Worry

"Worry is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but never gets you anywhere." ~Erma Bombeck

"Worry Wart."

  My father used to call me that all the time.  "You're just like my mother; such a worry wort." 

This was always said with a snort of derision and a look of contempt which led little me to believe I was doing something very wrong. Which then, predictably, led to more worrying about the fact I was worrying.  And what was this about warts?  Oh, great.  Something else to worry about.  Circular thinking which has always been a problem of mine, by the way.

I never knew either of my grandmothers.  Both of them had died long before I was born; my mother's mother died from tuberculosis at the tender age of 43 and my father's mother had died of unknown causes after a surgery in her late sixties.

There is only one existing black and white photo of my Worrying Grandmother.  I often peered at the fuzzy old picture taken in the 1940's, trying to see if I bore any resemblance to her.  She looked very short and stout standing next to her husband on the front lawn of my parent's house, barely coming up to my grandfather's shoulder.  But then I had to remember, my grandfather was very tall standing 6' 6", so she was definitely not a short woman.  She probably was around my height, 5' 9" or so. 

My mother always told me that Grandma would have liked me, and I cherished that thought.  It would have been nice to have a grandmother, especially one that would understand a fellow worrywart.  Mom said that Grandma loved candy, especially chocolate, and had the pounds to prove it. Oh, we did have a lot in common.

Stands to reason that worrying is an inherited trait.  Grandma passed it on to me and I carry on the tradition in her memory.

 I have been having some worrisome times.  Warts will be abounding if I keep this up.  The change of seasons is always a time of melancholy for me, and I should know better.  When summer ends, I feel sad because the gardening season is over, but when winter ends, I feel sad because the stained glass season is over.  And this past weekend Daylight Savings Time ended again, so the days are shorter than ever. 

I don't have the garden completely ready for winter yet, but it's getting there.  Every day I tackle another bed and when Carl comes home, he helps me finish up.  I've wheeled countless loads of hosta leaves and annuals to the mulch pile in the Back Eight. 

Things are changing around here and I'm powerless.  Worry won't change a thing, but I still indulge in it.  As a child, I used to think if I worried about something long enough it would somehow ward it off.  I'm 56.  Definitely not a child anymore, now am I?

So what is on my Top Ten list of things to worry about? 

Number One. 

My mother.

She is 94 now and still in pretty good health, but I can definitely see she's in need of more help with day to day things.  She wouldn't be happy with me writing about this, but I'm sure there are others out there who have the same challenges.  I see Mom every day, and I also noticed the slight changes in her memory and her physical stamina.  At first, my worry meter jumped to Alarm Mode but then I tried to talk myself out of it, after all, she's 94, what do I expect?  I forget things too, no big deal. 

In July, Mom had a demon of her own on her mind.  Her license was up for renewal in August and she was worried she would have to drive around with a driving examiner in order to get her driver's license renewed. 

"If I have to drive around with a cop in the big city, I won't make it," she said.  "I'll be without a license."

Well, the truth of the matter was I was seeing signs that she shouldn't wait until August to give up her car keys.  Her reflexes and balance are not what they once were and her decision making wasn't either.  I hadn't ridden with her anywhere for some time, but I knew she was driving more and more slowly.  Our nearest town is three miles away with a population of 3,000 and one traffic light, but there is a busy state highway to navigate and a nasty intersection that I myself dread.  The county had not cut the grass and weeds on that corner all summer long and I had to crane my neck up to the ceiling of the car to see over them.  I had no idea how my under 5' tall mother was capable of seeing if the coast was clear.  Sigh.

And then there came the day she wanted me to go with her to a bank in town.  She said she'd pick me up at 1PM for her appointment and I could drive.  It was 9AM when she called me, so I said that would be fine.  Only five minutes later, she was in my driveway. 

I went outside and jokingly asked her if she needed something, and she said, "It's time to go to the bank."

I said, "It's 9AM; isn't the appointment for 1PM?"

"No, it's right now."

"Ok," I said, as I went in to change my clothes.

I got behind the wheel and we headed for town.  I asked her which bank she wanted to go to.

"I don't know.  Are we going to the bank?"

"Didn't you make an appointment?" 

"For what?"  

And when I gently asked her why she wanted to go in the first place, she couldn't remember.  I said she'd mentioned something was in a safe deposit box and she looked confused, but agreed to go.  So we signed in at the bank and were ushered into a little room for privacy.  We sorted through the contents of the box but there was no memory of what she was looking for.

 She was scared then.  And, inwardly, so was I. 

"Do you think I'm losing it?" she asked me. 

"No, I think you've just got too much on your mind," I said.  "I bet you'll think of what it was in a day or two."

 But she never did.

And there were other things, too.  She was forgetting what day it was.  One Saturday morning she admitted to me that she had driven to church and was completely surprised that the door wasn't open.  She waited for over an hour and finally drove home.  When I checked on her later that day, she told me about it and asked me repeatedly what day it was.  Something was up.

I made an appointment for her to see her doctor.  She didn't want to go, but gave in and I was to drive her.  I was coming out of the dentist's office the next day at 10AM when I saw her leaving the doctor's office in the adjoining parking lot.  I sprinted across the grassy median and accosted her before she got in her Buick. 

"Did you just come from the doctor?"

"Yes."

"I thought it was at 2PM," I said.  "I was going to go with you, remember?"  To this day, I'm still stumped as to how she got an earlier appointment.

"No."

"Well, anyway, what did the doctor say?"

"Hmph.  Nothing's wrong with me.  He said come back in a year."

"Did he do a blood draw?  Take your blood pressure?"

"I guess.  Like I said, nothing's wrong.  This was such a waste of time.  I'm going to get some groceries.  See you later."

