THE GUARDIAN CAT
Wanting a different position in the government, my husband Al put in for a transfer to an office in Chillicothe, Ohio. It is about fifty miles due south of Columbus and not far from major east/west and north/south interstates. The town is a historic treasure in Ohio, with a lovely central city lined with old homes, thriving businesses, restaurants, and shops, along with amazing l800’s era architecture built for the city’s offices. We had grown tired of the limitations of living in a college town like Athens, Ohio, and I wanted to be closer to major highways for my growing business. In addition, our son Marc was a freshman at Ohio State, and we were empty nesters for the first time in nineteen years.
In the early to mid-1800s, Chillicothe was on the Ohio Erie Canal, and the former homes of wealthy business owners and canal workers are still plentiful throughout the town. As a result, you can easily spot the city's unique Shot-Gun houses, Federal bricks, Carpenter Gothics, Greek Revivals, and the full complement of Victorians. With a husband who has degrees in history and my obsession with Early American history and architecture, Chillicothe was a perfect town for us at that stage of our lives.
Our real estate agent showed us houses on the east side of town in the historic district, not far from the Mead Paper Company. Caldwell Street is a dream come true for those like me who are students of American architecture. There are classic Federals, Second Empires, Greek Revivals, Victorians, and the odd-ball Craftsmen Bungalows and Cottages all on one street. I’d never paid much attention to Craftsmen architecture until we bought a neon yellow Craftsman with Mission-style influences on Caldwell Street. It is a huge house with all the hallmarks of the style. There are built-ins everywhere: on each side of the two fireplaces, under the two living room bay windows, upstairs serving as linen closets, and in the three large bedrooms on the second floor. What made our new old home special were two different sleeping porches, a grand one lined with brick floors off the living room and one off the second floor that I would quickly turn into a year-round heated and cooled studio with a lot of help from my father, Bob. Both porches had large living spaces and looked out onto our yard. When we bought the house, no one had tended the yard for a long while. Other than boxwoods around the house's perimeter, there was nothing but a new garage on the far back of the property, accessed by an old delivery road that ran parallel to Caldwell Street. It took me years, but I eventually turned the backyard into beds of annuals and perennials with two Koi ponds. Don’t worry, and I’ll tell you about that later.
My business grew by leaps and bounds during the years we lived there. I had to hire a full-time employee to prep and finish work on the pieces I used for my art. Since Marc was attending Ohio State, the increase in my revenue made it possible for me to pay for his tuition, food and board, and other fees. He’d come home during semester breaks and holidays but stayed in Columbus and worked during the summers. Marc had been a Merit Scholar in high school, had scored high on his college exams, and was making the most of his time at OSU.
Once we moved into our 1912 home, we discovered that the carpets had been saturated with cat urine, and the windows were single-pane with some painted shut. The kitchen was so outdated that it made me cringe whenever I tried to cook on the old stove. The main bathroom needed to be remodeled, with leaking pipes and a shower whose tiles dropped off the wall on a whim. We both loved this house and still consider it one of the top two homes we’ve ever lived in, including now. It would take time, but we repaired it all and painted the outside a warm tan.
The real discovery came when a young man stopped by the house one day. He was an architecture student at a state university. He made extra money doing deed searches for owners with historic homes. I signed on right there and then.
When he returned with his data, I was awestruck by the information he uncovered. According to the deed search, our house was first built in 1840 as a story and a half Greek Revival. Most of the original house was on the first floor, with sleeping quarters on a partial second level. He’d traced the deed back to the build date. Then he discovered several early photographs in the historical society that showed the house as it was in l860 or so. The original Greek Revival window lights surrounding the front door are still there today. The 1840 structure had been stone, not the stucco it was when we bought it. What fascinated me was that in 1912, the owner left the old house in place, and incorporated Craftsmen elements both on the outside and inside, then added a true second and third floor. I’d later find an old photo of a child, dated before the Civil War, pushing a carriage on the sidewalk in front of the original old house. They were all wonderful finds, and I paid the young man extra for his work on our behalf.
*
There are so many pet stories in my life, but I want to tell you one of them that happened after we moved into our Chillicothe home. I have come to realize that animals can be Guardians too. Think about it for a minute. Those of us who love animals often have pets. We go to the pet store or animal shelter or look at online adoptions where we see cute cats and kittens, puppies and dogs, or some other animal we’d like as a pet. Or maybe we know someone with an animal who needs a loving family. So we pick one out and take it home to love.
I often think these choices might not be our own; something in the animal invites us to choose them. Maybe our lives are so hectic that we want a gentle animal to love. On the other hand, perhaps we long for a boisterous face licker who shows affection at the drop of a hat because we need that sort of attention. Maybe we want a smart pet to talk to and who will listen when most humans ignore us.
Love is a two-way street, and when you give love to an animal… you usually get it back in spades. I believe animals love us even more than we love them. If you have a pet, did you ever really watch them when you are sick or sad? Did they climb onto your lap, lie on your bed, and comfort you? They are our Guardians, in a way. These precious creatures love us without conditions and are by our side when we need them. If lucky, that animal will be with us for a long while. When a person loses that kind of companion, it can be devastating.
