Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

My daily rounds

Posted on August 20, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

This morning I was making my rounds. I went to check on Pulani. Not in labor, of course. Just fatter.

I gave her breakfast, a cookie and a scolding. Then I hung Dali up in the barn so that when his mate does finally give birth to his offspring, he will be looking on in spirit. Perhaps this is a twisted romantic view, but it seemed appropriate to me, but for all I know, this scull will scar the new baby for life and give Pulani the creeps. Ah well.
 

Fed everyone else. Went to check on some other animal issues.


This season I’ve learned just how sneaky poultry can be. After my great duck caper, Romer knew better than to try to lay her eggs in the barn. Not only did I try to slip her some baby ducks that weren’t hers, but now there was a llama in her stall. The nerve! So she found a more secluded place to lay a bunch of dormant, unfertilized eggs that she would spend months sitting on. She laid a dozen eggs in my compost tumbler. I’d left the door open and I guess the shavings, manure and garden scraps seemed prime nesting materials. It’s no doubt stinky in there, but always warm and dark in the metal bin, which would be great for fertilized eggs. Luckily I discovered her before covering her up with more manure or closing the lid. So for about 6 weeks she has been diligently sitting on eggs in the dumpster. They are overdue, so nothing is going to hatch, sad to say. When I visit, she hisses and acts all indignant. I can’t wait for her to give up and return to cool lazy days on the pond. I want my composter back.



My spring chicks are full grown and laying now, but lord knows where. I get about eight eggs a day in the chicken house, but the rest are found in the hay trough in the barn, or in bushes. I keep seeing the chickens sneak up to the top of the hayloft where I could never follow. I bet there are two dozen eggs up there. They will either hatch and a bunch of baby chicks will come tumbling down from the sky, or they will rot and smell, only to be discovered frozen this winter when I work my way through the hay. As winter comes, I’ll close the birds in the pen and they will get use to using the chicken house. I moved a fancy garden shed to the area, filled it with roosts and shavings and had fencing added to attach it to the current pen. This was to provide more housing for the new birds, but they haven’t gone inside yet. Picky poultry.


This spring I took my prize pumpkin (the only one I grew last fall, and so I kept it for nine months) and smashed it on a hill by the barn. I was hoping it might take root, and it did. I have a nice pumpkin plant up there, and several pumpkins got a good start. But a day or two later, I’d notice the little globs were gone, the flowers attached demolished. Finally, a larger pumpkin started to grow. I was delighted. Then one day I noticed it didn’t look too good, and upon closer inspection I see that the chickens had been pecking away at it. They think my planting around the barn was designed to provide them with a smorgasbord. Oh no you don’t! So I put the top of some unused cages over the new flowers and sure enough, I am now growing a few pumpkins under security wire. The bees still go in and pollinate, but the resulting fruit can’t be scavenged. I will not be thwarted by poultry!



I have not been quite so lucky keeping them out of my bucket garden. The chickens began hanging around to eat the bugs, which was helpful, but when they accidently pecked a plant and discovered just how yummy the veggies are, they started enjoying my harvest long before I had a chance to.

I can’t complain. I’ve already reaped tons of zucchini and peppers out there, but all my tomatoes were blightly and only a few cucumbers were good. It is winding down now, and I’m ready to put closure on the gardening in a bucket project. My beans ended up mostly as special treats for the rabbits, and everything else looked slightly undernourished despite my feeding the plants daily and providing the best soil you can buy. I think the limitations of their situation make them sad. OK, so I’m not in favor of gardening in buckets anymore. Nice try. Lesson learned. I also know now NOT to plan next year’s garden anywhere near the barn. I may have water resources in that area, but I have sneaky feathered thieves too. Chalk another one up to the learning curve.


I next went to see how my bee frames fared. Sure enough, they had been picked cleaned by ravenous bees.


I thought I should put them back and tried to open the hive (no veil or suit or smoker.) Big mistake. Everyone inside was still pissed at me. I quickly closed the lid and suited up. I returned with the smoker and easily put the frames back. Then I decided it might be nice to check the lower boxes to see how the queen and brood are faring. I haven’t done that all season. Another mistake. The bees got instantly agitated and swarmed me, out for vengeance for my honey robbing, I guess. I got stung through the suit on the elbow. That’s a first. It was only a small annoyance, but then I noticed a buzzing on my ear and around my face and I thought one of the bees had climbed into my helmet. That’s a problem. Can’t have them stinging you in the eyeball. So, I walked away shooing the millions of bees off my suit so I could take off my helmet. Instantly a bee dive bombed my face and stung me on the lip. Bitch! I cleared my helmet, went back and put the hive back in order. First I tried to take a picture of myself stung. Didn’t occur to me that I wasn’t wearing make-up or would have that startled expression- forgive me if this gives you nightmares. Anwya, I figured if the bees are in that kind of mood, I’ll skip poking around for one day.