And with that, I was left standing in the parking lot as she slowly drove away.   I know I should have commandeered the car.  I should have gone into the doctor's office and demanded to know what went on.  I should have followed her to see how her driving truly was. 

But I didn't. 

And yes, she made it home in one piece.  Thank you Watchful Other Defensive Drivers. 

 I knew I it was time to start worrying about this for real. 

I didn't have to go through this with my late father.  He had given up his car keys at the age of 84.  He'd gotten lost on the one quarter mile drive home from my house to his house one day and driven right on by.  When he got to the corner he was so frightened he turned around and came back to my house and made the announcement; "I'm done driving.  I can't find my house.  You will take me places from now on."

This coming from my father was a completely foreign statement.  My father was stern and larger than life, a man who could drink the best of them under the table and holler loud enough to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck.  And here he was, admitting he was done driving.  Wow.  I was very, very thankful.  I'd dreaded the thought of taking his driving privileges away for a long time, and to have him adamantly decree I was to be his chauffeur from now on was absolutely unbelievable.  And a huge relief.  I wouldn't have to fight with him after all.

As the saying goes, much of what we worry about never comes to pass.  How very true.  And in a case of 'real life is stranger than fiction' it turns out it was my mother I should have been worrying about.    

A few years ago she told me she was ready to let me drive her where she needed to go, too.  I thought, fine, she knows her limitations and that's great.  No problem, she'll be just like dad.  But as she grew older, she became bolder, even driving in a snow storm which threw me for a loop.  Fear of icy pavement always paralyzed her.  And after the bank/doctor incident, I knew the time to confront this was now.

 
So, I set about a gradual campaign of preparing Mom for giving up her car keys.  I told her that I was worried about how fast the traffic is now days and her ability to drive. 

"Why?  I only go to town once or twice a week for church and groceries.  And the bank once a month," she said.

"I know, but I think it's time you let me do the driving."

"Why?  I don't get you.  Why do I have to quit?  How will I get groceries?  And how would I get to church?"

"We can go together.  I go to the same stores and church that you do.  Hey, it will be fun!"

"You don't always go to church," she said. 

Hanging my head in shame, true, very true.

"I"ll start going regularly when I drive you," I said.  "See, you'll be saving my soul."

She was not amused.

I told her about age discrimination and how if she had a fender bender or heaven forbid, someone was injured, even if it weren't her fault the book would more than likely be thrown at her since she was 94 years old.  I told her she should be proud of the fact she drove to such a ripe old age, but the fact is, it's time to let me take over. 

"Remember, Dad quit driving when he was 84?  Look, you've already driven ten years longer than he did and that's a true accomplishment.  But you're having some trouble remembering things and I don't want you to get lost.  That would be awful."

"I'm not going to get lost.  What are you talking about?  You think I can't remember where town is?  You worry too much."

Yes, yes, I do.  We all know that.

So I went off on another tangent, telling her that even though her driving skills were fine, her reaction time was not and silly people on the road do silly things like stopping for no apparent reason and kids like to dart out from between parked cars and gosh, golly gee, she didn't want to kill someone by accident and have to live with the guilt, right?

She was unmoved.  This was simply not going to happen to her.  But then she relented, "Ok, ok, if it will make you feel better, I'll let you drive.  I guess it's been long enough."

I was so relieved to hear her say that.  Thank goodness. I got through.

But I made one big mistake.  I didn't take her car keys.

And sure enough, the Buick was in my driveway the next morning.  She was on her way to town, apparently, but came to see me first.

I said, "I thought you weren't going to drive anymore, Mom."

"Why wouldn't I drive?"

Oh, boy.

So, I took her to town that day.  And when Carl got home from work, we snuck up to her garage and tried to disable the battery on her car.  If the car won't start, she can't leave, right?

Except the battery was not under the hood.  We looked Everywhere, and there was no battery to be found.  We both felt like idiots; what the heck?  There we were in her garage, whispering as we searched high and low for the thing and it was nowhere to be found.  Does this car run on magical Pixie Power?  There HAS to be a battery! 

Carl stayed to talk to Mom and I ran home.  An internet search explained the mystery.  The battery to her car is under the back seat cushion.  Yeah, that's where I'd think to look for it.  As in never.

In the end, Carl saved me.  He simply told Mom he was going to take the car keys home so I would have them handy to take her to town.  For some unknown reason, she cheerfully handed him both sets of keys and it's a good thing she did, for the spare keys were hidden in a place even more unlikely than the battery on the Buick.

I'd read that spouses often have an easier time dealing with each other's parents since there isn't the old 'Respect My Authority' dynamic in place with a spouse.  Carl and my mom have a completely different relationship and she doesn't resent him taking control. 

But she did resent me taking control.  For the first time in my life, my mother disliked me with a passion.  And I felt like the Biggest Jerk on the Planet.

I can only imagine the feeling of helplessness that engulfed her when she lost her right to drive.  I know the day will come for me, too.  It will come to all of us if we live long enough.  And I'd like to think I'll be all sweet and understanding too, but with age comes unpredictability. 

"I have nothing to say about my life now.  I won't even go in the garage, because I don't have a car.  You're taking over everything," she told me. 

And my youngest son, David. 

"Your mother has taken my car away.  You can't imagine what that's like.  I don't know how I will eat or get to church.  I'm completely on my own now.  My life is over."

I want to say right now, this is not my mother talking. This is either dementia or the dreaded 'A' word, but this is not the woman I have loved and looked up to all my life.  This is the disease talking.  And I have to remind myself of it. Over and over. 

Because it doesn't end.