Let me tell you about one such pet. As I said, my husband, son, and I moved from Athens to Chillicothe, Ohio, and lived there for thirteen years. We bought a beautiful Craftsman house in a historic neighborhood. The man we bought it from was a cat lover with seven cats he kept inside. Fortunately for us, he left one of them behind. The day we moved in, he called to say that his youngest and sweetest cat hid somewhere while they were packing the moving van. If we could call him when she returned, he would pick her up and take her to his new home.
It was February and bitterly cold that year, with temperatures sometimes below zero. We immediately looked for this young cat, but there was no sign of her. Two weeks went by, and still no sign of her inside or outside our house. I walked the streets looking for her and decided she must have found another home or worse. The wind whipped at our front door every night, and I kept hearing an unfamiliar sound. When I turned on the porch light, there was no one there. One night, I left it off, and when the sound came again, I peeked through the window lights beside the front door. There sat a pitiful yellow tabby cat, thin as a rail. She had been scratching to come in all along, and I’d missed her signal.
I opened the door, and she raced inside. The look of panic was on her face as she must’ve realized we were not her family. She ran to our unfinished basement, where she disappeared into the crawl space of the original l840 structure. My son was home then, and he and I kept trying to trick her out with food. He’d place a dish of soft cat food near the crawl space hole in the basement and wait. She would never come out when we were there, but the food would be gone every morning. Finally, he tricked her out, and she hid somewhere else in the house. While she was away from the crawl space, Marc screened off the opening so she could not get back in. Our house was huge, with many places she could hide. Apparently, finding the crawl space unavailable, she hid somewhere in the massive unfinished attic.
At this point in our lives, we only had one cat, Bootsie. He did not like my husband, probably because of Al’s non-cat vibes, and he barely tolerated me. However, Bootsie loved our son because they had grown up together. Bootsie also did not like other cats and had become quite belligerent in his old age. You may recall that my husband was not particularly fond of cats, so he was not keen on the idea of taking in a new one.
About a week passed with the cat hiding in the attic, and my son and I would put food and water near the steps. We had not seen her since that first night, but apparently, she’d slip out and eat the food while we were not watching. Then, one night while sleeping, something woke my husband. Al opened his eyes in the dark, and all he could see were two ears and a tiny body lying gently on his chest. It was a victory because she finally realized she had a home and would no longer have to live outside. From then on, the new cat loved Al and slept on his chest at night. She was so lightweight that he didn’t feel her, or so he said. He won’t admit it to this day, but he loved this special little creature. I think she came to us for a reason, to soften his predisposition and to give us both a creature to love and protect.
She was a pitiful little thing, with eyes so fearful it broke my heart. She couldn’t have weighed more than a few pounds and never got any bigger, no matter how much we fed her. Finally, she’d gone without food for two weeks and was out in the bitter cold. Then for three more weeks, she hid in the crawl space under our house, probably terrified. I felt so bad about it. Over the years, we decided that her experience of losing her family affected her sense of security for the rest of her life.
We left several messages with the former owner about finding his cat, but he never returned our call. He had not told us her name, and since we decided to keep her... she needed one. Names are important to us, and we thought about it for a while. She was the sweetest cat we had ever met and a soft yellow tabby. Finally, Marc decided we should call her Winnie, after his favorite childhood literary character, Winnie the Pooh.
Winnie also loved me, and the feelings were mutual. She would sit on my lap in the studio for at least a year while I painted. Sometimes I forgot Winnie was there, for she was such a dainty little cat. I wondered if her need to feel secure meant she had to always be with me. After a while, she became more comfortable and didn’t need to sit on my lap all hours of the day.
Winnie adored our backyard and never left it. There was a tall picket fence on two sides and an antique black wrought iron fence on the other side, so she had no real way out. I’d built a small water garden outside our beautiful screened porch, which was her favorite place. I must admit that she was not a smart cat and would stare transfixed at the Koi and goldfish, not quite understanding the whole thing. Hour after hour, she walked on the rocks around the small water garden, waiting for something to happen.
I had a pet bullfrog that I’d named Little Richard, for he sang his heart out every night, most likely hoping for a female frog to join him. Winnie was fascinated with Little Richard. I paid it no mind because Little Richard was a huge bullfrog, and Winnie was so small. She had made her own pet door on our porch by pushing in the screen, so she could come and go at will. So one day, I went down to the porch, and Winnie stood with Little Richard in her mouth. He was almost as long as she was. Now she hadn’t killed him; she was just bringing him to me as a gift.
I must admit that I was upset. I loved Little Richard and could see her teeth holding him tightly on either side of his head. You could never scold Winnie, or she’d hide for days, so I carefully took the frog out of her mouth and put him back in the pond. Little Richard survived his ordeal but seemed to have lost his hearing from the incident. The sense of sound is a frog’s major defense mechanism. About a year later, something killed Little Richard, probably because he could not hear a predator sneaking up on him. I cried, sad that he was gone, and said a little prayer. I did get another frog.
*
We had no idea how old Winnie was, but our wonderful veterinarian guessed her to be between one and two years old when she came to us. A couple of years after she arrived, I had to have major surgery. The doctor said my recovery would be quicker if I walked daily.