Now, my mouth is numb. I feel like a dentist shot me with nova cane. Ouch. I’m going to fix myself a hot tea with HONEY from that stink’in bee. That will make us even.

MY bluebery bush is loaded and lots of fruit is ready for picking again. When Neva comes home from school, we’ll go to work. Untill then, I’ll sit at the computer and try to convince myself I can be creative …. With a numb mouth, I really want to just go out on my porch and read. I’m enjoying a terrific book called “Five quarters of the Orange” by Joanne Harris (same woman who wrote Chocolat) which will be discussed at my book club this month. It’s engaging, so if I dare start, I’ll waste the entire day reading. Can’t have that.
  


Tomorrow, Kathy is graduating from two years of drug court. The ceremony is in Jasper at the Appalachian Technical College where I hope to be teaching soon. She is excited, because this means her life is her own again and she is truly clean. I’ve written an article for the local newspaper about how she overcame addiction, learned to read and started giving back to the community. I’ll take pictures at the ceremony and then drop my packet off at the news office. I am pretty confident they will publish the piece as a special interest story. I’m going to include my résumé and an introduction and tell them if they ever want a contributing editor or are looking for someone to fill a staff writing position, I’d be interested. Mostly, I wrote the article as a gift for Kathy and the literacy program. She deserves recognition for her hard work and diligent efforts, and she is an inspiration for others.


We took some time off this summer, but we’re meeting twice a week again. Yesterday, I took her some honey, some homemade blueberry jam, and we spent the entire lesson doing an interview. Even after 2 ½ years of working together, I learned things about her I didn’t know. Interesting.


Kathy has never been on the internet. I explained that I blog and that I’ve written about her on occasion. I would never want her to feel I was exploiting her by sharing our journey in a public way, so I explained that it was mostly friends who tuned in, people who knew me and were interested in my adventures in Georgia. I write about her occasionally because she is an important part of my journey. I explained that as result, she had a nice fan club rooting for her from far and wide.


“Everyone will be thrilled when I post pictures of your graduation,” I said. “They have followed your progress and they want you to succeed.”


She blushed and said she was sure glad she hadn’t disappointed everyone.  I told her each life touches others in subtle ways and when people read about how she is overcoming adversity it reminds them to be grateful for their blessings. It might even inspire them to take action to make their lives more successful, or to reach out to help those less fortunate. This brought us back to the article at hand. She said, “You should add a before and after picture of me. That says it all.” Not a bad idea.


The fact is, working with Kathy has been about so much more than reading and writing. It’s been about personal connection, the human spirit and sharing a friendship without personal judgment or social status interfering. I wish everyone a Kathy in their lives at least once.

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We’re in the honey!

Posted on August 18, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock


Yesterday, I decided it was time to take honey off my bees for the first time. I was nervous – not because I’d be robbing the bees (I don’t fear them at all) but because I had to use this new fangled honey extractor and my untried, heated uncapping knife and I had no clue what I was doing. I’ve waited over a year to do this, and I didn’t’ want to botch it up and have to wait another year to harvest honey.


I began by checking my two new bee hives, the ones I set up this April. Something is wrong. The comb they are building is erratic, lumpy and disconnected. It’s spilling out to the sides and attaching to the roof in clumps, while the nice, neat frames are empty. One hive has tons of new bees. The other one isn’t reproducing quite as well, but they are alive and trying their best. If they don’t get their act together, they won’t survive the winter, however. I’m thinking the erratic comb may be because I bought the new foam core hives that they advertise as being easier to lift (perfect for a woman) rather than the old fashion wooden hives. Perhaps the bees don’t like it. I bought both swarms from the same company. Perhaps they’re stupid, reject bees the company wanted to unload. Then again, maybe these weaker hives are being robbed by the stronger hive or they have caught a virus. I will have to do some research to see if I can rectify this problem or at least define what is going on. I guess it will teach me something – though I can’t stand the idea of another year lost due to the learning curve.


