What does a fountain say about a yard? A fancy, sophisticated fountain. A big one, bubbling and gurgling with delight. There are few sounds better than that soft, flowing collision of water. It doesn’t take much — just a splatter or two — and it will transform a mood. Calm the senses. Make you say things like, “Nirvana!” (And I don’t even know what that means.)
That’s what we just installed in our backyard — a fountain. Amidst some fresh pine needles. Where I tore up all the roots and vines. Where I just landscaped.
The child’s fort and swings are down. The chicken — there’s only one now — is no longer allowed to dig her bomb craters and root around in the pine needles. The dog is banned from cutting ruts like tank tracks.
Now the fountain is the coup de grace. (And I don’t know what that means, either.)
So I looked it up. Merriam-Webster calls it: “a decisive finishing blow, act, or event … a deathblow or death shot administered to end the suffering of one mortally wounded.”
That’s it! That’s what I hope it is. A declaration on victory. A war won. Like raising a flag after a hard-fought battle. I have won!
But does a fountain really signal anything? At least what I want it to signal? Or am I just fooling myself? Too over confident?
Is my battle with the backyard over? It has fought me for years as I tried to tame it — failed to control it. I would gain, then it would. I would pull weeds and trim vines. They would show up later under my pillow.
When we bought the house back in the late 1990s, there was a scientific expedition in my backyard because they thought it was the last of the uncharted jungles this far north in the Americas. I’ve waged war ever since. Called in napalm strikes. Earth movers. I once considered covering it all in concrete.
With the fountain, I feel like I’ve finally won.
But … have I?
I think the weeds and the vines are watching me, from just over the fence. Plotting their return. “Wait until he lets his guard down. Drifts off to sleep in the hammock. THEN WE STRIKE!”
I picture myself waking up in a cocoon of cat’s claw and potato vines. “Steal his credit cards,” I imagine them screaming in delight. “Tip over his fountain!”
I don’t know. The sound of the trickling is so wonderful. The landscaping. The absence of the jungle. All of it. But do I let down my guard and enjoy it? Indulge in the sweet sounds of water dripping? You know, maybe I’ll just take the clippers into the hammock with me. Just in case.