I did call her doctor and requested a review of her medication list.  There was one med that hadn't been reordered when her prescriptions were renewed and I wondered why.  It was for nifedipine, a blood pressure pill.

"Oh, yes, somehow that was overlooked, she should be on it," and I hustled down to get her a refill.

After about a week of taking the nifedipine, I noticed a definite change in Mom's memory and attitude for the better.   But then the following week, she was worse.  And had a headache, which was a red flag for me.  I took her blood pressure.  It was 208/125. 

"Are you taking your pills?"  I asked.

"I'm not taking that one you bought for me," she said. "Ever since I took that pill, I itch at night.  It's awful."

"You have to take it, Mom, your blood pressure is too high."

I was on the phone with the doctor, she needs to be seen.

I could tell they weren't really believing my blood pressure machine because they were nonchalant when we came in, but when they saw the numbers first hand in the office, the atmosphere changed. 

"Lucille, have you been taking your blood pressure pill?" the doctor asked.  He knew she wasn't because I'd talked to his nurse earlier, but I liked his approach.

"Your blood pressure is way too high, and you have a headache because of it.  And you might not want to hear this, but your daughter says you're not thinking as clearly lately.  Your brain doesn't work well when your pressure is so high.  We need to bring it down.  You could have a stroke and you don't want that," the doctor said.

She told him it made her itch.  He asked her to try taking it again and the minute a rash appeared, she was to come right back in and he'd take a look at it and maybe change her medication to something else.  But since she'd been on the same med for over 15 years, he doubted it was the culprit, but he was willing to negotiate.  And Mom said she would try taking it again.   The rash never reappeared and her blood pressure is now normal, thank goodness.  I asked the doctor after Mom had left the office if it could be Alzheimer's and he didn't really seem to think so.  The decline could be mini strokes or just plain old age/senile dementia but he felt she was doing very well considering her age. I'm supposed to call if the situation changes. 

 It's just the kid in me that doesn't want my mom to change. 

She should be the Mom and I should be the Kid.

 I don't want to be In Charge.  Heck no!  That's not the way it's supposed to be!  She's the Mom. 

But I stepped in and took over another part of her life.  It was high time I took over the medication dispensing, too.  So every morning I go up to Mom's, fill her a glass of water and watch her take her meds.  She was a bit angry about this, and I can't blame her; I do resemble a warden forcing her to do as I say.  Her mental state has improved quite a bit since her blood pressure is better controlled, at least for now, but our relationship has shifted.  I can tell she doesn't trust me any more, at least not like she did.  I've suddenly taken away her independence and that's a bitter pill to swallow.  I'm her only surviving child, so there is no one else to shoulder this responsibility with, except for Carl, who is doing wonders with Mom.  She likes him.

 Me, not so much. 

She doesn't remember seeing Joel or David even though they stop in quite often.  And she often worries, ironically, that I'm in the hospital whenever she doesn't see a light on in our house after dark.  Worry is becoming a habit with her which is truly sad.  She never was a worrier, she always said my father worried enough for the both of them, so why bother?  I long for those days.

I try not to worry about the future, I truly do.  I try to take each day as it comes and rejoice in the little things.  Yes, she's still alone in her house, though I do check on her several times a day, I know anything can happen.  She's not forgotten to turn off the stove.  Yet. 

I've had people tell me I should put her in assisted living, but that would truly be the last straw in our relationship for now.  She asked me several weeks ago if people (me) could force her to leave her home.  I told her no, I couldn't force her, don't worry about it. 

Years ago she told me if it got to the point where I had to change her diapers and she didn't make any sense, I wasn't to feel badly about putting her in a home.  I know she doesn't feel that way now.  Who would? 

I love her more than words can say.  She was my saving grace in an emotionally abusive childhood.  I will do for her as long as it is in her best interests and I'm capable of handling whatever health crisis we come to, but I also hope we don't cross that bridge.  But I know anything is possible at this stage of life. 

The other morning I went to give her medication and the door was still locked.  I used my key and called out her name as I walked in.

 No answer.  The dread set in.  I didn't want to go one step further.  But I did.

She was still in bed.  She was as still as a stone and my heart was in my throat, until she jumped from the fright of seeing me standing there.  She'd simply overslept and was fine, but both of our hearts were pounding. 

Am I doing the right thing, I worry?  Probably not.  We're making this up as we go along.

Things have calmed down a little since July.  For the most part, Mom's been ok with me carting her around and yes, I do go to church regularly now.   She is still painting garden ornaments and anything I can talk her into decorating for me; she truly loves to paint yet and does fantastic work.  I'm always on the lookout for another project for her to create.  Painting is our salvation.

I am not a great daughter, I will freely admit it.  There are times when I get impatient even though I try my best to hide it.  It isn't Mom that I resent, it's the fact she's being taken away from me, slowly but surely. I throw pity parties for myself on my walks back home from her house, how juvenile.  I pray.  And I walk.  A lot.  Exercise keeps me sane.  I average ten to twelve miles a day, sometimes fifteen. 

 It was easier when my father slipped into dementia; he had been a drinker and was often intoxicated, so I was used to dealing with his altered mental states even as a child.  His mood swings were constant, so it was normal for me even when he didn't know who I was for the last few years of his life.  He was always looking around for Karen, a little four year old Karen that he could never find and it worried him no end. 

"Have you seen Karen?  I don't know where she got to now.  She should be home!"

"I'll go look for her.  She'll be fine," I'd say, patting his arm.

"Don't worry."

Annual Love Affair and More

 One of the most asked questions of Carl and I when we have garden guests is:

"Why do you plant so many annuals?"

My semi-sassy comeback most of the time is:

"Why not?"