I then went to check my year old hive. The bees were abundant, swarming happily all about me – well, they were until I began to remove their frames filled with honey. Then they got pissed. I was shocked at how heavy a frame filled with honey, capped with wax is. Each one weighted about 7 pounds. Considering there are ten in a super, the box was difficult to lift. First, I had to remove the bees. I smoked them, and then put this stinky bee removal pad on the top of the hive. I almost poisoned myself, because I used my mouth to bite off the plastic seal on the top, and suddenly my tongue was burning and an awful taste overcame me. It’s not like I was eating the stuff, but for several minutes it felt like my face was on fire. I had a bottle of water in the drink holder in my mule, so I splashed water in and around my mouth and hoped for the best. Obviously, no damage was done, but it was another lesson learned. Respect bee chemicals – check.


The bees moved out of the hive, or at least most did. A few stubbornly refused to budge, and I swept them away with my bee brush only to have them fly around my back and return again. Gotta love hard worker’s tenacity.


Considering I am inexperienced at this, I was in a quandary about what to do next. Should I leave the supper box empty or fill it with blank frames? I intended to bring the frames back after removing the honey so the bees would have a head start refilling them, but how long would it take me to extract honey and would the bees freak out in the meantime? I ended up leaving blanks frames in the box and headed to the house to extract my honey. I also read you need to do this in a place where the bees won’t find you, so I set up my extractor in the garage.


I gingerly cut away the wax capping in one smooth motion as the instructions said. Clumps of wax filled with honey dropped into a pan. Neva and her best friend watched, coaching me as if they had some clue of how this should be done. When both sides of the frame had been cut away and it was now dripping honey, I slid it into the extractor. When four frames were ready (to balance the centrifugal force inside) I let Neva rotate the handle to begin spinning. She put some muscle into it, and suddenly honey came oozing out from the bottom spout – exciting,  but it was filled with broken comb and debris.


“Perhaps we shouldn’t spin so rigorously,” I suggested.
So she spun softer. Then the honey barely extracted and the frame remained gooey.
“OK, back to spinning faster,” I said, deciding that broken comb might be a normal thing. How would I know?
“We flipped the frame two times to get the honey extracted. In the end, the frames were still honey damp , but I had half a five gallon bucket filled and several frames to go. Wow.


When we were finished, we poured the honey through a huge strainer to remove the clumps of comb and one or two dead bees – death by honey suffocation– sad way to go.
The honey oozed slowly, purified amber that was thick and sweet once strained. I then poured it into bottles I had ordered for just this day. By the way, don’t use a funnel if you ever try this. Takes forever. The direct pour method is best.


Next, I had to decide what to do with the wax capping. It was filled with honey and I remember reading somewhere that you could melt it to make the wax separate. So I put this mess in my favorite cooking pan to melt the wax (big mistake). As it was heating, I got out my beekeeper’s book to see if it had any advice on wax preparation (Um… I couldn’t wait to read about what I was doing first?) I was supposed to use a double boiler to melt beeswax to avoid a wax fire, and there was no mention of honey separating. They did warn you that you would proabaly ruin the pan used. Oops. I poured the liquid mess into a paper container hoping for the best. This morning I inspected it to find the wax had hardened but was floating over a lot of honey. I threw this honey away however, not knowing how heating it the day before might have affected its longevity or safety. (More research required). I washed the honey off the backside of the wax and melted this mess again (in a small plastic container standing in a double boiler this time) This concoction is now hardening for Mark, who’s only interest in my keeping bees is his getting bees wax for wood finishes. I really hoped to present him with some usable wax but I have no clue if my experiment will work.
   
I did end up with 20 bottles of honey which will certainly last us the winter. I probably retrieved half the honey a healthy hive is supposed to deliver, partially because I had only one super to remove and it wasn’t entirely filled, and partly because I didn’t know how to extract efficiently to gain the greatest harvest. And I’ve left two huge boxes filled with comb, honey and brood for the bees to last the winter. At least I learned what not to do. By next year, with three hives to harvest (hopefully) and some awareness of what honey extraction entails, I’ll be far more graceful and efficient at the task. 


