Monthly Archives: November 2007

My best friend, Jody Smith, came to visit for a few days before Thanksgiving. Jody comes up several times a year to visit her oldest soon, Lee, who moved up here around the same time we did. Lee has a one year old baby, which guarantees Jody will keep coming up. Can’t miss stages of your grandchild’s development, ya know.

Her son, Kyle, has been Kent’s best buddy since birth and he was on her for this trip. It is always a hoot to see the boys together, because they regress to little trouble makers again. They are both driving now, talking about college, their voices have dropped and they have the appearance of men in the making – yet, a few hours after they were together they were outside building a boat out of junk to see if they could float it on the lake. I suggested they take my two man kayak out (I know that floats) but I guess that isn’t nearly as much fun as yelling as they sink into the freezing water on a pile of old wood and air filled gallon jugs they made with humor and innovation. Unfortunately, the boys didn’t get to spend too much time together this visit because Kent has a job as a cashier at the supermarket and they gave him a heavy schedule, it being thanksgiving week. Being responsible certainly can put a crimp on your social life.

Anyway, when Jody and Kyle visit, they stay with Lee a few days and always stay with us a few.

It is always nice when people come to visit, but it does throw a crimp in the routine of your life. This is just never the case with Jody, because our relationship is casual and comfortable and we have such a long history together. She doesn’t need to be entertained and her interests are so comparable to mine that she actually enjoys hanging out as I continue with my daily routine. I spent the two days she was here in the kitchen. It doesn’t matter that we were not having guests for Thanksgiving. I still cook up a storm. And in this case I made double of lots of dishes; sausage and sage stuffing, sweet potato soufflé, pumpkin pie, cheesecake with cherries soaked in cordial, cranberry sauce with oranges, so Jody could take it all to her sons where they were celebrating Thanksgiving with Lee’s girlfriend’s family.  Jody has never made a turkey, so I even packaged up seasoning to rub on the skin as I gave her a quick lesson in turkey preparation and tested her on how long to cook each item.

She was like, “Don’t bother, I can just buy stovetop stuffing. No one expects me to cook much.” 

I looked aghast and said, “The Thanksgiving gods will strike you down if you dare!”  Meanwhile, I thrust homemade wine into her hands for the feast.
I did trust her to handle her own green bean casserole herself.  Everyone lived to tell the tale.

It is funny how you can know someone for years, yet discover things about them you never knew.  When I moved up here and bought horses, Jody was surprised. She didn’t know I grew up riding and loving horses. I guess it was a subject that never came up.  It happens that she grew up riding – even more intently than I. Her sister was a competitive rider and one of thirteen women qualifying to go to the Olympics! Jody is the one friend I have (from Florida) that actually knows more about horses than I. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been on a horse for 20 years. The first time she came here, she hopped up, handled my horse a pro, and said, “Let’s go exploring.” When visiting, she is quick to follow me to the barn to help feed or groom the horses. It is nice.

Jody is also a very effective social worker, and as such she is wonderful to talk to about my work with Kathy and literacy. We always spend a chunk of time discussing local social issues and her work. I appreciate her empathy for humanity and how she actively makes a difference. She is friendly to all, never jealous or petty, doesn’t put her own interests before others, and does not obsess about money or material things. She is remarkable, really.

She told me that when Kyle graduates in a year, she is seriously contemplating moving up here. The cost of living is so much better here than in Sarasota and my old home town has gotten so congested and commercial that it no longer has the pleasant overtones it once had. So we talked about how desperately this area could use someone like Jody. I told her all about my visit to Drug court and how they had 95 people and only one trained counselor and their solution to every problem is to pray.

Jody listened and then said, “I’d have to learn a lot more about the bible to be effective here. In order to combat some abuse issues, I’d need to learn the lingo of the land, and while I go to church, I can not quote scripture. Bet you’d have to know the bible forward and backwards to gain the confidence and get through to people who view the world the way they do here.”

I admire that she not only recognizes the unique specifics of a culture, but would be willing to adapt and do research to do her job well considering them. She is probably the most open minded and accepting person I know.

She also is my one friend who appreciates a glass of wine with every meal. We broke open several bottles of my original recipes each night, to do comparison tests.  Mark and Jody agreed my strawberry wine is a bit strong, the scent of strawberry is powerful, yet the taste is rather alcoholic (I should have sweetened it more and turned it into a dessert wine, I guess). The Pinot Grigio is their favorite. Mark likes the tomato wine, but I think it is the principal of the matter and he likes that I can make wine out of something so cheap. Dianne was with us for dinner too, and she remained impartial. Guess she wants to be supportive and not dampen my enthuasiasm for trying anything new. I was sorry my blackberry still has 6 months before it can be bottled, and my merlot, reisling, and tomato apple wine are still fermenting. For an impatient person like me, winemaking is torture.

After dinner, I pulled out all my cordials for a grand taste test. I gave everyone cordial glasses, even Kyle. (Kent was at work, sadly.)

He said, “You are going to invite me to drink?”