We all know I have a bit of a fetish for the Bubblegum petunias in the Riverbed and on the Quarry hills in the full sun, but as we move into the shade after passing through the Egress Gate, another of my favorites come into view.

No annuals at the entrance.  (But hey, we got the Egress Gate welded and repainted this spring after I ran into it with the lawn mower two years ago.)

Looking back through the gate to the north. No annuals here.

 Here we are entering hosta territory and along with the hostas are my favorite shade annuals.

Begonias.

Holey Rock Collection bordered in wax begonias and below:

Tuberous 'Nonstop' begonias in a planter

The begonias have been in bloom since June and these pictures were taken last week in late September.

The plant stand above was an art project Carl made in high school in 1972, it is actually a replica of a huge nail.  It sat in our garage for years until I asked Carl if I could use it as a stand for flowers. When he said yes, it was whisked off to Mom's for a fanciful paint job of butterflies and flowers before coming back home to hold flowerpots for me.

At the base of the Nail Stand are more wax begonias and some red New Guinea impatiens from my friend, Brenda.  Back in July, Brenda closed her greenhouse for the season and brought over several minivan loads of annuals.  I was like a kid at Christmas!  All those beauties to plant, oh, it was wonderful.  

I do grow 90% of my own annuals from seed, but begonias take a long growing season under good strong grow lights to get started from seed, so I usually do end up buying them.  They are powerhouses of bloom that can take shade, some direct sun, and can even withstand very cold nights, though a killing frost will do them in.  And thanks to Brenda, this year I have them in drifts.

When I walk through the hosta beds at night, the white borders illuminate the trail.

I admit to not appreciating begonias very much early on in my gardening career.  I used to think they weren't much to look at, but that's changed over the years when I realized how silly I'd been.  

Brenda also brought me some Angelwing begonias:

It takes a big plant to fill a big urn, and this urn is big.  This is our 2014 Junk Recycling addition to the garden.  We took an old tool stand from the shop (the base/rectangular part) and put a decorative cast iron riser in place on the tool stand and added the top off of a stainless tank which measures some forty inches across and then a can of Rustoleum Bronze paint and there we had it, a big ol' urn for the hosta bed.  And with the addition of the Dragonwing Begonia, it was fantastic from a distance and.......

up close and personal.  

The hosta bed is nice and green, but the splash of color steals the show.  

Annuals make me happy.

As I stroll through the hosta bed, appreciating the delicate tracery of the white pine needles in the sunset, the white begonias catch my eye once again.

I'm already thinking about next summer's annuals for a very different reason.....are you ready?

There's going to be a wedding in the family.

Our eldest son Joel and his beautiful fiancee, Abby, are getting married in June!

I've been poring over my seed catalogs from years past and when the new catalogs come in, you better bet I'll be ordering early.  

We have to get this ol' Quarry Garden looking fantastic for this Most Special Event.  (Can you tell I'm excited?)  I keep thinking of all the stuff I'd like to change before next summer, but time is growing short.  (Castle Aaargh....aaargh........) 

But we'll do what we can as fast as we can.

June will be here before we know it.

Walking Excursions

 I'm just going to throw random photos of the end of summer garden as we go along.  The pictures won't have a thing to do with the following story. 

The garden season is definitely winding down now and things are looking a bit tattered.  We had a mini-drought earlier in the summer which was made up for by a near-monsoon season for the last few weeks.  In one week alone we were inundated with six inches of rain which put the kibosh on weeding or mortaring.

Though we should be working on Castle Aaargh by now, Carl and I find ourselves at loose ends lately since the tours have come to an end for the year.  When it's not raining we've been working off and on remodeling the back side of the Quarry Hill, adding more rock to the planting areas to reduce the amount of weeding.  Earlier this summer we limbed up about a dozen blue spruce trees so visitors could walk around behind the hill instead of going up and over if they weren't of the Mountain Goat persuasion.  The trail up and over by the waterfall is a bit tricky so it's nice to have the bypass in place.

Quarry pond and Goldsturm rudbeckia

With all the rain we've had the lawn is soggy, so the thought of hauling up a hundred or so pallets of rock from the Back Eight wasn't on my to-do list as the tractor would leave ruts in no time.  We may or may not get to working on Aaargh this year.  We'll see.

One thing we have been doing since the excitement died down is taking little trips here and there.  Our two faithful doggies, Teddy and Pudding, are both fourteen years old and on diuretics and my mom needs me around a bit more, so our trips are short and sweet.

Take for instance this past Friday.  I noticed we were nearly out of dog meds, so a trip to the vet was in order for refills.  The vet's office is about 20 miles away so we had an enjoyable drive through the countryside, and for a change, the weather was very pleasant with bright blue skies and a strong breeze.

We arrived at the veterinarian's office at 5PM and after making our purchase, Carl asked me if I'd like to go exploring somewhere.  Since it was late in the afternoon and I hadn't gotten all my * steps in yet, I was happy to suggest a nearby park.

* (I don't know if you remember, but I have a FitBit One (fancy pedometer-y thing) I bought in March. I'm in some FitBit challenge groups online and well, let's just say I'm obsessed with trying to get no less than 20,000 steps six days a week which equals about ten miles a day, but on Sunday I drop down to five miles, give or take for a bit of a rest.)

There's a windmill in the pond, do you see it?

Why do I walk so much?  I don't know. My friend Ann thinks I have OCD and she may well be right; I do tend to go overboard on things like rocks, flowers, stained glass lamps, etc.  But not cleaning.  Definitely not cleaning....anyway---where was I?  Oh, yes.

