{"id":247,"date":"2018-10-04T10:41:38","date_gmt":"2018-10-04T14:41:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/?p=247"},"modified":"2018-10-04T10:41:38","modified_gmt":"2018-10-04T14:41:38","slug":"the-water-feature","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/?p=247","title":{"rendered":"The Water Feature"},"content":{"rendered":"

I\u2019ve always had an ambivalent relationship with water. Raised a few blocks from \u2018the mighty Niagara\u2019, as kids we swam in it, hydroplaned on it, and crossed over it, seduced by the siren song (and 3.2% beer) of Buffalo. Its currents stole our skis and very nearly claimed my mother. Its waters provided the stage for any number of rights of passage, jumping from rail bridges, spearing carp, swimming its breadth to touch \u2018the American side\u2019, then back, far downstream. No surprise then that water should become the defining element, the push-pull of life for me.<\/p>\n

No more evident than water\u2019s relentless and (usually) insidious intrusion into real estate. \u2018Dug\u2019 wells, to distinguish this weak sister from its more reliable and respected elder sib, the \u2018drilled\u2019 version, are notorious for their poor water quality \u2014 being little more than accidental repositories for surface water run-off (and all that implies for the country house) \u2014 and penchant for drying up when the dog days drag on. A little covert Clorox down the shaft and a UV light under the sink were the \u2018adjustments\u2019 required to seal the sale of an early days school house \u2014 and a great escape to citified plumbing.<\/p>\n

Silly me. Trusting that fluoridated, strained, sieved, and otherwise purified and regulated municipal sourcing of same would also filter out water\u2019s sinister dark side. Next house, a late nineteenth century cottage built on the shoulder of a hill \u2014 well, truthfully more on the hip or \u2018lower\u2019 body part \u2014 several feet below grade of the street behind and overlooking the banks of the Avon. One would have thought that proximity to one river would have been a sufficient teacher. A well known fact, water \u2014 as well as other matter \u2014 flows downhill. No truer than, as Geoffrey would say: \u2018Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote\u2019. . .What Mr. Chaucer failed to point out was that said showers also \u2018perced\u2019 the rubble foundation and spawned an annual indoor pool \u2014 on their relentless way to mother Avon. Not to mention dragging along several cubic meters of top soil happily migrating to less lofty climes. Swales and sump pumps, drainage tiles and storm sewer connections mere rhetoric to allow another midnight flit and sale of an ark in waiting to the next Noah in line. (By the way \u2018hot water is wetter\u2019. . . but that\u2019s another story.)<\/p>\n

On to high(er) ground. Pill Hill in the local parlance. A little reminder that penance had not been fully ponied up, water\u2019s poltergeist had arrived a day before us to remind that we\u2019d missed a (now breached) water heater\u2019s BBD by that self same day. But we were<\/em> learning. Swamp-friendly flora, irrigated landscape (the dark side is<\/em> drought), and sloping paths to usher those same \u2018shoures\u2019 to neighbouring turf felt for all the world that water had been sufficiently placated to allow an exhale. <\/p>\n

And so round the corner to the current digs. As noted \u2018the Hill\u2019 sat on significantly higher ground than this wee bungalow, a block north \u2014 how soon we forget! A mid-60\u2019s gem, recently renovated, it sat beside (and below<\/em>), well, everyone. Taking possession in Chaucer\u2019s favourite month, the berm separating house and sometime patio from the remainder of the backyard began to make sense as the rains came down and the yard filled up \u2014 happily receiving all contributions from East, South, and West. And thus began another ambivalent chapter.<\/p>\n

\"IMG_1309\"<\/a><\/p>\n

With plans for a carriage house where Lake Glendon now lapped gently \u2018gainst said berm, a more permanent solution was required \u2014 and surfaced (as it were). I cared little for the country of origin, but a French drain and some regrading seemed to be the order of the day. A subterranean pit the size of a small garage took shape in the \u2018low corner\u2019, filled with \u2018aqua boxes\u2019 \u2014 bearing an eerie resemblance to grad school book cases \/ milk crates; and camouflaged with a foot of top soil. As with all good therapies, the trick was to redirect \u2014 not resist or attempt (futile) control. As needed, a pump submerged in an access vault and a (significant) length of garden hose returned our element to source \u2014 with enormous satisfaction. Coexistence displaced frustration and wet basements. A happy detente.<\/p>\n

But, oh, the waste. Gallons and gallons of (now) perfectly good water pumped away, unappreciated. The unsettling drip of a tap at night, the stubborn gurgle of a stopped sink, ice dams, leaking sky lights morph into the soothing sound of water flowing gently over rocks, masking, calming, lulling to sleep. The water feature: cycling and recycling, reincarnating \u2014 how gratifying is that! Simple. Tap into our stored resource, salve our conscience, and muffle the squawks from neighbouring pools.<\/p>\n

The truly amazing piece is the level of artificiality, frank contrivance that is demanded in the creation of a \u2018natural feature\u2019. True, the water doth fall from Heaven. But that\u2019s it \u2014 the rest is plumbing, pumps, liners, return rates, pre-drilled \u2018bubblers\u2019 (real rocks, if possible \u2014 but sprayed styrofoam will do), and a terrifying array of valves, stops, hose, and lighting. In the end though, the water gods are appeased, the carriage house is no longer yet another ark in waiting, our green genes are pacified, and our sleep is sound. <\/p>\n

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I\u2019ve always had an ambivalent relationship with water. Raised a few blocks from \u2018the mighty Niagara\u2019, as kids we swam in it, hydroplaned on it, and crossed over it, seduced by the siren song (and 3.2% beer) of Buffalo. Its currents stole our skis and very nearly claimed my mother. Its waters provided the stage […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/247"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=247"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/247\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":250,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/247\/revisions\/250"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=247"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=247"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=247"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}