I pointed out that if I made something, it had to be good for him. Besides which, his mother and I know at 17, kids drink. Rather they do so in a controlled environment with moms at the helm than in the back seat of a car at some party. And cordials are so sweet, I seriously doubt he’s going to develop a taste for them and start slugging them back with friends later because of me.  Besides, I wanted enough people involved in my control group to give me a good idea of how I was doing at my new endeavor.
  
So we began pouring my 8 flavors ready for consumption . Blackberry, Hypocris, and Prunelle were everyone’s favorite. The very top of the list by all was my homemade Amaretto. (I’m going to need to start a second batch of that one today) Pineapple was considered too sweet, and I was told to save it to pour over ice-cream for desserts. The Cherry cordial reminded everyone of cough syrup – so I started cooking with it the next day and it was very good as a topping over cheesecake. Strawberry and Peach were both given the stamp of approval.  We had such fun, screaming with laughter, making faces, refilling our glasses with those we loved and those we didn’t (to give them a second chance.) I pulled out the black walnut and almond liquors currently fermenting in a big jar in my cupboard so everyone could see how these liquor start. I then showed off my cookbook and we discussed those flavors I’m headed towards – coffee flavors, cranberry (got to work in season don’t ya know) and spice liquors. Denver whined that I should make double batches so I can give bottles to her. I pointed out that she could make cordials herself. Don’t need to wait until you are in your forties to unleash the chemist within. 

Later, Mark said, “I’ve been wondering what we were ever going to do with all these colorful bottles of liquor you keep making, and now I know. That was fun. We have to do that again when other friends come to dinner.”
Considering there is not much to do in Blue Ridge, he’s on to something. Besides, taste testing will only get better as my stock expands. By next month I’ll have 15 flavors ready to go.

“Then, you have to make some friends that are not preachers.” I pointed out. Up here, everyone is a preacher.
“I’ll endeavor to do that,” he said.
Good luck, pal.

Anyway, we had a good time.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love the meaning behind it, the fact that it is all about family and food and pausing to appreciate all you are grateful for.

I have a lot to be thankful for. It is nice to have a holiday that pushes you to dwell on that. 

Now, I must go. We are taking the family to Atlanta to see a Kelly Clarkson concert tonight. I bought tickets for everyone, Denver and Dianne included, but everyone is telling me this event won’t be appropriate for Neva. We’ll see. I tend to think it will be more vocalist-y, not so rock concert. Everyone else begs to differ. Ah well, my intentions were good, and time will tell. If the smell of pot lingers in the air, I’ll insist it is my perfume. Heck, I just wanted something special for all of us to do together, and Neva counts too.

Mark and I are stealing off early to go to the High Museum to see the second chapter of the Louve exhibit – meeting everyone else after they are done with school and work etc.. I am in need of my culture fix. And a little time alone with my other half is something to be grateful for too.

One reality of living in tune with nature and experimenting with hobby farming and ranching is that death and sad endings is inevitable. Call it “natural selection” or “the balance of nature” – anyway you put it, death is a part of life here.

For all that the life cycle is natural, it is still sad -especially for someone who lived so long in the neat, pre-packaged world of suburbia. Before embarking on this new life adventure, I barely knew where our food sources come from, other than the academic understanding that food grows on plants or in the ground, and bacon comes from pigs  hamburger from cows. Dealing with animal death in suburbia usually involves putting a beloved dog down because he’s grown old, or maybe wincing when you see a cat’s been clipped by a car. In cases such as this, city folk allow themselves to revel in personal grief. In the country, people are sorry when an animal passes, but it isn’t nearly so dramatic an occasion.  It is just a part of life.   

And it isn’t just animals. Living close to the earth, you can’t help but notice everything has a season and a purpose when you are intimately involved with the process. I witness the lifecycle of a bean from when the first seed is planted to when the robust plant withers and dies and is turned under to nourish the earth over the winter for next year’s planting. It brings a certain reverence and appreciation to your meal when you lift a fork full of beans to your mouth. I actually feel melancholy when I look out at the huge, empty patch of dirt that was a garden full of life only a few weeks ago. But I like to imagine my garden is only sleeping, gaining strength for another big party come spring.

Because I feel connected in this way, I won’t consider raising livestock to eat. I know I should, because the animals we eat from the grocery store live horrible, pitiful existences. The methods we have developed to feed ourselves cheaply, not to mention the unnatural methods used to make the animals grow faster than is natural, or how we force them to develop to our palate preferences, only to be slaughtered before they ever witness the light of day, is truly inhumane. (That is another argument, and not one I want to get into on a blog). But even though I know this and feel passionate about it, I can’t bring myself to consider eating one of my chickens or buying a turkey for Christmas consumption. I have too much empathy for any creature I look right in the eye to be the instrument of its death.