I've got this FitBit addiction, I fully admit it.  I walk with Leslie Sansone for an hour in the morning which is usually equal to five miles and if the weather is nice and I'm in the garden, the rest of the day easily racks up another five miles, so it's really not that big of a deal.  Except for the days it rains or something else comes up and I can't get my steps in.   Then I get a teensy bit antsy.  Carl supports my decision to put in the steps, but I know it's gotta be annoying sometimes.  He's in the house and I'm out on the road pacing back and forth in the dark.

"I've only got another 4,000 steps to go, be back real soon!"  Sometimes he goes with me, but for the most part I'm on my own.  The road is quiet, I have my cellphone and if a car comes, I jump in the ditch.  What's to worry about?  Well, there are the occasional skunks/raccoons/things that go bump in the night/unidentified walking objects that make me pick 'em up and put 'em down a whole lot faster, thus shaving time off my efforts.   

Looking at where I rank on the leaderboards on FitBit's website, I'm rarely any closer than the top fifteen or twenty walkers.  There are some people walking over 26 miles a day.

See, I don't have a problem.

I can quit if I want to.

I can.

So, back to our story.  I directed Carl to a park he'd never been to before.  I'd gone to this park with Joel two years ago in the late fall but it had been such a raw day with spitting snow that we didn't feel like exploring much.  I don't have any photos of the park, the scenery wasn't really fantastic anyway; I think it was part of the wastewater treatment plant, actually, as there were four very large square ponds at least an acre in size apiece separated by earth berms.  There were some ducks floating on one of the ponds and since it was so windy, actual waves on the surface.

There was only one other car in the parking lot which was fine by us.  Neither of us like crowds.  I just happened to have my Exerstrider walking poles in the backseat, and Carl's pair in the trunk, so off we went.  Carl doesn't mind walking if the destination is new and there is something to see.  He can't abide pacing back and forth on the same route day after day for no good reason and I don't blame him.  He's not addicted.

"How many steps do you need yet today?" Carl dutifully asked.

"I have 8320 on right now," I said, "so another 12,000 ought to do it."

"Another six miles?  I don't think this park is that big."

We set off at a lively pace going north around the west end of the biggest pond.  We climbed a small hill and found the trail branched off to the east for a few hundred feet and then went north again between two older ponds bordered in cattails.  The trail was grassy and hadn't been mown for a few weeks but the walk was pleasant.  We discussed his day at work and the projects he's got in process as we strolled along.  We came to a small patch of woods and followed the trail through the ash trees and back to the mowed lawn again.

We've had a lot of rain, high water in the Quarry for September.

"How many steps do you have now?" he asked.

"Let me check," I said, as I peered down my shirt.  Yes, the FitBit is clipped to my, gasp! bra.  I try to be discreet about it, but know I fail sometimes.  Hey, I've seen other people peeking down their shirts, too.  I'm not the only weirdo.

"9625."

"That's it?  I thought we walked farther than that."

We started to head back around the last pond in the park when we came to a fork in the road.

"I wonder where that trail goes," Carl said.  "Do you want to find out?"

We set down the narrow path until we got to a chain stretched between two posts with a sign on the other side.  Carl stepped over the chain and said, "Look, it's the old railroad tracks."

In our area, many railroad tracks have been abandoned, the rails removed and gravel put down to make recreational trails for pedestrians.  These trails go for miles across the country and we've walked on many stretches of them in the past. 

"How many steps do you have now?" he asked.

"9998.  We could walk west until my FitBit hits 15,000 and then turn around and come back.  I should easily hit 20,000 that way."

"Ok, sounds good," Carl said and we headed off the park property and onto the railroad trail.

Since the trains don't go down these trails anymore, the trees have grown quite a canopy overhead forming a tunnel of sorts.  In places it is very dark and the gravel grows moss.   As we rounded a slight bend we came upon a wooden bridge crossing a small stream.  There was a man in his forties sitting on the floor of the bridge, smoking a cigarette,  His bicycle was propped up next to him on the railing and was loaded with what looked to be camping equipment.  He was a rather tough-looking character, but then I know appearances aren't everything.   Carl hadn't shaved or had a haircut for over a month himself and looked scruffy too, but truth be told, it sure was nice to be walking with Carl.

As we crossed the bridge, the man took another drag on his smoke and looked up at us quizzically. With one laconic glance he took in our spiffy Exerstrider poles, exhaled as he snorted out a cloud of smoke and said, "What?  Y'all expecting snow?"

"Never can tell when we'll get lucky," I said as we smiled and went on by.

"Get lucky?" Carl said when we were safely out of earshot.  "That's a new one coming from you."

Ok, it was a silly response, but I do hear those comments all the time when I'm exerstriding.   Yes, we do look odd, but it is an upper body workout too and takes the weight off your feet and joints and well, never mind.  Soon it will snow for real and I'll have skis to go along with the poles and all will be right with the world.

East hill of the Quarry at sunset.

We kept plodding westward into the setting sun.  The wind was picking up a bit more and the sky to the north was dark blue.  We went by a huge grain storage feed mill and watched them load a semi of ground feed for awhile before continuing on.  The grain bins are absolutely huge, I think we made a mistake making Castle Aaargh out of stone, we should have bought one of those round grain bins and we'd have been done a decade ago.  Oh, well.  Next time.  We both kept checking over our shoulders for the scruffy bicycle guy, but he never reappeared.  Apparently he was headed east on the trail.

We crossed two roads and finally after checking my mileage--14,698--time to turn around and go back.  The walk back was a little more pleasant as it was slightly downhill and the wind kept the mosquitoes from getting a toehold.   For some reason the walk back seemed to take half the time which is good as the sun had just gone down behind the trees.  We climbed back over the chain fence and were back in the park.