I put the empty frames out by the hives so the bees could clean up the remaining honey (I read about that in beekeeper magazine.) Later, I worried that a honey soaked frame would attract ants. Gee, everything new you try comes with a unique set of problems. I will check the frames today, and if they look OK, I’ll put them back and see how that works for the bees.


While I had my bee suit on, I decided to remove the basketball sized paper wasp nest at the end of our driveway. Usually we wait until fall when the nests go dormant to try to retrieve such things, but the wasps are a threat situated right where people walk everyday, and sometimes when you wait, rain, wind and animals destroy the nests. This one was too pretty to risk.


I approached slowly and cut the branch the nest was attached too, lowering the paper ball into a big garbage sack. Immediately, a hundred angry wasps emerged and swarmed all about my body and face in attack mode.
I was a little nervous, because while my bee suit is great amour around little honey bees, I’ve never tested it with more aggressive insects. Luckily, I couldn’t feel a thing, but still, I didn’t like all those nasty wasps covering me, so I walked quickly up the hill to the house shooing them away. Eventually, they flew off leaving me holding a buzzing bag of very confused and angry wasps, now trapped in the dark with their air slowly ebbing away. (Gosh it sounds creul now that I’m describing it.) The sack was literally vibrating with the motion inside, which felt more dangerous than it really was. I tied the top tightly, put it on the porch and happily got away. Today, I’ll move it to the barn storage area for a year long rest and by next year I’ll have a perfect, wonderful nest for decoration. I’m told if you spray these paper nests with hairspray they hold together for years. I’ll try that with the ones we retrieved last season and see if it works.


With jars of honey decorating the counter (had to show them off, ya know) I was feeling like nature’s personal chef, so I dragged Neva to the blue berry bush and we picked several gallons of ripe berries. Together, we made three batches of jam. I could have made more with our windfall, but when she wasn’t’ looking, I hid a bucket full in the freezer to make wine later this week. I bottled two more batches, one merlot and one chardonnay, recently and even put together a winerack to hold them, though I confess it was more to keep the house looking neat since it is for sale than because I wanted to display my wine. I make it faster than we can drink it and the bottles do build up. I have another 60 that will soon be ready to process…. Um…. perhaps another rack, like bookends would look nice. 


So concludes my culinary projects for one day.


Still no baby llama. Pulani’s udders are full. Her belly has dropped. She looks overly ripe.  I figure now that I’ve got my jam and honey projects off my to-do list, it’s time we finish off this llama ordeal. I just have to convince Pulani to work with me here. Fat chance.

I am dilligently working on a memoir now, and though it is hard to capture the level of honesty that defines a truly good book, I am happy with my progress. Writing is exhausting when done well, and it drains you to the core, so I find myself having to leave my computer to seek diversions every hour or so. I blog less because I simply can’t sit still anymore after my work. That’s a shame considering how much I value this system of keeping in contact with friends . And when I go to the barn or cook dinner, I continue working in my head – never a break from the project at hand.   I wish I could just get the book done so it wouldn’t keep swarming around my head like yesterday’s wasps. Sometimes I miss the days when writing to me was simply losing myself in a friviolous romance story, and yet, I’m compelled by other challenges now. Evolution. It’s a bitch.


    