Once I returned from the hospital, Winnie acted strangely. She knew I was in pain and stayed beside me all day. When I began to walk again, Winnie walked with me. Our little cat was afraid of everything and never left our yard. Yet as I started my daily exercise, she insisted on going with me. My husband, Al, said it was the funniest thing to watch. My walks consisted of shuffling down our street very slowly, crossing the not-so-busy intersection, and then shuffling my way back home. Every day for weeks, Winnie and I walked together. She stayed behind me and appeared scared but never failed to complete the daily exercise.
You may not think this is unusual, but cats are independent souls, not prone to following people around. I have had many cats, and only Winnie walked behind me like that. Some neighbors would come outside and watch Winnie and me make our rounds. Many waved and smiled as we passed, amused by our procession. I didn’t care if we looked odd. I was proud of Winnie; she had overcome her fear because she didn’t want me out of her sight. She loved me very much and wanted to ensure I healed, so she walked behind me like a Guardian cat. There is no question in my mind; Winnie was my Guardian of the Road.
Winnie passed away suddenly, and we think she was about ten years old at the time. We found her barely alive, curled up on the basement floor, but it was obvious she’d had a stroke. Late in the evening, we rushed her to our vet. He put her to sleep in my arms as I cried. I was devastated and felt her loss deeply. As she left me, I prayed to send her spirit home. I was so thankful that I had her as long as I did. Winnie will be forever in my heart.
*
RIVER CROSSING FOR CORN CHOWDER
I used to be a smoker. Once we moved into our house in Kent, Ohio, I quit. Thinking I needed a substitute for my smoking addiction, I began to ride a bike. I bought a used one with only three gears, no fancy gadgets, just a basic bike I could ride to help me quit smoking. My co-workers at Kent State took bets on whether I’d be successful and quit smoking or if I’d fail. Nevertheless, I succeeded, but quitting cigarettes was one of the hardest things I’ve done.
I gained some weight by substituting food for cigarettes, but in the end, I quit the smokes and began a hobby that filled my life with exercise and joy. From Kent, I’d ride to the beautiful, historic town of Hudson, Ohio, then ride back home, a distance of about 24 miles round trip. It took me time to get up to that distance, but doing so freed me of all sorts of things, including stress and the constant pull of a cigarette in my hand.
Once I started riding, I rode for more than 38 years on highways and byways in Ohio, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Indiana, Mexico, and across Ireland twice. I’d ride any place I could take my bike off the car and put it on the road or where I could hop on my bike and ride for twenty to thirty miles from my home. I had never been athletic, although I was an avid Jazzerciser and swimmer. Biking was and is cathartic for me. I’d leave my worries behind and relish the beauty of nature around me as I spun my wheels, climbed hills, rode down steep mountainsides, and relished the clean air. In Ireland, Al and I climbed a mountain on bikes where sheep grazing at the top was the only other living thing above the tree line. We rode in Mexico, but it was too hot for long-distance rides. We rode across Ohio in tours; we rode from Columbus to Portsmouth, which is 100 miles, then the next day, we rode the 100 miles back. Riding was and is a joy for me. Three decades later, when we moved to the mountains of North Carolina, I didn’t ride anymore. It was too hard, there were no flat roads, and those driving cars in the mountainous areas were not used to seeing people on bikes. It was too dangerous to ride, but it was a real loss for me when I could not ride anymore.
I want to tell you one biking story with no sad ending, thank goodness, and no animals. But it is still a neat tale that will give you an insight into my obsessive/addictive nature.
*
In Chillicothe, I rode my bike about four times a week. I had my own business as a full-time artist, so I could take off and ride whenever I wanted. Sometimes I’d ride my road bike. It had thin tires meant for smooth surfaces and was nimble and lightweight. Other times, I’d take out my mountain bike, which had knobby tires and could go off-road. I had several routes; each went between 15 to 30 miles away from Chillicothe. One of the longer routes took me to the small town of Frankfort. It is a pretty little village way out in the country that, at the time, had several residential streets with modest homes, a couple of churches, one convenience store, and a corner restaurant: The Lazy Susan.
One morning in early June, I decided to ride to Frankfort, even though there was a monster hill between my house and the town. Also, the Frankfort area is mostly farmland for miles, and if I were unlucky enough, I’d run into headwinds coming or going. This time, I was riding my mountain bike since county roads are rough and hard on thin-tire bikes. As I approached Frankfort, I saw a roadblock. It stood in front of the bridge over Paint Creek and into the village. County officials had obviously closed the old bridge and had taken it completely apart. The only thing left was the metal frame. There were no floorboards I could use for a safe crossing. So I had a dilemma. The only direct way home was through Frankfort. Following the detour signs would add 10 to 15 hard miles with a headwind to my usual route.
I studied the bridge again, but there was no way I could cross it. Then I looked at Paint Creek, and it appeared shallow. I’d seen those mountain bike adverts on television. You know, fierce young guys crash their bikes through a creek, hoist the bike on their shoulders, and then cross. At the time, I was fit, and having a manly bike, I thought, what the heck, I can do it.