As we headed down the other side of the ponds, another trail appeared in the woods to the south.  We debated which way to go, and Carl opted to take the woods path while I continued on around the pond.  We don't usually split up, but sometimes it's fun to each take a different route in the interests of time and then compare notes when we're done.  Since it was getting dark, there wouldn't be any time to take both trails.

I went on alone.   Suddenly my attention was caught by a flash of white in the pond to my left.  It was a huge white heron or egret, flying up slowly over the pond's surface and then gliding back down to rest on a tree stump.  He kept repeating this performance, up and over, back and down and with the last glow of the sunset on his white feathers, it was a beautiful sight seeing him reflected in the pond's surface.  I wished Carl could have seen this too, and reached in my pocket for my cellphone.  My cellphone...which wasn't there because I'd forgotten it on the kitchen table at home.

It is continually amazing to me how dependent I've gotten on gadgets.  For the first 53 years of my life I did not have a cellphone.  Just think, Carl and I ventured out into the wilds of the world without one all those years.  My, we were pioneers, weren't we?  I can't describe the sinking feeling of dread I felt when I realized I didn't have the silly thing on me because truth be told, though I'm not a fraidy-cat in the woods or the dark, a cellphone is a nice thing to have in case of emergencies.

 Darkness was now falling fast.  The trail I was on came to a fork in the road again with no Carl in sight.  I had my 20,000 steps on by this time, but thinking Carl's trail might be a lot longer than the straight path I'd taken, I opted to walk around the north side of the last and largest pond of them all. There were actual waves on the pond's surface and when they hit the concrete breaker rocks, it made an eerie sloshing sound.  The trail grew narrower as I reached the east end and I found myself walking alongside a huge pipe which appeared to be coming from one of the buildings on shore.

As I got even with the middle of the pipe, there was a loud hissing noise as if something were under a great deal of pressure.  My common sense told me it was just a normal, industrial noise, but my instincts were to move away from the hissing.  The trail became more narrow and the only way through was forward unless I wanted to go for a swim.   I picked up speed then, all the while kicking myself alternately for forgetting my cellphone and for letting my imagination get the better of me. The scruffy guy wasn't hiding in the shadows, was he?  Really, that sort of thinking will never do.  Get a grip, woman.

I finally made it to the south side of the pond where I knew our car was parked though it was too dark to see it.   I went around the pitch black backside of a building rather skittishly while clutching my walking poles tightly; they have carbide tips on them and probably could be used for self defense as well as walking. (Maybe I should take up the martial arts?)

Where was Carl?  In the time it took me to make the detour around the big pond he should have been back to the car before me.  How long was the trail he took?  I wonder if it even came back to this park?  Maybe it went into the city or back to the recreational trail.  He could be walking in the wrong direction entirely.   Did he fall and break something?  Did he step off the edge of one of the ponds?   If I'd only brought my phone!

Just as I was cussing myself out for the umpteenth time stumbling across the uneven lawn in the dark, a familiar shape came into view. A square structure on a pedestal that looked at once foreign and yet very familiar--and written on the side in big blue letters, PHONE.

A phone!  Yes! Now I can call Carl!

Except the booth was empty with only holes in the post where the phone should be.  My initial relief was rather comical now, looking back.  Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I saw a public phone booth though they were once as common as mailboxes on city streets.  And even if this dinosaur had been a working phone, I would have been out of luck.  I didn't have any money on me.

I wonder what children visiting this park think of the phone booth?  Maybe it was left to stand as a historical relic for field trips.  "Children, way back in the 1970's people used to call each other from these structures."  A telephone on a cord with push buttons and a phone book that was usually always very damp and swollen twice its original size if it were there at all?  In the middle of a field?  We really did rough it in the olden days, didn't we?

I finally made it to our Pontiac with relief and tried the door, but of course, it was locked.

And, of course, Carl had the keys.

I stood there for a bit listening to the waves hit on the opposite shore and tried to calmly consider the predicament we were in.  It wasn't an emergency, no one was hurt (that I knew of) but what were my options?  Stay with the car and wait, or go look for Carl were the only two I could come up with.  The city this park belonged to was at least a mile and a half away, and if I couldn't find Carl in a reasonable time my next option was to walk into town and ask for help. 

I gathered up my poles and headed out the way we'd originally gone only three hours before.  The trail was rutted and had large chunks of gravel on it which made walking in the daylight a challenge, but now, in the dark with the wind whipping the trees around, I stumbled constantly.  I slowed down considerably; the last thing we needed was for me to break a big toe or something.  My mind was working overtime; I was picturing all sorts of calamities which could have befallen poor Carl in the hour we'd been apart.

A wrong turn?  A pack of stray dogs/wolves/coyotes/juvenile delinquents/scruffy bicycle rider-drifter types/a BEAR??  There goes the blood pressure up, up, up and away.  I had to slow down even more as there were big mud puddles on the trail and I had to sidestep them.

Bears? No there aren't any bears in this area....wait, there was a bear on the news just the other day, found wandering around in Green Bay.  Urban Green Bay, right in town.  But this park is twenty miles northwest of there.  Not to worry.  Where did they take the bear when they let it go?  Surely not this close to where he was caught.  Don't worry, there are no bears here. 

Keep calm.  Keep walking.

Did I yell for Carl?  No.  For one thing, it was so windy it wouldn't have done much good and for another thing I have an absolute distaste for yelling in public or private.  (Ask Carl, I had natural childbirth twice with no painkillers and never yelled once.)   I hate to draw attention to myself at any time and yelling will tend to do that.  My father hated (and I mean HATED) noisy kids, so I learned early on to squelch any boisterous shenanigans.  (I always use my Indoor Voice.  Just so you know.)

