Jed Wolf

My journey from wimp to wizard continues. While upending the patio I laid last summer to dig an 18” deep trench, in preparation for the electrician to wire my pond on Monday, new fears descended.

I was unprepared for lack of rocks in Florida, and sand in general when I committed to this project. As a yankee, purchasing rocks makes my blood flow backwards. I thought I knew sand, but shelly, unpack-able Florida sand is enigmatic and slumpy. It’s cold comfort to imagine what befuddled European explorers faced upon arriving on this coast.

When fear of bamboo puncturing the huge, expensive, heavy, rubber liner arriving on Tuesday overwhelms me, I force myself to remember polar vortices. I’ll never have ice dams in my gutters again with their lethal icicles threatening to squash kitties or impale strangers.

It amazes me how worry works. I simply rolled doobies and did nothing about anything in my twenties ‘till paranoia awakened me. Ever since, along boldness’s tentative road, while every step forward threatens to freak me out like strangers at my door once had or a calls from my parents used to, instead of reaching for chemicals, I pause to write.

These days I still hyper-imagine bamboo shoots draining my pond and the resulting fire from the overheated pump igniting the neighborhood and boiling the toddler who almost made it out ’till he was boiled alive. Who wouldn’t worry while building a pond this size themselves? Worry is finally becoming normal.

Despite others’ concerns, I’m going ahead and directing rainwater from my roof to the pond as I’d planned before we built this house. I’ve designed about 15’ of gravel “river” for the roof water to filter through before it reaches my brilliantly functioning ecosystem… This may or may not help absorb toxins associated with asphalt shingles, but it can’t hurt and I’ll need the acidity of more neutral rain. My pond/well water is highly alkaline, plus roof water with no where else to go, is a huge consideration around here during monsoon season.

It’s no longer Connecticut’s -5 degrees or 40 below as I’d experienced in Northern Vermont all those years ago smoking pot. It’s 56 – perfect weather to work outside and time to return to my insecure wizardry.