Adventures in Landscaping

I've always wanted a pond...

... so I built one.  This small area in front of the house was formerly occupied by annual garden beds.  My mother-in-law planted, literally, hundreds of flowers here every summer and tended to them with great care.  Annual flowers and I do not agree so well and while I tried to continue this tradition for a few years, it never looked nearly as nice.  So with one of the garden beds being a preformed pond liner sunken in to the ground and the hole already created once potting soil was removed, I tore in to the project earlier this spring.  Except it kept raining and I kept wondering if a water feature was really something I wanted.

 But I did want it!  Danish Cowboy got in to the spirit of things by gathering rocks both large and small, crumbly and sturdy, mossy and not and the adventure began.  With a waterfall and filter in place, things looked great.  Except it needed some life to it, so I bought some plants from eBay and some slimy almost dead water lilies at deeply discounted prices from Lowe's.

 And then it started growing algae so I decided I needed some aquatic life.  The kids and I ventured out to a little stock dam to gather tadpoles...which turned out to be surprisingly more difficult than I ever imagined.  And when one of the kids had enough of wading through muck comprised mostly of cow shit, he threw his boot way out in the water.  So I had to wade through the poop to recover the boot and still we only came home with six wily tadpoles.

 We had a tadpole relocation party later that day so that Cluck-Cluck 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 could check out their new homes.

All that hard work really paid off because we never saw the little bastards again.

I did sneak out with a flashlight a few times and glimpsed them swimming quickly in to a hiding spot, but I fear that the introduction of Danish Cowboy's minnows may have finished them off.

The original plan was to add a few goldfish to the pond, but living in eastern Montana, there aren't too many goldfish or koi breeders within driving distance.  And have you checked out the price of a pond goldfish lately?  $30 so that I can wake up one morning and find it floating in my pond?  No thanks.  Free minnows from our plentifully running prairie streams will do just fine.  Although I'm still a little torqued that they ate our tadpoles, what fun it was to throw squirmy little fishies in to the water. We already have plans to expand it a bit next year and add more depth to some parts of it.   

In other news, mud continues to be an issue.  My little boy is growing up to believe that spring planting season is all about avoiding getting stuck, when in reality it is typically about praying that spring precipitation will arrive.  Old men and young boys alike are in awe of this year's rains.  With water randomly running out of hillsides, creeks that have been running for weeks on end (rather than the usual 3-4 days), and tractors bogged down across the countryside, no one really knows which way to turn.

One thing is for certain, though:  tractors, both big and small, are in need of a good bath.

2009 Stay-cation Blog Post #5

Did you know that the 90 degree angle was a relatively new introduction to the world of home construction? I only recently learned of its value as I went through most of western Montana's old growth forest in order to properly cut baseboard trim for one room and in so doing discovered that the walls are not at 90 degrees. Or even at 89 degrees.

It's true. There is no way that people knew about 90 degrees way back in 1928. You see, my farmhouse is one of The Homes that Sears Built. It is a Sears and Roebuck kit home that arrived in its many parts and pieces on a railroad car at Brockway. Danish Cowboy's grandfather (who actually was born in Denmark) used a horse and wagon to make many treks back and forth to gather the pieces and then assemble the home. I joke about the walls being a little off, but I love this place! And besides, after 80 years and the house being lifted to put a basement under it and a front entryway being added and an addition being added, and various sorts of severe weather pounding you, and countless coats of paint, you probably wouldn't be perfect, either.
And so, since last September, we have been attempting to make this place our own. My husband's mother moved to town and the house became ours. No one had lived upstairs in quite some time and I was determined that the blue shag had to go.

And so it did.
The blue shag even extended up the wall about six inches, acting as a sort of art deco trim. I just couldn't take it and ripped it up only to discover the original old plank hardwood floors. It just about killed me to cover them up with more carpet, but if you can imagine this I just don't have the time right now to refinish hardwood floors. That day will come though. It will come.

I just love the little eccentricities that dot the place. These sweet closets with doors that are only about 5 feet tall. Note how the original trim at the top of the door is narrower at the left hand side and grows wider toward the right. And the old farmhouse doors with metal knobs -- priceless!

We still have a lot of work to do, but getting the trim up after nine months is a major accomplishment for us. Really.

And please pass this note along to any of your plumber friends looking for pro bono work: Danish Cowboy's grandfather opted to NOT have a bathroom upstairs. Actually, he opted for no running water at all at the very beginning. So what I'm hinting at is this: anyone interested in installing a bathroom? For free? I'll feed you. And give you a tractor ride.

Remembering an Old Friend

It all went down last night after the kids went to bed. And thank goodness they were in bed so as not to witness the tragedy that unfolded. In a fury of late night bathroom cleaning, of scrubbing toilets, scouring showers and tubs, and finding clumps of hair in interesting spots -- I did him in. It was all an accident of course. A terrible tragedy. My bath pillow is history. There he lies, never again to provide comfort.

This pillow and I, we have a history. My dear sister bought him for me circa 1999 when I moved to a Washington, D.C. apartment and complained about something or other about not being able to enjoy a bath. Blah, blah, blah went my story as it usually does and abracadabra -- there appeared a pillow. He then traveled with me across the country to little Missoula, Montana and was put to very, very good use there. You won't believe this, but my apartment did not have a shower. Yes, I know. Throw the jokes at me. It is my belief that there are so many dread-headed people in that town due to the lack of modern bathing facilities. Really, it would have been easier for me not to even bathe or wash my hair. I think the bathtub was miniature. And the water heater gave out after the tub was filled about 1/20 of the way up. True environmentalism in action. But pillow and me, we perservered. Until last night, that is.

Pillow traveled with me from Missoula to my current residence and was turned from a bright white pillow into an orange pillow due to the high quality rusty water. Please note that this is not a reflection of my cleaning skills. Well, maybe it is a reflection, but only slightly.

I ripped the top suction cup off of pillow last night as I was removing him from the tub (note that the suction cup still hangs on the tub as if saying "ha ha I'm free!"). It may have been his 10 year old age, it may have been all the cleaning acids dumped on him in the last five years, it's hard to say. But his skin weakened and he now exists only in memory. I suppose I could duct tape him together, but I won't. I have my standards.

So sister, this is a test. Do you read this? Do you find it at all entertaining? If so, could you please take your sweet daughter to Target and tell her that you need to buy her weird aunt and darling cousins another bath pillow? In a color that won't rust? I promise not to ask for one for another 10 years.

Thanks in Advance,

Em

Woman Admits to Tears

The house where my husband and I had our first Christmas.

Where we first brought our twins home to and then proceeded to take a year's worth of pictures in various shades of cheap paneling brown .

The house that I helped with its addiction to the 70s. I once imagined myself as a curator of a museum. A museum that was my house. I shall call it "The Museum of the 70s."

Well, my curator dreams have been destroyed and the orange carpet is no longer a part of my life. This old house left our lives today on a mission to provide other families with absolutely no desirable photography opportunity for their young families whatsoever.

The Danish Cowboy -- he didn't even shed a tear when it left. Unbelievable.

I bid you farewell, old house. Good luck in your new life. May the world be kind to you.

And sorry about that purple porch that seems to have left a scar on your side.

Happy trails, old friend.