I have found a compromise however, because we bought ½ cow and a whole pig from a friend who raised the animals naturally on grass. These creatures lived full term (two years rather than six months) with dignity before coming to their useful end. I have a freezer full of packaged meat now, hormone free. When I prepare this, I don’t feel guilty. But once again, I never had to look into the eyes of the creature knowing their end was approaching. We had a rule. Mark agreed to buy the animals as long as I was never allowed to see them. I guess he was afraid I’d change my mind and lead them home on a rope or something. Actually, one day I did go to Ronnie’s house because we were going to the flea market to buy guineas. I accidentally wandered down to his pasture and began admiring his cows. Ronnie shrugged guiltily and said, “Glad you like them. That black and white one is yours, you know… well, at least half of him.”

For an instant I felt my stomach drop. Then, I began to feel differently. It didn’t bother me as much as I thought, because later, when we received the bounty of this cow, I prepared the meat with respect, remembering the gentle creature standing in the warm sun on a lush pasture. I felt OK about how it lived and died.  It may be easier to eat food from the supermarket when you remove yourself from the reality of what you are eating and how it arrived packaged up on those neat, foam trays – but ignorance and being unaware doesn’t make it right. And I can’t turn away from what I now know.

Anyway, I’ve been a bit sad this week over animal deaths – not of animals born and raised for food, because I accept their place in the grander scheme, but over those animals that are with us for other reasons.
 
First, Neva’s most beloved rooster, Yang, (our oldest, fuzzy silkie) went missing. This chicken was my daughter’s number one buddy. He was a funny little fellow that came when called. He always did this silly chicken dance at Neva’s feet because he was so excited to see her. You almost never saw Neva around the barn without this little black rooster in her arms. Anyway, he was around in the morning, but never showed up in the evening. This is always a bad sign where chickens are concerned. Neva searched for days, crying and calling for her favored pet, but there wasn’t a sign of him (not even feathers) anywhere. We can pretty much assume a hawk swooped him up. Neva fell into deep despair. She even said she would rather we had lost a horse than the rooster, but I think she was out of her mind with grief to suggest such a thing. Just as we got over this drama, something else occurred.

It has been raining and my barn area is a mud pit. I started worrying about my peacocks being wet and cool, so I rigged a cover over their cage. The next day, we had an overnight cold snap. In the morning, two of my young peacocks were dead. I quickly brought the other one inside the barn and set up heat lamps on him, but moments later he died as well. I was very upset. I have a barn and the facility to keep animals sheltered and warm all winter if necessary. I believed the peacocks, at almost 5 months old, didn’t need heat lamps anymore. I haven’t read anything about 40 degree weather being a threat for peacocks under 6 months of age in my books and the breeders didn’t mention it. Nevertheless, I felt responsible. For two days, I couldn’t stop thinking about my sweet peafowl, cold and wet, their systems slowing as they succumbed to the cold. Heck, it wasn’t even that cold. I wish I had handled them differently – kept them inside. I just didn’t know. 

Then, to add a third blow to my bird tragedies, I looked outside yesterday morning to see four happy ducks swimming in the lake and one white lump on the bank. Uh oh. I asked Mark if he could see what that was far across the lake. He got out his gun to look through the site. (Remind me to put binoculars on my Christmas list – like we need to pull out a GUN to see things?) Sure enough, he described the feathers on the bank as a “deflated duck”. Something had eaten Costello (one of my black and white Abbot and Costello team).  Dang it.        

This gets worse.

My friend Amanda called to say her horse was sick. She called the vet, but before he arrived, wouldn’t ya know the horse had delivered a colt. She didn’t even know this mare was pregnant! Now, she had a newborn colt to care for at the worst time of year because it is wet and cold out (which is why most horses are bred to foal in spring) and she didn’t know what to do. She doesn’t have a barn to give her animals warmth or shelter. Of course, I invited her to use my barn. So a few hours later, a sweet grey mare and her baby came to be our guests for what we guessed would be a few weeks. But the baby had complications and wasn’t nursing. Because they didn’t know the horse was pregnant, they didn’t give her a pre-delivery tetanus shot or supplements or even proper nutrition. She ate fescue grass, which they say is not good for pregnant mares (but my pregnant mare did fine on it). A few hours later, the baby’s umbilical cord burst. Amanda called the vet, and he notified her that the colt was unlikely to live. Amanda stayed most of the night to keep her mare company.

I went to the barn at 2:30 with cocoa and a sleeping bag, but Amanda had left. Standing there alone, I watched that poor little colt lying on the soft shavings of the barn, his breath shallow. I pet the nose of the mother, feeling helpless to do anything. The colt was making a raspy noise like a person dying. I’ve never heard a horse make a noise like that.

Sure enough, he passed away an hour later.

Mark took his tractor out and dug a hole so Shane could bury his baby horse. Then, he and his wife took the mare home again. I fed my two horses in the barn an hour later, and it was hard to wipe the image of that poor baby from my mind.

I am left with a melancholy feeling. I know these things happen, but I am unaccustomed to witnessing them. I keep thinking about how excited we were when our baby colt was born, and how difficult it would be to lose a much expected baby horse. Of course, this colt was not expected, but still, despite his being weak, he was darn cute with his dusty brown coat, two white socks, and white star on his forehead. 