But as time and distance traveled went on with still no sign of Carl, I was getting desperate.  Desperate times call for desperate measures, maybe I would have to holler for him after all.

Just at that moment I heard a loud crack very nearby.   I stopped in my tracks and listened, but heard nothing but the relentless wind and my heart pounding in my ears.  Then I saw something move on the trail ahead of me.  I stood stock still and hoped against hope it was Carl and not an Ax Murderer/Bear/Bigfoot. 

"Carl?" I squeaked out.

"WHERE were you!?  The trail I was on came out on the other side of the park and by the time I got out of the woods it was dark.  I couldn't see you anywhere.  And you didn't answer your phone!  Which way did you go?  Did you get to the car yet?  You had me worried!"

It felt so good to hug him tight, I can't tell you how good.


"Did you get your 20.000 steps in?"

I didn't let go of his hand until we got to the car.

Fifteen Weeks of Fame (almost)

Mid-September already and where have I been?  Well, where haven't I been would be the better answer, I guess.  My dear mother has had some health issues, nothing serious, but she is in need of my help more now.  My health has been pretty good, but the new thyroid doctor I found less than a year ago is moving to another state.  I am jinxed in that department; I scare them all away.  I have a consultation with a new doctor lined up for November, but I'm not looking forward to the appointment.  Enough about that...

I was in the garden a lot.  Weeding, planting, repeat.  We had two big garden tours/bus trips followed by wedding parties for photography.   We attended three more weddings and there was another booyah party here in August.   I went kayaking once, did a little kite flying twice, and in the middle was a whole lot of tour-guiding visitors through the rock piles of good ol' Quarry Garden.

We had our fifteen weeks of fame this summer.  Way back in April we were photographed and written up in 'Our Wisconsin' magazine and with my cellphone number in the article, my pocket was ringing quite a bit with visitors from all over the country coming to tour 'The Prettiest Farm in Wisconsin'.  (My that's a big title for a humble hut in an alfalfa field, isn't it??)

'Build it and they will come' or have a magazine write about it and that works, too.

 This was the first week we haven't had company since early June.   I didn't keep a running total, but I would estimate we had over 1,300 people look at this rock obsession we call home this year. 

If you want to be a Phone Receptionist/Tour Guide here, these will be the most asked questions.  (Answers are in italics.)  Ready?

How long have you been working on this? A long time.
Did you have a master plan drawn up by an architect? Ah, NO.
How did you know what to plant where? Trial and error.  Lots of the latter.
Are you a Master Gardener/have you had horticultural training/degrees?  Nope.
How many hours a day does it take to weed all this?  32.6
How many people do you employ?  0
What are your hours?  When I get up and when it gets dark.
Is there staff available for tours?  No staff, but I'm here most of the time.
Do we need an appointment or can we come anytime?   An appointment would be great, also it will mean I am fully clothed on your arrival.
Do you have an underground watering system?  Yes and no, there is a well, and we move the water above ground with long, nasty, twisting hoses WHEN we water which ain't a whole lot.
Who built all the garden structures?  Carl with help from spouse and children when necessary.
Would Carl build a dome/stone house/stone wall/stone pyramid/ball fountain/propane tank balls/weird garden art/pan fountains, etc for other people?  Not if his wife can help it.
Why do you plant all these annuals?  Because I love long season color and I'm goofy like that.
How did you ever find a property with an abandoned stone quarry on it?  Refer them to the construction photo album.
Do you ever have weddings here?  Once in awhile.
This could be a real moneymaker.  HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA...repeat.
Why haven't we ever heard of you before?  Faulty advertising staff.
Do you ever just enjoy it or are you always working?  No and yes.  (Ok, sarcasm aside, I enjoy it whenever I look up from weeding and see a flower in bloom against a blue sky.)
Why don't you spray weedkiller/fertilize your lawn?  No money in budget, plus, weeds are green.  And tough.
Do you ever sit out here and read a book?  No.
Do you take your morning coffee out by the pond and enjoy the sunrise?  Not a coffee drinker, definitely not a morning person, but have been known to weed by moonlight.
Is gardening a passion you both share?  Some days. 
Why don't you have a bottle tree?  We don't drink wine.
Why don't you drink wine?  We don't have the time, but Carl is an avid milk drinker.  Somehow a milk jug tree doesn't have the same appeal.
Who has the vision for the landscaping?  We're both guilty.
What is your favorite plant? That's like picking a favorite child, can't be done.
How much land do you own?  98 acres.
Are you going to keep expanding?  No, no, at least not today.
What is this stone 'ruin' thing?  We call it Castle Aaargh because......oh, never mind.
Do you intend to finish it?  How long will it take?   Yes and how long can you stay?  Do you know how to cut rock?  
Why do you make so many stained glass lamps?  We can't stop ourselves, they're like potato chips.
What will happen to this garden when you are too old/dead?  A bulldozer will push the rocks into the quarry and it will be an alfalfa field again.

Our fifteen weeks of fame are past now, but that's ok.  It was fun while it lasted.  The time flew by.

And speaking of time flying; Carl and I celebrated our 36th wedding anniversary earlier this month.  We were 20 when we got hitched, so you can do the math.  No, that's not our weeding attire, those were wedding duds as we were on our way to a reception when Joel took this picture in June. 

1872 Weeks of Wedded Bliss.  More or less. 

 And it went by like a blur.........

2014 Garden Walks

The garden walks are history now.  All that work is over for one more year, all the primping, pruning, welding, weeding and worrying.  It's sort of like planning a wedding, all that fuss for one day; you give it all you've got and more, and then, poof, in the matter of a few hours it's over. Well, this year, we did commit to three walks, so I guess the fuss was worth it.

