Read by Matilda Longbottom

WWhat ensues is an unembellished chronicle of venturing into water garden construction. Despite the intimate nature of some details, I feel compelled to transcend my unease and divulge this narrative, hoping it might spare others the anguish and turmoil I endured one scorching September day.

Prologue – The Vision

My husband, Jeff, and I harbor an ardent affection for New Orleans. We tied the knot there. And a solitary visit to the Big Easy convinced us that a New Orleans-inspired courtyard would be a sensational—albeit unconventional—addition to our Victorian abode on Baldwin Street in Madison, Wisconsin.

We embarked on our endeavor armed with a meticulous blueprint: crafting our own fence adorned with delicate wrought-iron motifs, laying down brick and stone terraces, and cramming an array of tropical-esque flora to rival the verdure of the New Orleans Botanical Garden.

We also procured a wall-mounted, cast-iron lion spill fountain to serve as a water feature for the side yard. Not only did the gentle murmur of trickling water have a calming effect, but it also masked the cacophony of traffic, including the booming bass notes emanating from passing cars on bustling Baldwin Street. Indeed, it masked sound so effectively that we resolved to fashion a pond with a babbling brook and cascading waterfall in the backyard—our very own Baldwin Pond.

Week One – The Plot Is Hatched

The dog days of Summer offer an opportune moment for scheming and executing a water feature. With the frenzied activities of Spring behind us, our fully blossomed garden provided a tangible gauge of the available space for our project.

Our planning commenced with a checklist of indispensable elements, including two cascades, a sufficiently capacious pool for aquatic plants, and ample room for flora along the periphery—a vital ingredient in crafting a naturalistic water feature.

Week Two – A Site for Sore Backs Is Selected

Selecting a suitable site for our venture posed little challenge, given the limited options. Nonetheless, the two plausible locations were shaded. The left rear corner of the plot basked in relatively subdued light and had metamorphosed into a trial garden for azaleas—a particular fixation of my husband, hailing from the Pacific Northwest, who harbored ambitions of nurturing them in our harsh Wisconsin climate.

Positioning the stream and cascades along the fence line in the right rear corner seemed optimal. This arrangement allowed our two cascades to spill into a petite pond near the stone terrace. It optimized space and provided room for vegetation between the terrace and pond. Moreover, the course’s inception near the garage afforded access to the requisite power for the pump and lighting.

This site did present a sizable obstacle—The Beast—an immense horse chestnut tree, universally reviled, flourishing squarely on the lot line. The ambience on the terrace during horse chestnut season mirrored that of a pier at Pearl Harbor during the Japanese assault. The sole reason for sparing The Beast from the ax was its proximity to the lot line; we speculated it might belong to the neighbor.

Experts advise against siting ponds beneath trees due to the inevitable deluge of leaves and debris. Despite lacking a tree-free location, we opted to brave the additional upkeep. Ingenious Jeff, capable of nearly any feat save coaxing azaleas to flourish in Wisconsin, devised lightweight wooden frames to overlay Baldwin Pond when we were absent.

Week Three

D-Day: 9 a.m.

Digging Day dawned as sweltering and muggy as August gum stuck to a shoe. Armed with a shopping list, we embarked for the home improvement center and stocked up our vehicle.

Although we leisurely unloaded upon returning home, the sun intensified its scorching glare with every passing moment. Our vigor waned, and our garments became saturated with sweat as we concluded the unloading. Jeff wandered off, leisurely tinkering in the backyard, while I made my way indoors.

D-Day: 11 a.m.

I must confess, after weeks of meticulous planning, I was itching to commence the project. The sight of supplies in the driveway beckoned to me like a siren song. Granted, it was oppressively hot and humid, so I resolved to act sensibly. Shedding my drenched attire, I rinsed off with cool water and donned my lightest, airiest shorts and shirt from the dresser. As I dressed in our air conditioner-deficient bedroom, I glanced at my undergarments with their elastic confines and thought, “Absolutely not. I refuse to endure the discomfort of sticky undergarments chafing my skin in this heat.”

Now, I am not one to espouse the notion of parading about sans undergarments. Moreover, the passage of years and the inexorable force of gravity render it less appealing for me to forgo a brassiere these days.

Nevertheless, the sweltering conditions prompted me to discard convention. Besides, I reasoned, I would be in our relatively secluded courtyard. Thus, I eschewed undergarments. No sweat.

Emerging refreshed and invigorated, I consulted our blueprints, seized a shovel, and commenced digging when I heard Jeff’s weary voice, “Darling, it’s simply too hot today to dig the pond. Let’s postpone until a cooler day.”

Undeterred by my lack of undergarments, perspiration trickled down my neck, tracing the length of my spine to the small of my back. With a touch of sarcasm, I retorted, “Very well. You needn’t lift a finger. I shall dig the pond alone.” With that, I fervently began excavating along the demarcated outline, heaving hefty clumps of Wisconsin clay to fashion the mound for the watercourse’s source and cascades.

Unable to witness me toil unassisted, Jeff (a commendable fellow) soon seized a spade and commenced digging at the opposite end of the would-be pond. Together, we made significant progress until we encountered the twisting roots of The Beast – roots that had nurtured The Beast through decades of loathed horse chestnut production. Without incriminating myself or my husband, I shall refrain from divulging the measures we undertook to vanquish these roots, save for the involvement of hatchets and a chain saw.

D-Day: 2:30 p.m.