Oddly enough, Neva pet that baby horse and said her good-byes last night as if it was sad, yet death is something she understands just happens at times. She is more accepting than I of these kinds of things, but I guess that can be attributed to her age. She is growing up a farmer’s child, a far cry from the dancer’s kid she once was. I am not as adaptable to a new view of life I guess.

When I bought Joy, my new pinto, I was told she had been bred to another high end saddle bred stallion and so, she was likely pregnant. Then, Shane told me he saw her in heat so I could pretty much assume that the pregnancy didn’t take. I was glad, actually. I want my horse lean and rideable in spring. But today, I am looking at her differently. She may very well BE pregnant, and if so, you can bet I want to give her all the care and attention she needs to assure a successful birth. Shane and Amanda had a vet check their horse, and he told them she wasn’t pregnant, which was why they were so shocked yesterday to have an unexpected baby horse to deal with. I guess there are no guarantees. But even if mistakes are made, I’ve decided to get a vet check, just in case. And I’m going to watch Joy like a hawk and give her supplements no matter what the vet says. No reason to believe other people’s hunches when something precarious is at stake.

The point is, death is a part of nature’s grand scheme, and I accept that. But in cases where I can make a difference and head it off at the pass, you can bet I want to do all I can. I will never lose another peacock to cold now that I’ve experienced this loss, but the country learning curve is painful to someone like me who considers every creature in her care a precious thing. My friends around here shrug and say, “Ah well, you can get you some new peacocks in spring and they’ll do fine.” But it doesn’t make me feel better.  I can’t bare others suffering my stupidity.

I am on my way downstairs to do my hour on the treadmill (it is rainy and cold outside, so my workout is going to stay indoors today.) And I’m going to watch my “Breeding, Birthing, and Newborn Care for Llamas” DVD. I don’t plan to ever see another big animal’s baby’s soft eyes closed prematurely again. Not on my watch. 

Honest to God, sometimes I can’t help but laugh and say, “Is this me?” The rest of the world is watching “Dancing with the Stars” and discussing costume choices and dishing stars because they look fat or are going bald (compared to when they were young).  I’m watching ranching videos as if this kind of documentary has the answer to life’s true, most pertinent questions.

I just wish I had the confidence here in the quiet, wide open spaces that I once had in my world of dance, malls and starbucks.    

 

       

In August, my husband showed me an active hornet nest hidden in the trees by our cabin. He said, “When fall comes, we can come get this. Hopefully, it will still be here.”

These big, papery nests are often used as decoration in rustic homes and businesses. You even see them for sale in stores for upwards of 100.00 because people love putting a small piece of nature in their cabins, but few want to brave hornet attacks to acquire a conversation piece. It isn’t easy collecting them, because you must wait until they are fully formed, yet dormant, but while waiting, the wind and storms of winter often destroy or batter the nest. Sometimes, they are hanging so high in the trees, you can’t get to them, or if you can, cutting the branch means a long fall that can break the treasure apart. Nothing is easy.

I always admire the hornet nests I see in cabins or stores and I’ve always wanted one, so it was exciting to see this perfect nest hanging within reach in the brush right along the road. These gray masses are hard to discover because they blend so well with the environment. Actually, I went right past this one a zillion times and didn’t even notice it. Mark is forever looking into the trees to seek twisted branches for broom handles or for pieces to use when making interesting furniture, so he sees things other people just wouldn’t notice. Each time, when he points something like this out, I wonder how it is some of us can be so oblivious, while others go through the day so aware and in the moment.
 
Mark’s mentioned the nest a few times since discovering it, usually after a trip to the cabin for maintenance or something, but I doubted we’d really get around to harvesting it. We have since sold the cabin, so now, with no reason to go over there, I put the nest out of my mind. I figured someone who lives nearby would snag it long before we got around to it.

Yesterday, we went to lunch at a small restaurant in an apple orchard near our house that just so happens to have two big hornet nests hanging from rafters as decoration. As you can imagine, this brought up the subject of “our nest”.

Mark said, “That nest should be dormant this time of year. Let’s go get it.”

I asked if I should get my bee bonnet or gloves, but he only laughed as if I was a big weenie and told me to bring a huge trash bag. He’d get the clippers. 

I suggested we bring the truck so we could transport the nest in the back, outside of the vehicle. I guess I had visions of transportation waking the hornets, thinking  they would suddenly start creeping out, angry and out for vengeance. (I like bees, but wasps are soldiers of the devil.) Mark said that was ridiculous. They are asleep. We’d just put them in the backseat of my car.

We drove over and sure enough the nest was where we’d seen it last. We discussed the best way to get it off the tree without damaging it, and decided Mark would do the clipping, and I’d hold the bag underneath. Mission accomplished. It was easy and uneventful, which doesn’t make for a very exciting story, but I can’t say I was dissapointed. 

Then, as we were preparing to go home, Mark looks over and says, “Hey, there is another one.”