Paint Creek is scenic but, in fact, is a river. However, feeling adventurous, I walked my bike down a worn path to the creek's edge. It had rained the day before, so the water was muddy, and even though I couldn’t see the bottom, I forged ahead. For a while, things were fine, but the water was bitter cold. I rolled the bike through the river and got about halfway across. Suddenly it became deeper, so just like in those ads, I hoisted the bike on my shoulder and headed for the opposite side and Frankfort. I noticed a culvert on the bank. Thinking this might be a good handhold and a way to help me get out of the river, I headed for the culvert.
That was a big mistake. When it rains (I soon learned), culverts wash out the soil in front of it, creating a deep hole in the riverbed. Unknowingly, I stepped into that deep hole, and the bike and I disappeared below the surface. Quickly, I got my footing, held the bike higher, and somehow scrambled out of the hole. The bank was steep, making lifting the bike onto dry land difficult. I didn't have any choice, but it wasn’t easy. Breathless, I held the bike and finally stood on solid ground. The idea that I might have drowned in Paint Creek made me shudder. I looked up the bank, and a boy of maybe eight was on the ridge above me, looking down. I’ll never forget his face. He was not laughing at me; he was shaking his head and smiling in what appeared to be…amazement.
Soaking wet, cold, and hungry, I pushed the bike into town and stared at the restaurant, The Lazy Susan. I had exactly three dollar bills in my pocket. I was unsure if I should go inside with dripping bike shorts, so I thought about it for a minute.
A woman of about seventy hurried outside the restaurant, glanced at my wet clothes, and said, “The boy who lives in the house next door just told me, and everyone else eating their lunch inside, that you crossed Paint Creek at the culvert. Don’t you know that is a really stupid thing to do?”
“I know it now,” I said, smiling. “But holy moly, do I feel great, just like a mountain bike guy!’
“A stupid mountain bike guy, maybe.” She chuckled. “I bet you’re hungry. Won’t you come inside? I’ve got some great corn chowder...it’ll warm you up.”
Embarrassed that I only had three bucks, I said, “Well, okay, I might get something.” I followed her in, dripping water on the old wood-plank floors. At a booth, I set out my dollars to dry. I looked the menu over, figuring I had enough for a grilled cheese sandwich and a small Coke. When I glanced up, I noticed that all the other people in the Lazy Susan were staring at me.
The woman returned with her order pad and stared at the wet dollars on the table. Then, she asked, “What’s it gonna be, mountain girl?”
“A grilled cheese sandwich and a small Coke, please,” I said.
“You don’t want that; you want my chowder! Don’t worry about the money. You can pay me some other time.” She hurried off and soon returned with a big bowl of corn chowder and old-fashioned homemade crackers. She sat across from me, and we talked. I learned her name was Susan Hall. Suzy made me tell her the details of my river crossing, and she laughed and laughed, having a grand time at my expense. But I laughed too since, after the fact, it was funny.
The corn chowder was delicious, of course. And although I happened to be starving and a soup maker, it was one of the best soups I’ve ever had. Susan promised to give me the recipe. So I went back later that day, now clean and dry. I took Al with me. I not only wanted to pay for the soup, but I also wanted Suzy to back up my story. Al didn’t believe it, but I can’t imagine why.
Al and I went into the restaurant, and Susan Hall confirmed my story, with the kid who’d watched me cross the river standing nearby as an eye-witness. She handed me the recipe but refused to take any money, saying the story had been payment enough. It turns out Susan was quite a colorful character. As a young woman, she’d been one of the few female pilots during the Korean War. Now a widow, she ran a farm not far away, and I later learned she was wealthy.
We all became friends. Like my family, Susan was a booster for the Chillicothe Paints, a local minor league baseball team in our town. After the river crossing, we sometimes sat with her at the games. Around the perimeter of the ballpark were advertising signs. Right in the middle was a big sign that read:
The Lazy Susan---Best Chowder in Ross County.
*
*THE VACATION AND THE KITTEN
We were still living in Chillicothe, Ohio when my parents called to say they wanted to set up a summer family vacation somewhere along the Atlantic Ocean in North or South Carolina. Our family had gotten so large that it took two homes to handle us comfortably. I told them we were game if I could fit the dates into my summer art show schedule. I gave them the time frame we’d be able to make it, and after checking with the rest of the gang, they began to search for two homes on the beach. Eventually, we rented two houses along the South Carolina shore in a community of rental homes. The vacation was filled with fishing, laughing, crabbing, eating, drinking, walking the beach, staying up late, and catching up on each other’s lives.
My youngest sister, Angel, was the first person, besides my husband and son, I told about my life as a Guardian of the Road. I revealed my experiences to her because this wonderful woman is so kind and sensitive that I felt safe. Once finished with all my stories, Angel and her two daughters began telling me about Guardian tales of their own. It was heartwarming to know there were other practicing GOTRs in the family and that they’d faced similar challenges. You may recall that Angel and my brother Rob were the best helpers at my animal funerals when they were young. I also learned that Angel's husband, Floyd (along with being smart, funny, and sensitive), has always supported his family's Guardian adventures. So during the vacation, I asked Angel to be second in command in my unorganized GOTR group. Angel, a former bank executive and now a top accountant in a large firm, serves as the Vice President on the Board of Directors of the Guardian of the Road Foundation.