Upon reaching the desired depth, we periodically lowered the pond liner into the cavity to ascertain areas necessitating further excavation for a snug fit. Glancing aside, I noticed a patch of earth ensnared on one of The Beast’s formidable roots, situated awkwardly by the fence. Unable to reach it directly, I positioned the shovel to slice into the earth at the precise angle, contorted my right leg to secure a foothold, and exerted downward pressure with all my might.

Before comprehending what had transpired, I recoiled in agonizing pain, shouting as I collapsed onto my back. My legs dangled into the excavation from my knees downward.

Dropping his shovel, Jeff knelt beside me, “Heavens! What’s the matter?”

“I cannot fathom; my leg is throbbing dreadfully—my knee.” Immobilized, with no weight bearing down on the leg, the pain remained bearable. However, upon inspecting it, we discerned my kneecap was indisputably out of its usual position.

Jeff asserted, “We must help you rise. I will assist you, and you must refrain from placing any weight on your right foot.”

We succeeded in hoisting me upright with minimal difficulty. Yet, the gravitational pull on my knee induced such agony that I collapsed once more.

“Susan, we must transport you to the hospital or urgent care,” Jeff urged.

Oh, dear! The gravity of my predicament dawned upon me. I began groaning, prompting Jeff to inquire, “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

“Oh, no,” I lamented. “I cannot go to the hospital, Jeff.”

“Why ever not?”

“Shush, come closer—closer,” I whispered. When he leaned in, I trembled. “I am not wearing any undergarments.”

“What?” he queried.

“I said, I am not wearing any undergarments. I cannot go to the hospital. Mothers always advise one to wear presentable undergarments in case of an accident. Well, I am not clad in tattered undergarments. I am bereft of undergarments!” At that juncture, my trembling escalated into uncontrollable mirth.

With my head resting upon the cool, hard flagstone, I instructed Jeff, “Darling, you must carry me indoors and attire me in undergarments. Then I shall consent to proceed to the hospital.” Standing over six-feet tall, he regarded me with exasperation and simply shook his head.

D-Day: 3:15 p.m.

Following three futile attempts to raise me and navigate toward the car, the agony became unbearable, prompting me to faint momentarily, thereby adding to the drama of the episode. As I lay on the ground, gazing skyward, observing the drifting cloud formations, Jeff contemplated summoning emergency assistance. I reminded him of the undergarment situation and implored, “Please, no.”

Subsequently, Jeff maneuvered the car as close as feasible to my prone form. Lifting my legs from the excavation, I began inching forward on my posterior. After forty-five minutes, I had traversed a mere five feet, with another fifteen feet separating me from the open car door.

And betwixt me and the vehicle lay a gravel pathway. Espying a neighbor, Jeff proposed enlisting his assistance, citing his amiable disposition.

“Nooo… I am far too embarrassed. Why not retrieve the blanket from the car and transport me upon it?”

D-Day: 4:00 p.m.

Jeff hastened to the car, returning with an unattractive yet relatively clean and cushioned comforter. Spreading it beside me, I painstakingly eased my underwear-less form onto it, while Jeff gingerly dragged me across the gravel path, pausing when we reached the car’s side.

Bracing myself for the inevitable, I steeled myself to endure the pain long enough to clamber into the passenger seat. Jeff seized me beneath the arms, I gritted my teeth, and I hoisted myself upright. It was a miracle. Although my knee throbbed, the pain had considerably diminished.

Upon arrival at the urgent-care center, the nurse instructed me to don the scratchy paper gown, leaving my posterior exposed to the chill of the air-conditioning vent. She then advised me to retain my undergarments. Eyeing her incredulously, I began shaking. The tremors soon escalated into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.
Casting a suspicious glance my way, she inquired, “Is something the matter?”

“Please come closer so I may share something with you.” With a wary expression, she acquiesced. Leaning in, I whispered, “My mother, a paragon of virtue, imparted the wisdom of always adorning oneself with respectable undergarments in case of unforeseen mishaps. I unfailingly heed her counsel—honestly! However, the oppressive heat today compelled us to engage in pond excavation in our secluded backyard, where I could remain unnoticed, and… I am not wearing undergarments.”

She reciprocated in a whisper, “Neither am I.”

Who could have predicted it? The diagnosis revealed a dislocated kneecap, spontaneously returned to its rightful position—a not uncommon occurrence. Much ado about nothing.

Our water feature exudes charm. We while away countless hours on the terrace, serenaded by the melody of cascading water. My knee has recuperated splendidly. And there’s an added bonus. It appears that, when you undertake the construction of a water feature, a bevy of delightful new undergarments materializes in your dresser, as if by magic. ❖

About the Author: Susan York Morris has been an avid gardener since planting her inaugural perennial and vegetable gardens numerous growing seasons ago. Her horticultural education commenced with the consumption of literature penned by gardening luminaries such as Vita Sackville-West and Gertrude Jekyll. She perused flower books and seed catalogs with fervor and sought counsel from local gardening clubs. Since then, she has maintained dirt under her fingernails as a testament to her enduring passion for gardening.

Susan boasts a wealth of experience in writing, having authored newspaper articles, radio and television segments, a column for a business publication, and a myriad of ad copy. She has also ghostwritten articles for various clients, with publications ranging from Parents and Occupational Health & Safety to American School & University and Fancy Foods. Despite her diverse writing portfolio, Susan finds unparalleled joy in crafting narratives about gardening, a pursuit that seamlessly melds two of her cherished pastimes. She firmly believes that writing about gardening surpasses the mundanity of plumbing-related discourse.