Sure enough, he’d spotted an even bigger nest high in a tree across the way. We go to inspect it. This one would be a bit harder to get, but we would try. The problem was, I’d only brought one trash bag. So, we drove to a nearby gas station, bought some bags and returned. I should mention here that this nest was in the backyard of our former neighbor’s cabin. They only use the place for vacations, and they were not visiting at this time, so we took the liberty of walking through their yard to retrieve the nest anyway. If nothing else, we’ve saved them from being inundated with pesky hornets come spring when they return.

It was a successful hunt. Both nests are encased in plastic bags in the upper area of my barn now. We will spray them with hornet spray and wait for a few months until we are sure that whatever is inside had died off.

The owner of the Apple Orchard restaurant warned us that when they found their nests, the thing seemed so quiet they figured it was unoccupied. After all, no bugs came out when it was moved. So, they hung the nests right away, then, come spring, all the eggs hatched and the store was overrun with angry hornets. Was a huge ordeal. Now that would make for a good story, but not one I want to be telling about our new coffee shop.

Today, I will read about these nests on the internet, just because now that we have a few, I’m darn curious to learn about them. Hopefully I will discover the best way to preserve these delicate clumps of papery mud while I’m at it.

By summer, we’ll have a cool nest to hang in an office or the game room, and one for the coffee shop. I’m keeping my eyes peeled now; looking into the trees everywhere we go hoping to discover more of nature’s treasures.

Amazing how little it takes to amuse me nowadays.

  

Saturday, I went on an eleven hour horseback ride with friends.
Yes, my butt hurts.

These friends often trailer the horses out to areas of national park or local mountain regions to go trail riding through the forest. Fall is prime time for riding because the horses love the crisp weather and the foliage is breathtaking. So far, I’ve been unavailable to go with them because of other family commitments, but this weekend all we had on the agenda was Kent marching in the Veteran’s day parade. The only thing worse than dance on Mark’s arthritic hips is riding- he can’t even sit astride a horse now, but he understands my love for such things, so he promised he would cheer loud enough for us both, and he urged me to go. Didn’t take much for me to say, “OK!”

Its deer season, so I was told I had to wear an orange vest. I complained that considering I’d be on a white horse, I shouldn’t need a vest. They said that with my deer colored hair poking through the brush as I emerge over a hill, I’d probably be a prime target for some beer drinking, over-excited, under experienced, weekend hunter from Atlanta. OK, give me a vest.

They said we’d be going out on Saturday morning, so I figured I should be ready at about 9. Usually they go on Sundays after church. But since this was a Saturday, I figured they’d go earlier. Little did I know they’d show up at 6am to load my horse! I was standing at the door in my jammies thinking, are you kidding me? But I quickly dressed and went to make coffee while they loaded my two horses. I have my priorities straight, ya know.

The friends going on this trip included Mark’s best friend, Ronnie (the preacher fellow who built our house and likes to play tricks on unsuspecting country-girl wannabes), his two young adult sons, the seventeen year old wife of one of those boys, Shane ( 30 – the fellow who sold me my new Pinto and is currently training her) and his wife, Amanda. Then, there was me, the oldest of the bunch (although Ronnie is coming up the rear in that category).

We decided to take both my horses. Pepe came as my mount and Shane would ride Joy to give her more trail riding experience. Off we head for Aska Mountain. I figured we’d be out for a few hours. I never dreamed we’d be astride these animals, charging through the forest, for some 8 hours straight. Ouch.

I have never ridden like this before. I grew up with horses, but I rode over well established trails and along farm land. I went to horseback riding camps and took lessons too, but in those cases I was working in a ring, going over baby jumps in a controlled environment. Nowadays, I ride on our land, but only along the roads and in the pasture or around the ring. This ride was entirely different. They took me along barely cut paths through the forest, along rocky roads, on pavement, and through thick underbrush. It was everything except a controlled environment.

They would say, “Wonder what is over that mountain . . . let’s check it out.” Then, grinning, they’d charge straight up the hill without a path to speak of, weaving through trees and underbrush, dodging killer tree branches, hoping up snake wouldn’t land in anyone’s laps or that we wouldn’t disturb a wild boar. The horses would slip and slide, snorting and sweating from the effort. I just held on for dear life.

I said, “Do you think horses are allowed in this area of a national forest?”
“Don’t’ rightly know,” “Shane would say. An hour later we would pass a sign that had a big X through a picture of a four wheeler, a truck, and a motorcycle.
“Doesn’t have horses blocked out so we must be A-OK,” Shane would say.
“Doesn’t say you can bring a boat in here either, but I doubt they are allowed.” Then, I’d hear myself, and cringe because I sound so much like my mother.
“Ye-haw,” I’d say, urging Pepe to dance because I rather not be that careful, goodie two shoes sort of person that age seems pushing me towards becoming.

At the top of the steep mountain, we would come to an open trail. Every time they came upon unfettered spaces they would open the horses up wide and go charging along at a full speed run. You see, I trot and gallop, but honestly, I haven’t opened up my horse like that since I was a kid. I confess, I’m a tentative, middle aged rider now. But I’m not about to be the person holding a group of friends back, (nor would my horses let me) so in the end, I just thought, whatchagonnado?, and so I played “cowgirl on a mighty steed” for the day. I have to admit, once I re-familiarized myself with speed and daring, I had a blast.