On this vacation, Angel, her two daughters, Jessica and Lindsay (kids at the time), and I were heading back from the beach to our rental home. Once near the house, we all heard the cry:
“Meow, meow,” came a sound from the underbrush.
Hurrying to locate what we were sure was a kitten, we all went into the overgrown thicket. The kitten had buried herself in a tangle of seagrass, roots, and mud, and it would be a challenge to capture the poor little thing. Jessica and Lindsay hurried to the house to find something we could put the kitten in so she couldn’t escape. At the same time, Angel and I tried to catch her. The little cat was both scared and wild. There was no sign of her mother, but we still looked carefully throughout the scrub to be sure. Finally, we decided to take her inside using a plastic tub the girls had found in the house’s kitchen.
I have never seen such a dirty kitten. She was covered from head to paw with mud. However, her rescuers were just as muddy, so we weren’t much different than the little cat. Until we bathed her…which was a hair-raising experience since the kitten fought us with her claws extended….we had no idea what color she was. Still, she turned out to have striking gray tiger stripes and, to our eyes, quite pretty. Angel and I were sure the kitten was from a feral colony, considered wild cats, and had probably been living alone for a while since she was so thin. We wondered if she got lost from her momma cat or wandered off and could not find her way back. While we cleaned up, Angel’s husband, Floyd, hurried to the store to buy some kitten food.
A feral cat is not accustomed to people. Many are born under an old porch, in a derelict building, or in the brush to a mother that is probably also wild. Bringing this kitten in amongst all these humans made her even more scared. She hissed, scratched, and had a look in her eyes that told of her fear and the fact that she was wild. We spent the rest of the day and the next trying to locate someone in the area who would help her. Unfortunately, none of us could take her home, most lived hundreds of miles away, and some of us had flown to South Carolina for the vacation.
Our rental community was fairly rural, and there was no local humane society or shelter in the area then. The nearest city was Georgetown, and after many calls, we located an animal shelter there. In my heart, I know what these necessary organizations sometimes have to do to feral kittens and cats. However, I secretly feared if we took her to Georgetown, there was a possibility that she was sick and they’d have to euthanize her. But, of course, I couldn’t tell Angel or her girls any of this because, like me, they were hoping she’d be adopted.
I have a hard time visiting animal shelters. I can’t look into the eyes of animals that I fear no one will adopt without tearing up. But, I realize animal shelters are necessary because people do not spay their pets. Once born, many puppies and kittens are left to fend for themselves on the street, and some die from starvation. So the animal shelter offered better odds for our feral cat's future happy and healthy life. My family had worked together to rescue this kitten, so I hoped we were doing the right thing by taking her to Georgetown.
The next morning we were all sad, and some of us cried. We’d come to love this little wild thing, even in such a short time. As we left for Georgetown, I looked back and saw one of Angel’s girls at the window and could tell she was crying. My husband drove the kitten and his cautious wife to the shelter in Georgetown. When we handed her over, the person in charge ran tests to ensure she had no diseases. While we waited for the test results, I kept second-guessing what we had done. She might have located her mother and survived if left alone. Now I feared her future was uncertain.
They found she was negative for FIV (feline immunodeficiency virus) and any other deadly diseases. After giving her the necessary shots and treating her for worms, the staff was hopeful she had an excellent chance of being adopted. I was relieved by the news that she was disease-free and had to hope and pray someone would come along and adopt her. The bottom line was that we did the most humane thing for her best interest. If left in the wild, she most likely would have starved. I had rationalized that should she have to be put to sleep, at least she would not suffer that possibility. When Angel, Floyd, their children, and I helped save the starving kitten, I was thrilled that my new unofficial and fledgling organization now had more members. The GOTR group was growing, which was something that really pleased me. Now I know there are zillions of other GOTR folks in the world. They just don’t know it yet.
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THE KOI RESCUES
As far as I know, I built one of the first water gardens in Chillicothe, Ohio, long before the water garden craze hit the traditional garden scene. At first, I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. The idea came from a short article about how nice it was to have a water feature in your yard. So, I ordered books on building a water garden in your backyard and purchased design ideas and technical plans for the filtration and oxygenation of the perfect water garden. From there, I was still on my own since none of the local garden centers had any of the items needed to construct a pond, not to mention the fish I’d want to put in it. However, I dove into the project with gusto anyway, and in the end, it turned out marvelous.
If you have read previous posts on my blog, this should not come as a surprise, but I am a bit obsessive sometimes. My hobby is growing flowers. I painted flowers for a living. I studied flowers to portray them correctly, but I grew flowers for my soul. My backyard garden has always been my solace, sanctuary, and sometimes my salvation. To date, we have lived in seven homes over 36 years, and I have had beautiful yet different types of gardens at each house. After thirteen years in Chillicothe, my backyard was a tad wild at times but still a stunning English-styled garden. I grew annuals, perennials, flowering shrubs, herbs, and sometimes tomatoes.
My first water garden was right next to the house, as I described in The Guardian Cat. I could sit inside my screened porch and watch the fish and frogs to my neverending joy and delight. The pond was small, only 4’ by 6’ and about 18” deep. At first, I put in goldfish and loved them, so then I added young Koi. Koi are beautiful many-colored Japanese Carp, bred for centuries for their unique colors and friendly behavior. Japan has many Koi gardens where children can feed these huge fish by hand. Koi can grow three feet long and live for fifty years in the right environment.
