Garden Goldfish

My garden is a haphazard affair.  There is no master plan to my flower garden other than my own thoughts which typically go like this: “That looks like a good spot” or “Hey, there’s a space there,” when planting a new flower.  To use my mother’s words, my garden is a “mass of confusion”.

At some point, I decided my garden needed a water fountain so I searched for one that would fit my gardening style.  I needed something that was not formal.  Formal doesn’t go well with a mass of confusion. Although I wasn’t sure what exactly would go well in a mass of confusion, I was fairly certain that a concrete fountain of a child holding an umbrella or of a little boy peeing just wouldn’t fit. And really, who needs a pretend boy peeing in their yard when they can have the real thing?  I have my husband Steve, who believes that it is his God-given right to pee outside.

I found a water fountain that would fit my style at Wal-Mart, home of all things informal, redneck and cheap.  It is a square wooden box with an old-fashioned looking fake hand pump from which the water flows.  It’s not too big.  It’s not formal.  I had the perfect spot for it, so I bought it, took it home and set it up.

It was loud.  I wanted a nice trickle; instead, it sounded like the kitchen spigot was running full force.  I tried to adjust the pump to slow down the water flow and lessen the noise, but that didn’t work.  It was full throttle or nothing.

Undaunted, I decided to make it prettier and perhaps lessen the noise by adding some water plants and rocks.  Once done, it sounded better.  Still not as quiet as I’d like, but not as noisy either and for the price I paid, I was satisfied.IMG_20170524_183745673

Later that spring, I arrived home from work one day to find that my water fountain was empty.  The wind had blown all of the water out of the fountain as it flowed from the fake hand pump.  I quickly unplugged the water pump and added more water and when I plugged it back in, it was fine.  A few days later, the same thing happened again and I decided that I should only run the water fountain when I was home so that I didn’t ruin my water pump by running it in a dry fountain.  Since my fountain would not be running daily and standing water is a breeding ground for mosquitos, I added three small goldfish to the fountain to eat any mosquito larvae. And things went swimmingly….for a while.

Several weeks after adding the rocks, plants and fish, Steve, who was outside, yelled, “Lorrie come quick and grab a bucket!”

“What for?”

“I put some bleach in the water fountain.  I didn’t know there were fish in there, hurry up! They’re going to die!”

I headed outside, but I took my time.  As a long time aquarium enthusiast, I knew those goldfish were as good as dead, if not dead already.

I arrived outside to find Steve standing there with two dead goldfish in one hand and a bottle of bleach in the other.

“Where’s the bucket?  We need to put them in a bucket of water!”

The two fish in his hand were still; the third one was floating on its side in the fountain.

“Steve, look at them, they’re dead already.  Why would you put bleach in my fountain?”

“Because the water looked green.  I thought it was dirty.”

“Of course the water looks green, there are plants in there.  The water is fine.  If the water was bad, the fish wouldn’t have survived this long.”

I picked the remaining dead fish out of the water, took the two he had in his hands and disposed of them.

Yesterday Steve replaced the pump on my fountain and helped me put it back into the garden. After we got it set up, he asked if I’d be adding any fish.

“Maybe,” I said, smiling.

I wonder how many I should get this year?

Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved

Daily prompt:  survive


Such a Klutz

I had to act quickly.  I had to do something or my already throbbing forehead would soon be in a lot more pain.  He was standing behind me, getting things ready.  My mother was standing in front of me, looking nonchalant and chatting away.  Unfortunately, she was used to this.  But I would never get used to it.  I was in pain, I was scared and I needed a way out.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

“It’s right there,” Dr. Brundage said pointing to the corner of his exam room.

Bingo.  Adults never refuse a kid who says they have to go to the bathroom.  My mother stepped aside as I jumped down off of the examining table and went to the restroom. Once inside, I locked the door and pants still in place, sat on the toilet.  I didn’t really have to pee.  I just needed a place to hide.

I sat on the toilet looking around, surprised that there was a bathroom located in the examination room because I had never seen it before despite my numerous trips to the doctor.  I couldn’t count the times I had been in that office to be patched up, examined or given shots. Because of my past experience, I knew that this time I was going to get shots and stitches and, at eight years old, I decided to fight back the only way I knew how, by hiding. Unfortunately, my hiding spot was right in the middle of the exam room. No matter, I decided I was in it for the long haul; I decided that there would be no shots or stitches for me that day.  I was content to sit there and bleed.

Just an hour earlier I had been having fun, playing at my cousin’s house.  My uncle kept horses and my brother, my cousins and I had been running and jumping into the back of a horse trailer.  The idea was to see who could jump the farthest.  The bottom of the trailer was lined with straw and with each jump we got more and more covered in straw dust and dirt.  We were having a grand time until I forgot to duck.