I was grateful, because without these friends pushing me along, I seriously doubt I’d ever get down, rough and wild, to ride like that. Furthermore, I could never go exploring in such wilderness alone or even with a friend, because I’d get lost. I kept saying, how do you all know where we are?” And they’d explain that they’ve hunted this mountain for years. They grew up playing in these woods, coon hunting, exploring, look for their lost dogs. They know every path and trail, or if they don’t, they just have to go a few minutes until the recognize something and they figure out where they are.  Remarkable.

I learned not only a great deal about my friends, thanks to quiet conversation as we weaved slowly through some of the more difficult paths – but I learned a different side of my horses too. Pepe (my white horse – well, technically he is considered grey, but only because he has a light shadow of freckles along his neck in the summer) is a very well trained, ex-show horse. I love this animal with the passion of a fifteen year old with a crush. There is something in his eyes and character I just took to from the very beginning. Funny,  I have a drop dead, gorgeous, expensive, top of the line pinto, (Joy) and she is fantastic, but in the end, it’s the little quarter horse gelding I’m most devoted to. What can I say, I’ve always been drawn to character and personality before looks or an impressive résumé. Why should it be any different with horses?

Anyway, I’m used to Pepe being calm, sweet, and easy to control. But then, I’ve never taken him out to the wilderness in frisky weather with other horses before.. He was out of his mind with excitement. While the other horses moseyed along, he’d prance, picking his feet up high like he was in the show ring. He simply wanted to dance or run the entire time, and if I held him back, he did this strange thing – sort of like galloping in place. We used to teach kids how to cartwheel in place by undercutting their feet and this horse’s movement reminded me of that. He could gallop, yet not go anywhere. It was like some funky dance step designed to give the illusion of moving, yet not actually propelling you forward .

The horse trainers stared and said, “What the heck is that horse doing? I think we’ve seen some really strong competition horses do that in the ring, but Lord, we can’t imagine how you could teach an animal to do that. Where did you get this horse, the circus?” They all started kidding me, stating that only a dancer would end up with a horse that dances too. He was doing the watoosee all day long. And like it or not, I had to dance along with him.

“I retired from dance. Your turn to do the same,” I’d nag at the horse. It didn’t help. His soul was filled with rhythm and spunk all day.

I didn’t really mind his antics because I trust and adore this animal, and actually, it was sort of funny. Well, it was funny for the first three hours. Then, I got tired of bouncing up and down, having to remain attentive to control him so I wouldn’t get knocked off. I was getting really annoyed, but nothing I did would stop him. Everyone else was walking along calmly, and there I was on Pepe, bouncing along on this tireless, moon walking horse. I wanted to kill him. My butt hurt.

He also insisted on being at the head of the pack. It didn’t help that Shane and the seventeen year old were constantly taking off to explore non-established riding areas. They kept riding ahead full speed to do wild, boyish things on their horses. After trying and not succeeding to keep my horse back with the mature adults, I gave up and let Pepe charge ahead with the wild ones. Ee-gad. What else could I do? One good thing was that it allowed me to watch Joy in action under the control of a fearless rider. Man, she is pretty. And this gave me a quick refresher course in carefree riding. After a few hours, I switched horses with Shane and had my first experience riding my new horse. You can feel the power underneath you when astride a horse like that. Previously, I’d been somewhat intimidated by her, but she is magnificent. It didn’t take long to be assured I’d picked the perfect horse.

I groom my horses regularly and I bath them occasionally, as is common. But Pepe is a really dirty horse. He is forever upside down. Figures– the light colored horse would be the one who likes to roll. Anyway, as he started sweating, layers and layers of dirt embedded next to his skin started oozing out. And before you know it, my white horse was caked in mud. It was dripping off of him in huge fistful clumps. I was mortified! I had no idea he was that dirty.

Everyone was kidding me, saying, “When did you say you bathe that horse last – ahem, might that be never? Gee Ginny, we thought you liked that horse.”
 

(After I wiped him down with leaves for ten minutes and pulled off clumps of dirt. Eesh.)

Meanwhile, their mud colored, copper horses looked fresh as a daisy. A so did they. My horse happens to love me so much he has to rub up against me at every opportunity, and it wasn’t long until my yellow jacket was as muddy as he was. I looked like Pig Pen shuffling along with the clean crew of Charlie Brown. It was as if I’d gone on a different ride than everyone else, one that involved a mud pit. Good thing I love that horse so much, because for a while, I almost considered shooting him. I don’t think I’ve been that dirty since I was ten. But hey, a little dirt never hurt anyone.

(Shane on my Joy, and his wife, Amanda on a kicking, biting, horse named Rebel. Guess the name fits.)