Of course, I named every one of my Koi. Not only were they expensive, but I kept track of their growth, health, and habits on a spreadsheet. I love Motown and soul music, so I named them after famous singers. So, in the first water garden, there was Little Richard the frog (for a while), the Great Sam Cook, Marvin Gaye, Martha and the Vandellas (all goldfish), Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, Elvis, James Brown, Barry White, Nat King Cole, and on and on. Koi grow fast, and no two are exactly alike. Soon, they were so big that my small water garden was crowded.
I decided to build a larger one, further away from the house. I had a rear-tined garden tiller, so I began to dig out a much bigger hole in my backyard. My neighbors watched on, amused, as the hole for the pond grew wider. Then I made a ramp using two-by-fours and plywood to get the tiller into the pit to make it deeper. I also had to use the ramp for the wheelbarrow since once I tilled the dirt, I had to have a way to excavate the soil out of the pond. The finished new pond was about 20 feet long and 15 feet wide, and 36 inches deep. I added a ledge made of compacted soil around the perimeter to have a place for plants to get enough sunlight, add oxygen to the system, and for maintenance. I also constructed a waterfall at one end and a pump and filter system at the other. Once I had all that in place, I lined the hole and edge of the new pond with a thick 40-year rubber liner made without caustic petroleum and safe for fish.
One truly fascinating discovery happened when I discovered amazing things in the dirt after hauling soil out of the hole and dumping it at the back of my yard. It turns out that when the early owners built our 1840s house, they dumped their trash in deep pits they’d dig on their property. Scattered in the soil that I’d excavated was a treasure trove of items at least a hundred and fifty years old. I found pieces of old china plates, cups, bones of animals, a beautiful silver engraved knife that was pristine, and lovely mussel shell buttons. Some relics were so busted from being thrown into the dumpsite they were mysteries. I also found old tools and weapons, like a hand-turned wood handle screwdriver and a small rusted engraved Lugar, but the trigger still worked. My best finds were an old snuff box covered in cowhide, a tiny hand-carved pipe used to smoke something potent, a handblown bottle with pills inside, and a child’s shoe still intact. The problem with these discoveries was that they slowed down the process. Worried I’d miss a treasure, I’d use my spaghetti drainer from the kitchen and scoop soil into the bowl. My husband, Al, took over the soil removal project to help me and pick up my pace. Wonder why.
Koi ponds are not for the weekend gardener. They take a lot of time, careful filtration, and oxygenation so the fish will prosper. A water garden needs extra oxygen beyond the pump, which water plants can supply. It also must be mechanically filtered, have all the necessary biological elements, and have pots of plants like lilies floating on the top to shelter the fish. Most important, the fishmaster must monitor the water for PH, ammonia, and chlorine if using city water. Koi ponds are worth the effort but are not for the squeamish. One has to get into the water garden often, especially if there are Koi. They love to dig in the plants and push pots over during mating or just for fun.
Our cats inadvertently knocked big rocks into the pond while walking around the edge, which had to be retrieved. The cats were often found staring at the fish and frogs, so I had to watch them too. In over twenty years of tending Koi gardens, I have never had a cat catch a fish, but it might happen somewhere. I believe a raccoon killed my bullfrog, Little Richard, but Heron is the real Koi preditor to guard against. A couple of Heron can wipe a pond clean of fish in hours. It almost happened to me, but I used my mailman’s paintball gun and shot the buggers with bright red paint. God forbid that I’d kill Heron; I love them. But I did scare the poop out of a few, and they never returned. Besides, my neighbors enjoyed seeing me shoot a gun, which I haven’t done since. I have known Koi breeders who set up an army of deterrents to keep Heron away from their Koi. I can commiserate. Once, I caught a Heron with one of my prized butterfly goldfish in his beak. I ran after him with a shovel, and he dropped the fish and flew away. After the goldfish was back in the pond, she hid at the bottom and didn’t eat for days but lived to enjoy many more years.
Unintentionally, I did just about everything to these poor fish of mine. Once, I accidentally poisoned one with medication meant to treat sores on its gills. I had to capture my favorite Koi, Barry White, and give him an injection of antibiotics to kill a bacteria that was eating his flesh, and it worked! Another time, by chance, I inadvertently let the hose overfill the pond during mating (I did not realize they were mating). Four large Koi swam out of the pond, stranded themselves on dry land, and, much to my dismay, perished. We had a lot of snow one winter, so I put a tarp over the smaller pond. The little fountain and pump were still running, and the water froze on the inside of the tarp, conducting water out of the pond until it was nearly empty. All the fish were barely below the water’s surface, gasping for lack of oxygen. It was five degrees outside, and the hose was frozen, which made it necessary for me to carry 500 gallons of water, one bucketful at a time, from the kitchen to the pond to save the fish. I am telling you all this, so you’ll understand how much I loved my water gardens, especially the fish.