I ran towards the trailer jumped as hard as I could, and flying through the air towards the trailer, forgot to duck and hit my head on the metal latch in the middle of the crossbar that held the doors shut. I collapsed to the ground, bleeding profusely from the left side of my forehead.

My mother was called.  She came right away and proclaimed that – yet again – I needed stitches.  Holding a wet washcloth to my forehead we headed off to Dr. Brundage, leaving my brother at my cousin’s house. Between me and my brother, we spent a lot of time at the doctors.  If we weren’t getting stitches – I’d had them recently to my toe and my knee – we were there because we were sick.  In addition to various injuries, one year we had chickenpox, measles and scarlet fever.  All of these visits made me scared of the doctor.

I had so many stitches in the past that I knew the routine by heart.  First, he’d stick a needle into the wound to numb it.  That would hurt.  That would hurt real bad.  One time I asked him if he could numb an injury before he used a needle to numb it.  He laughed at me and told me no.  After sticking me with needles to numb the pain, he would sew me up.  Then he’d give me a tetanus shot.  It wouldn’t matter that I already had one.  I knew from experience that any time I got injured around the horses, I got another tetanus shot.

And frankly, that day, I was not about to be poked and prodded and get at least two shots and stitches.  And so it was that I found myself hiding in the doctor’s bathroom, conveniently located right there in the corner of his exam room, sitting on a toilet fully dressed while holding a wet washcloth to my forehead to collect the blood still coming out of my wound.  Looking around, I decided it wasn’t so bad in there.  There was a sink, I could get a drink if I got thirsty.  There was a light switch so I could turn off the lights when I got tired, although I’d have to sleep on the floor.  That was fine with me.

After several minutes, my mother spoke to me through the door.  “Lorrie, are you alright in there?”


“Okay.  Well, hurry up and come out here.”


“What do you mean no?”

“No.  I’m not coming out.”

My mother tried to open the bathroom door and realizing it was locked she said, “Lorrie Ann, unlock this door and get out here right now!”

She used my whole name.  Like kids everywhere, I knew that meant I was in big trouble. In addition to using my full name, she had lowered her voice, whispered loudly.  I knew I was in for it, but I didn’t care.

Trying to sound brave but failing, I squeaked out a “No.”

I heard my mother tell the doctor I wasn’t coming out of the bathroom.

Dr. Brundage came to the door telling me to come out because he had other patients to see and that it would only take a few minutes to “sew” me up.

Sitting there, with the washcloth still pressed to my forehead, that was the last thing I needed to hear.  I didn’t answer.

After a minute or two Dr. Brundage said, “If you don’t come out, I’m going to take the door off of the hinges.”

Sitting there on the toilet I looked at the door.  I had no idea if he could take the door off of the hinges.  He knocked on the door, in the area of the upper hinge.  “Right here.  See this, I’ve got a hammer and a screwdriver and I can pop the pin holding the hinge and take the door off. ”

Still, I said nothing.  I sat there looking at the door wondering if he was telling me the truth.

“Okay, I’m going to get the hammer and screwdriver then, I’ll have you out of there in a few minutes.”

At that point, although I was already in trouble with my mother for hiding in the bathroom, I knew that if Dr. Brundage had to remove a door to get me out, my troubles would be worse.  Much worse.

“Okay.  I’ll come out,” I said, and I exited the bathroom got my shots and got my forehead stitched up.

I don’t remember my mother saying much on the ride home.  When we got home, I went back to my cousin’s house to show them and my brother my stitches.  I didn’t tell them what a big baby I was and how I hid in the doctor’s bathroom.  Why would I?  There were properly impressed with my injury and stitches.

Later that afternoon, my father stopped at my cousin’s house to pick me and my brother up on his way home from work.  My father worked as a lumberjack.  He was often in the woods all day, away from a telephone, but somehow he always knew what went on at home while he was gone.  Whenever my brother or I would ask him how he knew he’d say, “A little bird told me.”

So I wasn’t surprised that day to learn that he already knew about my forehead and I was fairly certain he also knew that I had locked myself in the doctor’s bathroom and refused to come out.  I expected him to be upset with my behavior and to talk to me about it.  Instead, he took my chin in his hand, tilted my head back, looked at my stitches and said, “You’re such a klutz, you just cost me twelve bucks.  Let’s go home.”

Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved

How I Became a Restroom Warrior

I didn’t set out to become a restroom vigilante.  No, I was forced into it bit by bit through the actions of a woman who treated the women’s room in our office building as her private office. Continue reading

Playing Possum

Our female Saint Bernard, Neva, was a runner.  For the first two years of her life, I could only take her outside on a leash because whenever the opportunity to go for a run through the neighborhood arose, Neva took off.  I chased her through fields, through the woods, even through a neighbor’s open garage; she went in through the overhead door and out the open man-door that lead to their (thankfully) fenced in back yard. Continue reading

The Chipmunk, the Washer and My Ass

Three years ago when I arrived home from work I head a scratching noise coming from behind the dryer and I immediately knew that there was some type of critter in the flexible dryer duct that leads from the dryer to the vent mounted on the outside wall of our home. I knew without a doubt that there was an animal in the dryer duct because it had happened before. Continue reading

Morning Lorries

When I was about six years old I found a trumpet-shaped white flower with a purple center growing alongside the dirt road that ran next to our home.  I picked it and when I sniffed it, the petals collapsed around my nose.  I soon realized that the flower would stay on my nose without use of my hands as long as I kept inhaling and since I thought that was hilarious, I kept doing it over and over.  Looking around as I stood there at the side of the dirt road, breathing in deeply to keep the flower stuck to my face, I saw hundreds of the same flowers.  They were growing on vines that covered the other weeds and bushes; little bright white lights in a sea of green weeds.  I picked a few and ran home to show them to my mother.

“It’s Morning Glory,” she said.

“Morning Lorrie?”

“Yes, Morning Glory,” she said.

I was amazed; a flower with my name, a Morning Lorrie!  I had never heard of a flower called Lorrie before.  Sure, we had geraniums, we had petunias – we even had a few marigolds – but I was the only Lorrie around.  I told my mother that I thought that we should plant Morning Lorrie’s in our yard.

“Hmm….I don’t know about that,” she said, most people think Morning Glories are weeds.”

“I think they’re pretty.  What Lorrie are they named for?”


“What famous Lorrie are they named for?” I asked.

My mother started laughing.  “No, not Morning Lorries.  Morning Glories.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, Morning Lorries.”

“No, not Lorries, Glories, with a ga sound.”

“Morning Glories?

“Yes, Morning Glories.”

Fall has come to Pennsylvania and my flower garden is almost spent.  But last week my garden surprised me with one  last hurrah – some volunteer pink Morning Glories appeared, daring to take on the fall weather.  Although I haven’t planted Morning Glories in a few years, those that did grow a few years ago must have dropped some seeds that were still there, just waiting for their turn in the sun. Morning Lorries….they still make me smile and they still stick to my nose like a suction cup when I hold them to my nose and breathe in.


Volunteer Pink Morning Glory  Lorrie

Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved

Batter up!

I was in bed watching television late one evening when my then college-aged daughter came out of her bedroom and said, “Mom, look at Jo, she’s just running back and forth in the hallway.”

I looked towards the doorway of my room and saw Jo, our Cocker Spaniel, shuffle past my doorway, then shuffle past again, going in the other direction.

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” Kinsey said as Jo ran by again, her nose pointed up towards the ceiling.

“It looks like she’s watching something,” I said.

Kinsey looked up.  “Bat!” she yelled as she ran back into her room, “It’s a bat!” Continue reading

Whooo goes there?

I had been sound asleep because it was the middle of the night – just after two a.m. – when suddenly, I was wide awake and very confused.  I thought I had heard a noise; a very loud noise.  But as I lay there with my eyes open, listening, all I heard was the sound of the crickets through the open sliding glass door of my bedroom.  But suddenly it came again, WHOOO-WHOOO-WHOOO.   It was the loudest owl I have ever heard in my life.   Then, way off in the distance, I heard another owl answer it, whooo- whooo- whooo, which caused the loudest owl to grace the planet to respond WHOO-WHOO-WHOO.  Seriously, I had never in my life heard an owl that was so loud.  At first, I thought it was fascinating, even funny, lying there listening to the two owls converse. But after an hour I didn’t think it was so funny; I couldn’t fall back asleep.  Every time I’d start to drift off, I’d be awakened again by the loud WHOOO-WHOOO-WHOOOing of the owl.  To try to drown out the noise, I closed the sliding glass door.  But I could still hear it so I put the television on and when that didn’t drown out the noise, I put a pillow over my head.  Eventually, all got quiet and I fell back asleep.  Continue reading

For the Love of Fudge



Barnegat Lighthouse, Long Beach Island, New Jersey

My husband Steve and I have been going to Long Beach Island, New Jersey with our friends Joey and Betsy every summer for the past twenty-five years. Because we go to the same place every year, we know it well.  Long Beach Island is an 18 mile long barrier island that is filled with little towns; there are no sky-scraper hotels or boardwalks. It is a family friendly island filled with beach houses, parks, marinas and shops. Continue reading