The day truly lifted my soul. I saw miles of fall leaves coloring the landscape like an artist’s palate. I listened to the rustle of hooves shuffling through a foot-deep trench of crackling leaves followed by the clip clop of hooves on hard dirt, with birds singing from above and the constant hot breath of a hard working animal below.  I felt cool breezes and the hot muscle of my mount at the same time, sparking thoughts of how diverse and remarkable life can be. I couldn’t help but think of how I spent my Saturdays only a few short years ago, holed up in a studio without seeing the Florida sun for entire weekends, people complaining and questioning every decision despite how hard we worked to please them or how successful the dancers or dances we continually produced were. As I rode along, at peace and filled with gratitude for my life, I marveled that I could be in this place, doing this wonderful thing with people who knew me better in one afternoon than my previous friends bothered to get to know me after years of acquaintance. No one is single dimensional. I’m glad I rediscovered that about myself as well.

I waved to a few walkers on the Appalachian Trail (who actually shouted that the Pinto was the prettiest horse they’ve ever seen … ah, that’s my girl.) And I had funny conversations with my no-frills friends – they are the best kind of people who gather together in a casual way just to enjoy the sweet, simple pleasures of nature and camaraderie. No one in this group cares who makes more money than the other, or what you do for a living, or your level of education or whether or not you are ambitious or talented or came from the “right” kind of family. They don’t steer the conversation to work or dance or their kids, or even horses just because it is something they already know we have in common. Conversation just rolls along naturally, touching upon interesting subjects as we discover what makes each other tick.  There is simply lots of laughter, respect, and good natured curiosity and acceptance about each other’s past, future hopes, and interests. Amazing how, when people don’t want anything from you, you grow comfortable in your own skin.

Anyway, it was a perfect day filled with inspirational sights, sounds and thoughts.

We came upon a huge water tower and the boys asked me if I wanted to go up to the top to see the view.  Of course, I said yes. Then, they got off the horses and started shimmying up the metal grids. I was like, “Um… where are the stairs?” They explained that it was a service tower to check for fires, so people are not supposed to come up. I just have to climb up the first three flights, then there are stairs so the next eighteen floors are gravy. I was like, “Have you forgotten how old I am?’

“Only as old as you feel,” they called over their shoulders as I watched their butts head for the sky. “Don’t be a pooper.”

I shouted that Mark would forgive me for falling off a horse, or even a mountain, but I’d get in big trouble if I killed myself by falling off a tower when I didn’t have to be up there. Considering I was already so sore I could barely walk, I decided to be the old fart and skip the view (yet deep down I wished I was 18 again). I stayed below with Ronnie. This gave my horse further opportunity to get me even dirtier, an equine’s idea of a good time. I opened my thermos of coffee, wondering if these people ever eat anything other than beef jerky and candy. I guess food isn’t important when you are having fun. Ronnie and I ate a sandwich we had slipped into the saddle bags this morning, and while smiling and waving the young ones upward, we talked about how sore we would be the next day.

The days are growing short this time of year, so by the time we returned at 6:00 it was pitch dark out. I hobbled around the barn, putting my tack away, dreaming of the steaming tub calling to me from the house.

Mark took one look at me and chuckled. I guess I looked as beat as I felt.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, wondering if my dirty exterior meant I’d fallen or something. “You OK?”  

“I had time of my life,” I said.

I didn’t have to tell him I was OK. Some things go without saying.

 

 

 

My clothes washer died. A few months back it needed a new belt. That cost me a whopping 125.00. This time it was a new drum seal (for 150.00). I figure it is only a matter of time until this clunker will need a new motor or something. Not that I’m complaining; any washer adopted by this family is in for industrial use.  It is only natural the poor thing will rebel against the abuse or kick up its heels and die from exhaustion. Anyway, we decided that it was time to buy a new washer.

Washing is the bane of my existence. We are a dirty family – between my working with the animals twice a day and/or working out, Mark getting grimy on the tractor or in the workshop, and the kids just being kids . . . not to mention that I am constantly washing sheets and towels and what have you, and then we have Denver coming over to do her clothes too. I must spend a minimum of an hour a day, every day, trying to keep up on our endless laundry pile. I don’t know how those people who wash once or twice a week don’t drown in soiled undies. I would.

Anyway, I picked out the washer that could handle the biggest load – three loads in one, like the big monsters at the laundry mat. It has a fancy-smancy electronic panel that assures many cycle choices. It also uses 4 times less water, conserving both energy and water. (Must consider the environment with every new purchase, ya know.) Best of all, there is no agitator in the middle, just some kind of new science that cleans the clothes with spray force and water distribution – water which happens to be recycled throughout the process, to boot. Imagine that! And no agitator means I won’t have to wrestle with all those strings on sweatshirts, spaghetti straps on nightgowns, etc…which constantly get tangled up in middle pole of my traditional washer. Yeah, laundry is gonna be a piece of cake from here on with my new scientifically advanced whirlpool.

They delivered this ultra cool washer today. I had them put the old washer in the garage. We are still going to have it fixed to give to Denver – thus lessening the laundry gridlock around here even more. Yippee.