I served four years as the Executive Director of a Community Art Center in Chillicothe. I loved my position; it was made for me, but I had a less than modest salary, no health care or sick leave, no vacation, and worked 65 hours a week.I designed and implemented a first-of-its-kind history and art exhibit on the Underground Railroad that occured in our part of Ohio before the Civil War. I was able to accomplish that with help from local historians and artists. It garnered national attention and a lot of publicity, which drew people from many states, and even tour buses from Canada. I was determined that the children in my county had the opportunity to see and experience the exhibit. So I worked with all the schools to bring them to our center where they'd have a docent to guide them through it.
Perhaps because of all that attention, I was recruited for a prestigious position with a respectable salary and full benefits in one of my favorite towns in Ohio: Marietta. I had a son to support in college, but he was also planning on attending law school, so I had to accept it. My husband, Al, put in for a transfer there, and we sold our Chillicothe Craftsman house in a couple of weeks. I not only had to leave longtime friends, biking buddies, a beautiful home that I loved, and a job that was perfect for me, but I had to leave my beloved gardens. You can plant new flowers, but building a new pond is a major undertaking and expensive. The minute I knew we would move, I was certain I’d somehow take the Koi with me. They were my pets and my friends. So many of my fish would come to the pond's edge and eat food out of my hand. Some would even let me rub their heads and displayed individual personalities.
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A HUGE MISTAKE
Marietta, Ohio, is one of the prettiest historic towns in the state. Founded in 1788, it was the first permanent American settlement in the Northwest Territory. The city has many restored homes from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. We ended up buying an old brick house built in 1858. I loved this house because no one had removed the architectural charm. It had a spiral staircase with a pretty wood banister, original random-width floors, wide baseboards, and all the other features of a small Federal-styled home. The former owner rewired, plumbed, and roofed it, but inside was a nightmare of painted floors, gray-blue walls, and a dark galley kitchen from the 1970s. There was no place to store our bikes and no place for me to paint. However, the house was not expensive, so we decided to invest in bringing back its spirit. Eventually, we brought it back to life, and the place looked marvelous. The backyard was 180 feet deep and straight up a steep hill. There was not a single plant, flower, shrub, or decorative architectural feature in our backyard. The property was a blank canvas that became my mission, but I immediately needed to build a pond. I had promised the new owners of our Chillicothe house that I would return and retrieve my Koi as soon as possible.
We moved in early August of the hottest summer I can ever remember. I dug a small hole in our new backyard to test the soil in our Marietta property. The dirt was so sandy that it reminded me of dry cement. The word spread throughout the town that a new resident needed two large craters dug in her backyard for water gardens. Through a friend, I located a man who said he could excavate whatever size hole I wanted with his backhoe, but he could only do it during the day. I had a new and very hectic job and could not leave it during work hours, so I took a can of black spray paint and sprayed two circles on the dirt. I intended a small holding pond higher in the steep yard and a small waterfall connecting it to a good-sized pond below.
When I came home from work that day, two giant basins were in my backyard, much larger and deeper than I had intended. All the dirt he’d excavated was sitting near the back door and was so high we could not see the backyard over it. The top pond was 15’ x 20’, and the bottom pond had to be 30’ by 25’, both 48” deep.
Good gracious, what a job my husband and I had ahead of us, moving and relocating the dirt uphill. However, the most important job was to get the pond ready for my fish. The craters were too large to line with a typical pond liner, as I’d done in my Chillicothe ponds, so I was in big trouble. Cement-lined ponds crack and leak, so this solution would not work. Again, the word went out through the town, and the answer fell into my lap. A company in Marietta roofed buildings with flat tops using a high-tech foam material. The foam is so dense that it dries rock hard in minutes, like cement. The company coated football stadiums, basketball arenas, and many other venues with their waterproof foam. They had one successful pond experience before mine, lining a large dirt hole with foam for a water garden, and invited me to see it. The fish didn’t die, they prospered, and the pond water was clear as glass. That convinced me, so I arranged for them to come and spray the dense foam on my two craters.
The day they arrived was something people are still probably talking about in town. A huge eighteen-wheel truck pulled into my driveway beside our historic brick house. Several men got out and put on what I’d describe as space-age suits. It did not take long for them to spray the foam. It covered the bottom and sides, but the men also created a lip over the top and out on the ground about six inches. The entire project mystified our new neighbors, and I am sure they were wondering what sort of strange people had moved in next door. The sight of that truck in my yard with the men dressed head to toe in space suits is still a scene I’ll never forget.
The foam worked like a charm, but the project took up half of our backyard. Because there were two ponds with a connecting waterfall, I had to create an external filter system that would pump the water out of the lower pond to a large out-of-the-pond filter filled with plastic balls with prongs to collect solids from the water. The water rushed out of a hose at the bottom of that filter into the upper pond, then spilled over the falls to the lower pond. The filter system turned out great but it was not a cheap fix. The ponds needed to age for a bit before I could add the fish; that way, the water would cure in the foam material covering the craters. I purchased a few water garden plants, treated the water several times, tested it, and began filtration. However, I didn’t have enough time to do it correctly, for I got a call from the new owner of our house in Chillicothe saying I needed to remove the fish soon or he’d keep them.