On June 28 we were one of six gardens on the Midwest Hosta Society Convention tour.  I think around 190 people from five states toured that day and managed to find us even though our address was wrong on their maps.  Thank goodness for cell phones, people called each other and spread the word. 

See that plaque?  That there is proof we were a Tour Garden.  Didn't want you to think we were making this stuff up.

On July 11 we had a bus of people headed for a fun day up north stop in for a tour here at 7:30 AM.

And finally, last Saturday, July 12, we hosted the Emergency Shelter of Appleton garden walk.  I don't know the exact number of people who came, but it was very close to five hundred.  The day was overcast and extremely humid and the forecast called for a 75% chance of thunderstorms, but nary a drip fell during the walk.  Or after, come to think of it, we could really use some rain right about now.

This plaque is a little less specific but to the point.  In the Year 2014, a Garden Walk occurred here.

 For those of you who have never endured a garden walk hosted by us, I thought if might be fun to show you just what would be in store for you as an attendee.  When we give guided tours here, we stick to a route.   Some visitors are a little miffed by that tradition; they just want to run willy-nilly and look at what they please.  And that's ok, truly it is, but if you'd like to get the Full Garden Experience, please follow your tour guide.

Ok, here we go.  When you pull up on the road, this is what the place looks like.

Ok, rocks, a bunch of trees, yawn.

As you come up the driveway, there's a closer look of some petunias struggling to drape and cascade and generally frolic over the stone walls.  There isn't much frolicking going on yet.

Ok, these petunias planted in light shade pots and supported by scrap metal pedestals are a little more impressive than those out by the road.  Note the Select Crushed Limestone driveway aka gravel has been raked repeatedly for your visit.

Annoyingly, this is where the tour guides stop you.  We must go around the front of the house.  Follow along. 

Either Carl, Karen, Joel or David will answer questions as we go.

 Pine needle mulch?  Where do we get it?

We rake it up in the Back Eight and haul it up by the trailer load.

Do we worry about it causing too high of an acidity for the garden?

No.

Look out for Carl's rotating sculpture in the upper left hand corner, I swear that thing is going to put someone's eye out.

 Coming out of the front hosta bed, we are now in the creek bottom.  The red 'Fresh Look' celosias are just starting to bloom.

Looking to the north, you will see the Pachyberm, so named for the mythical elephant we didn't bury here.  In reality, our geothermal lines are buried under there.  And yes, we've had a lot of winter damage on the conifers, but we didn't saw all of them down.

Just rocks and random plants.  Nothing too terribly exciting.  Move on, Tour Guide.

Stella D'Oro and liatris, yep, seen it before.

Heading back east across the front of the house, more pine needles and pesky pine cones. 

The tour guide points out our favorite daylily named 'Joel'.  The substance of these petals is amazing, they feel like heavy plastic.

Looking back from where we came, ok, we're moving a little now.

Going past what used to be Dave's sedum garden when he was a youngster. Things have gotten out of hand in there. 

 Rounding the corner, we come to Carl's water feature made of granite balls powered by water pressure. 

And here we are back in the driveway again...

Lots of those pink petunias around this joint.

These old geraniums are in a planter by the back door; the owner (me) forgot to water them from October to March last year and there were only a few leaves left this spring that hadn't dried up and fallen off.  They surely bounced back well.

 We go through Grandma Lucille's fancy painted garden gate to the back yard.

The Riverbed flowing in Pepto Bismol pink.  The tour guide will be quiet (finally) and let you look around.

Magellan coral zinnias, datura and cosmos along with my favorite garden statue.

This favorite plaque was given to me by my friend, Nancy, and I feel the saying is true.

Petunias are off to a slow start this year, cold, wet weather has slowed them way down.

Hostas, trumpet vine, weeping white spruce and granite right behind the house.

The hose in the lower left corner is Not a Soaker Hose...I repeat, not a soaker hose.  We drag our hoses around here as we need to.  We don't need no fancy watering systems.  (Actually, wouldn't that be wonderful??)

Assorted goofy conifers and coneflowers.

Another view of the River Bed.

There were some Asiatic lilies open for the walks.

The most talked about garden feature here: the recycled lightshade Pan Fountain.

Random flower shots.

Finally, the Quarry.

The dome.

The lawn furniture.

Back to the dome and the Big Balls.  (Yes, we do have the Biggest Balls of Them All--sing along, it's a catchy little ditty.)

Carl welded the old propane tank ends together and they are great fun to roll around the yard.  More on that in another post.

 There's a third one hiding over there.

 More rocks, petunias, grasses, stuff.

The Escarpment

Ok, lots of waterlilies.  Lots and lots.

Forgot to plug in the waterfall, but we got it fixed for the walk!

 Moving along, going up the trail on top of the Quarry:

View from the hill:

Koi given to us by our friend Ellen

Ok, moving on from the Quarry, there's a Pyramid.

 And the back of the Quarry Hill.

What's that thing over there?  Is it a silo ruin?

No.  Say it with me, everyone....

It's Castle Aaargh.

Aaargh with a view.  What it looks like from the inside looking out.

Why does it have a stained glass window?  What is this supposed to be?  Why aren't you working on it?

Um, yeah.  About Aaargh......on second thought, let's not go there.  It's a Silly Place.

Let's go through the Egress gate and see the Holey Rock Collection.

And the hostas and planters and stuff.

Well, here we are back in the driveway again.  I hope you enjoyed your tour.  

 

This concludes your 2014 Quarry Garden tour. 

Thanks for coming and don't be a stranger.  

Everyone's Welcome!

(There, now we can mess this place up again.  Get me a chainsaw.)