When the two fellows came to deliver the machine, they stood outside, admiring the house. They commented that they see lots of houses, but in most cases, they all look the same. Ours is truly unique. We hear that a lot, but still it is nice when someone takes the time to compliment your home. So we talked about rustic house design and building in the casual way that is common to country folk. People are never too busy to pause and chat with a stranger around here. In fact, it’s only when you are too busy to exchange pleasantry’s that they know you are not from around here – and they don’t think much of those self-serving, superficial city folk that won’t give you the time of day or look into your eyes when talking to you, ya know.

Having gotten to know the woman of the house a bit, they came inside, looked in my pantry where the new washer will go and said, “Well, what day ya know. Looks like we got a liquor runner here. Whatcha got in those huge tanks? Wine or whiskey?”

I explained that I was making wine. They thought this was marvelous and wanted to hear just how I turned sugar into alcohol and what fruit I used to make the different flavors, so we spent some time talking recipes and techniques. They marveled at the different degrees of clarity of my wines in various stages and asked lots of good questions. Then, they shared a story of homemade wine they’d had before – especially the mighty kick of a particular blackberry wine they were served by friends around a campfire on a starry night. This lead to questions about how I control the “proof” of my wine’s alcohol content, and I explained that when making homemade wine, people sometimes top off the fermenting liquid with brandy instead of water. It’s an option because you must add something so you won’t have air in the jug, yet sometimes you don’t want to water down the taste. Then again, sometimes the alcohol content can be higher for other reasons. Anyway, homemade wine can pack a punch. It’s true.

I enjoyed the conversation as I always do when I meet new people. Up here, people are friendly and curious, but the talk never feels as if they are judging you or setting you up because they want to sell you something or get something from you. Down to earth conversation is just common courtesy in these parts. You take the time to know people, whether they are picking up your mail, delivering your washer, or asking for directions.

Anyway, as they hooked up the washer, we had a lovely conversation about wine making, new fangled clothes washers, and house building. After they were done setting up the washer, they pretended to wrap their arms around a big 6 gallon jug of wine and said, “We’ll just be taking our tip with us now.”

They were kidding, of course.

But the truth was, I was already thinking these fellows deserved a treat. Just this morning, I was labeling my tomato wine  (because I am getting too many bottles to keep the different batches straight so I have to start labeling and sorting.) A case of my tomato and strawberry wine was right by the door. So I pulled out two bottles of tomato and said, “This may not be the tip you are used to getting, but I want you to take this home and try it . . . and the best part of sending you away with a  bottle is that if you don’t like it, I won’t ever know.”

They assured me they wouldn’t be picky about any free bottle of wine, but they were just kidding about taking home wine as a tip, and they didn’t expect me to give any of my precious wine away. But I told them I have more bottles than friends to give them to, and anyone as interested in the subject of winemaking as they’d been deserved to have some honest to goodness homemade wine to sample for a true understanding of the pleasure of homemade wine. They had displayed true delight to learn a person could make wine out of tomatos, so I figured that was the flavor they’d most appreciate trying. 

I really wanted them each to take a bottle home, because frankly, I loved their sincere interest and I’d enjoyed the conversation. So, they thanked me and lumbered back into their delivery truck, smiling and waving, with two bottles of Hendry Valley 2007 Tasty Tomato Wine under their arms.    

This is why I love being a wine maker. A hobby like this not only provides you with a good conversation ice breaker when meeting new people, but makes for small, memorable moments. I suspect these guys will later tell the story of the lady who bought a washer and sent the delivery boys home with a homemade wine tip. And someday, when next they are drinking strong blackberry wine around a campfire with friends, they will talk about the tomato wine they sampled, thanks to a nice woman in a “cool” house with a funky new fangled washer.  Gee, I hope my wine gets as good reviews as my house did.

Country people do love to talk. They share stories casually with anyone who will listen – and plenty do. It’s the small talk woven together that creates a distinct flavor and builds community pride in small towns like this. The residents of Blue Ridge honor and respect the local heritage and maintain a deep appreciation for the traditions and individuals who help make the place unique. They don’t think much of conformity or generic commercial products, and as such, they applaud old fashion innovation. Homemade wine smacks of down home, vintage ways of doing things. As such, my rot gut wine is not only acceptable, but truly admired, and taste has nothing to do with it.

There was a time I might have strived to impress people with my winemaking finesse, but living here, I’ve learned the joy of doing things without regard to high achievement or meeting standards set by others. You just don’t encounter censorship or critique in these parts (except in matters of religion,  but that is another subject entirely). Such acceptance keeps fun at the forefront of your interests, as it should be .

Anyway, I like knowing I’m going to be a small part of the wine folklore in our community. I’ve just added a two minute tale to the millions of stories swapped in daily conversation by people going about the business of living. The subject of my tomato wine will no doubt come up in the most casual and unassuming way. Which makes me a part of this community now. It is always nice to feel a part of something wholesome and good.

Since I’m a gal with the five gallon jug salute for anything worth saluting, tonight I’ll drink to tomato wine, clean clothes and good conversation.  And the marvel of slowly being absorbed into a community legacy. 

Cheers.