I had other problems. How was I going to rescue my Koi? Then, how could I keep them alive for the 110-mile trip in the sweltering heat until we could introduce them to their new ponds in Marietta? I called everyone I could think of, trying to figure out how to accomplish such difficult feats. Finally, the agricultural agent suggested I fill new 50-gallon plastic trashcans with pond water, put the fish in them, and load these on the back of my husband’s small truck. According to him, while I drove to Marietta, my husband could stand in the truck bed and use a bicycle pump to keep oxygen going during the trip. I knew Al would not volunteer for this mission and wouldn’t blame him. He also had to work at his new job, so I was on my own, and this idea did not appeal to me either for several reasons. I could fall out of the truck, for one.
Again, the word went out. Someone told me about an innovative business operating on a county farm. A family named Marlow raised Koi and other fish for a living, then shipped them to stock ponds throughout the region. Their old house sits on a hillside with several barns. The land in the back has several massive fishponds; some even have fountains that send up large sprays of water for oxygenation. As I drove up to another fantasy farm of mine, I could see peacocks strutting about and fat turkeys waddling in a chicken coop. Of all things, I thought I saw a donkey munching on a bale of hay at the barn door.
It was short of a miracle that I found them, for I met one of the sweetest families I have ever known. The matriarch, Vonda, was the heart of the business, but her husband, son, and grandchildren worked by her side. I felt the minute I saw her face that she might be a Guardian, and as we became friends, I learned I was right. I told her about my predicament, and that I had some Koi I had raised and loved, which needed rescuing. Vonda loves fish as much as I do and realized we had much in common. She immediately agreed to help me, a stranger, and I was so thankful that I hugged her.
Vonda volunteered her son, whom I learned later was also a Guardian, to take their oxygenated fish truck and, with me along, drive to Chillicothe and rescue my fish. I think he must’ve assumed that I had large Koi. However, they looked kind of puny once inside his giant truck tank. It took the entire afternoon to lower the water with an external pump, scoop my fish out of the Chillicothe pond, transfer them to the tank, and check to ensure we’d not left anyone behind. Finally, we had to stay long enough to fill the pond with fresh water. Mr. Marlow was patient and tried to get all of my special fish. I later learned that several Koi had hidden at the bottom and were still in my old pond. That was fine with me, for the new owner deserved to have some fish in his pond. Before we returned to Marietta, I left the owner detailed instructions on caring for his new pond and directions to the Marlow Fish Hatchery. Eventually, I bet he bought many pretty Koi and water garden plants there.
When we pulled up into the driveway of our Marietta house, the neighbors were waiting. From the giant craters, the men in space suits, and the sixteen-wheeler parked next to our historic home, by then, most everyone knew about my fish rescue and wanted to witness the recovery. So when I got out of the truck, some of them cheered!
Mr. Marlow and I transferred the fish into the new ponds, and they looked lost in those enormous craters. But they were mine; I’d saved them and was happy. Eventually, I bought a lot of Koi and other fish from the Marlow Fish Hatchery and filled both ponds with their water garden plants. My beautiful new Koi integrated well with my fish from Chillicothe. In less than a year, my Koi laid hundreds (maybe thousands) of eggs, and the ones that hatched and survived (about 30% of the eggs) grew to be lovely fish. That same Fall, I planted flowers and shrubs all over the backyard gardens. When the next summer came around, and everything began to bloom, the property became an absolute beauty and a pure joy for me.
By then, I needed that sanctuary and respite because my job ended up being one of the most horrible experiences of my life. And taking the position was the worst decision I’ve ever made and a huge mistake. If you’ve read the other posts, I mentioned this upcoming crisis. A man who had power over me and my position tried to force me to do something totally unethical and most definitely illegal. His pressure continued for weeks, with no one able or willing to help me. Finally, I decided to speak to the city attorney since my job involved oversite by the city government. The attorney recommended that I not succumb to the man’s pressure, no matter what. I took that recommendation, refused to capitulate, and eventually resigned.
Even though I chose to do the ‘right thing,’ my life had been turned upside down, and I was a bit lost. So when Al received a chance for a promotion in Springfield, Ohio, he jumped on it. We had lived in beautiful Marietta for over two years. Yet I was relieved to no longer be in that horrible situation when we left. I was also sorry to leave great friends, warm people, our wonderful historic home, and beautiful gardens. But especially some of the fish we had to leave behind. I discovered one thing from my experience there: I was best suited to work for myself and leave the cutthroat world to others. In time, I removed myself from the workforce and have never worked for anyone else again. Instead, I returned to painting and was much better for the decision. I also began to write this memoir about my life. Writing down the experiences I had was cathartic for me. It also helped me to heal from the nightmare I faced in such a beautiful town. If you find yourself in a similar position, I recommend you consider doing what I did if you can. I am glad I found my way back to happiness.
Finally, I had to build another pond in a new city and rescue some of my Koi. This time it was much easier since instead of two giant ponds, I only had to build one large one. The transition to Springfield occurred without much upheaval because the Marlow family helped me move one final time. They gave me plants and fish food, caught my best Koi out of our Marietta ponds, and put them in oxygen-filled bags with pond water. My truck was loaded down with bags of fish in cardboard boxes, bound for Western Ohio and their new home. The Marlows and I parted with hugs and tears, but happy that we had found each other in life. It would be the last time I moved my fish, but that’s another story I’ll tell you about later.
Check back in about two weeks for the next installment of Guardians of the Road.
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