strong clean lines.

Smooth and warm underfoot.

And the composite product I planned to use spelled out no maintenance. At all. Ever.

But you know, all at once the idea of stone felt so right to me.

So obvious.

So organic.

So true to the rest of the yard.

So darn good.

So here we are, four tons of dark grey flagstone later. Juan and his team capped off a busy week by laying out the first of the stones around the pool. 

And I am spending my weekend staring out my kitchen window, looking past the clutter and the construction debris, enjoying the intoxicating sight of my new stones. 

* * * * *

I'm a lake lady and I need water. 

Follow along as I try to make my pool-owning dreams come true.

Commitment

Pivot

355 Days

Mud Hole

Getting Stoned

Señor Juan Aguayo

Mud Hole

On Monday, I shook hands with my yard guy, Juan, and promised to pay him a substantial amount of money.

The next day, he came and turned my back yard into a giant mud pit.

Yeah, I'm really not kidding. 

Step One: he ripped out every single blade of grass.

Step Two: he dug a giant hole in the middle of what was once my lawn.

The full effect doesn't look too terrible in these photos, but please imagine a drenching downpour liquefying every inch into a wobbly mass of muck, and you'll get a better idea of what I was staring down.

Now to be fair, I take full responsibility for this monstrous mess. This whole project was my idea. I'd dreamed it up, bit by bit over the years, and I was thrilled to finally have taken the step of turning it into reality. This is my pool dream coming to life!

 And I know perfectly well that in any creative endeavor, things are always gonna get worse before they get better. But just the same, I was having some serious second thoughts about the chaos I'd unleashed. 

What if my backyard makeover turned out to be a terrible, awful, no good, very bad idea?

I found myself mired in a pit of self-doubt almost as deep and desperate as the ever-expanding hole in my backyard. 

So, after a few agonizing days and restless nights, I gave myself some serious self-talk. 

I reminded myself to trust in the process - and in Juan, who has never let me down. 

I fought back the panic. 

I encouraged myself to stay the course. 

And I held my breath, waiting for 

the rain to stop, 

the mud to settle, 

and the beautiful vision I carried in my mind to begin to take shape in front of my eyes.

And today, it happened. 

The sun came out.

Soft breezes swirled over the fence.

And when Juan brought me out for the daily tour, I saw the pieces beginning to fall into place.

• My little stock tank pool now sits in his forever home, settled in at ground level.

• A gravel bed for the stone patio wraps around the pool.

• A rock retaining wall creates a level space on my otherwise sloped yard for the patio.

• New pathways lead to the pool area and wind around the perimeter of the yard.

For sure, there are a lot of details still to fall into place, and plenty of back-breaking work to be done. 

But I'm no longer gnashing my teeth and fretting about the eventual outcome.

My back yard is moving past the mud hole stage and is well on its way to making my lake lady dreams come true. 

* * * * *

I'm a lake lady and I need water. 

Follow along as I try to make my pool-owning dreams come true.

Commitment

Pivot

355 Days

Mud Hole

Getting Stoned

Señor Juan Aguayo

Big White Balls

My new big white balls. 

The tall cedar stakes, in case you're wondering, prevent my big red dog from napping - and thereby crushing - my luxurious hosta leaves. Don't worry - she has her own private hosta garden that she is allowed to crush with impunity.

Oh look! A flock of big white balls has roosted on my backyard fence, and appears to be settling in for the long haul. 

But never fear. Before you call animal control and report this strange invasion, let me tell you the truth. 

I put them there.

On purpose.

And they are actually old friends of mine.

My big red balls circa 2012.

For many years, these harmless spheres lived in the far corner of my front yard in a shady little space where nothing much else cared to grow. So I fetched these fellows from Home Depot (get all the DIY details here) and invited them to nest here indefinitely.

Well, the times are always a'changing and as the years flashed by, this cozy spot grew smaller and smaller. Thanks in particular to an incredibly enthusiastic azalea bush, my band of big red balls found themselves unceremoniously squeezed out of their space and this June, I began the hunt for a new nest.

The newly transplanted hostas are looking a bit bedraggled but never fear. 

By next June, they will be lush. Gracie, on the other hand, is peak lush at all times.

Around the same time, I was overhauling a corner of the back yard. I'd just removed a path that wandered uselessly along the back fence by filling out my patch of hostas when my eyeballs informed me that the horizontal space along the fence between the top of the freshly expanded hostas and the lower line of the Japanese maple leaves would be an ideal spot to run a bit of eye candy.

And yes, I do consider my big white balls to be eye candy.

At first, I thought about leaving the balls their signature red, but I decided to live on the edge and paint them white. I mean, for twenty bucks worth of spray paint and an afternoon's time, I can flirt with danger. So by mid-August, out came my drop cloth and suddenly my big red balls, who'd been languishing in the wheelbarrow for at least a month, found a new lease on life as big white balls. 

These little babies aren't going anywhere. 

Next, I mulled hanging options. I considered a number of complicated contraptions but in the end, just drilled a hole in the lip of each ball and dropped them onto cup hooks screwed into the cedar fence. 

So easy. 

So effective.

So cute. 

Do you notice that the pattern roughly represents a sine curve? Mhmm. Math teacher.

My first inclination was just to throw the cup hooks up, willy nilly, but my more sensible self shook me silly till I agreed to plan things out a bit more formally. Why, yes, I did create paper templates for the balls and tape them to the fence, arranging them this way and that until I was properly pleased with the effect. 

Gracie quickly adapted to her new friends, and they apparently have a peaceful effect on her. 

Even the stone bunny who lives nearby seems to welcome the new and improved big white balls to the backyard fence. I think we are all going to be very happy together.