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Llama liason

Posted on August 13, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock


      Each day, I go down to the barn to visit Pulani, who has been confined in a double stall for six weeks now. I enter the stall. We stare at each other. She pins her ears back. I stick my tongue out at her. She lifts her head as high as she can, her nose straight up in the air so she will be taller than her opponent. In her mind, this establishes her superiority. It’s  as aggressive as she gets and all it does it make her look silly, so I don’t’ take offense. My scars have long since healed from the wrestling match of catching her, but there is a lingering distrust on both of our parts, so we proceed carefully.
     Thus begins the dance of taming a llama. I walk slowly around the room and she sidesteps away. I corner her and pat her back while she nervously keeps her face away. This contact is more than we’ve had for the entire past year together, so I revel in the feel of her thick wool and the muscle under her coat. Her skin shivers under my palm and her eyes dart around nervously. I let my hand slide down to her belly, hoping to feel something exciting, but this usually makes her kick so I pull away in respect to her anxious state.
   For ten days I’ve been going into her stall to grab her halter, clip a lead rope to it, then wind the rope around a slat in the fence so I can pull her face up close to confine movement. I proceed to pry her mouth open with a syringe to squirt medicine down her throat, and wait until she swallows it. The sour paste was given to me by the vet to get her to produce milk for her baby. Of course, when he demonstrated giving it to her, Pulani had been given a tranquilizer, so it looked easy. The first time I tried on my own, it took me half an hour to catch her and another half an hour to figure out a creative solution to getting the paste into her mouth. Each attempt became easier, partly because I became more coordinated with the system, and partly because she started to accept that I wouldn’t leave until she ate the stuff. At long last, I’ve finished giving her the entire prescription. 
     Pulani’s due date to have her baby came and went over a month ago. I kept careful records of the breeding and had arranged my entire summer around the event, so I was more than a little annoyed as the days dragged on and there was no baby. I stared at her in the stall, thinking she didn’t even look pregnant. Perhaps the mating didn’t take. It’s unheard of to keep a male and female llama in a pasture and not have the female get pregnant, but leave it to Pulani to be so ornery that she’d turn away her mate. 
   In the meantime, I had pressing commitments looming that I had scheduled under the assumption I’d free after July 10th. I had to go with Neva to Girl Scout Camp for four days, and I’d paid for a four day trip to Vegas with some nice bells and whistles for Mark’s birthday. Each time, I left Denver to care for the animals with a signed check for the vet and a DVD on llama birthing “just in case”.
    She would look at me with total disbelief and say, “Are you kidding me? You wouldn’t dare leave me here if she was really going to go into labor!”
      “It’s just in case. She wouldn’t dare have that baby without me. Trust me.” But a part of me thought my belligerent llama was just waiting for me to go to have her baby. But the trips came and went and still, no baby llama.
         Since Pulani’s entire purpose was to be a companion to the late Dali, and she didn’t seem to be pregnant, I decided to sell her.
       I wrote an add for the classifieds and stuck it on the visor of my car. It hovered over my head for days, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to drop it off at the paper. In the back of my mind I thought she still might be pregnant, and it would be irresponsible to sell a pregnant llama without disclosure. Besides which, my only hope of retaining a piece of Dali was that baby, so I couldn’t send Pulani away unless I was sure. I hadn’t scheduled a vet checkup for my horses for a year, so I called him out to give everyone their shots and to give Pulani a pregnancy check.
         Sure enough, the vet said she was pregnant and would have the baby within two weeks. “Llama’s don’t foal on cue like horses. They have their babies when they are good and ready”, he said.  That was two weeks ago. 
     So now, I’m driving down to the barn about four times a day. Waiting. Waiting.
    I say, “Have that baby, dammit.”
    She sticks her nose in the air as if to say, “Make me.”
    A former student, now 30, who recently opened her own small studio in Florida, came up to visit for a few days to pick my brain about dance. I warned her that she was welcome to come, but I’d make her join me in the llama delivery if the time came.
    She just laughed and said, “After dancing with you and Mark for a dozen years, nothing you’d make me do would come as a shock. Just promise you won’t blog about me if I make a fool of myself.”
     “I never would do such a thing!” I said, with a devious grin making me look like The Grinch when he told Cindy Loo Hoo that he was only going to fix her christmas tree before stuffing it up the chimney. 
    We have another ex-student from Jill’s generation now living in Atlanta (Jamie), so we called her to come over and visit too. We barbequed and had a wine tasting party and slugged down my cordials, having a grand old time swapping old stories and new, laughing, screaming and teasing eachother so loudly we shook the roof. But no baby. I really thought my having provided an audience would have inspired Pulani, but she still held out, much to everyone’s disappointment. I had my guests primed and ready for some unique entertainment. Ah well. 
    Pulani is starting to act bored, hormonal and lonely in that barn. I can tell she is glad to see me no matter how standoffish she acts. She’s started moaning whenever she sees me and she follows me as I do my chores, pacing inside and out to watch me work. I think she is at long last ready to get this ordeal over so she can return to her pasture. She had finially realized I am the one with the decision making power, so she isn’t nearly as snobbish as she was a month ago.
    For example, I’ve been trying for a month to get her to take a cookie out of my hand, but she always refuses, so I drop the treat into her bin. I keep my eyes downcast so I appear less of a threat, and keep my head low (this is how I trained Dali to take my treats) but to no avail. I also started holding her grain in a scoop over the fence, making her take the first few bites from the end of my arm before pouring it into her bin. All the nearness must have paid off. Last week, she tentatively took a piece of carrot from my fingers, and then suddenly, she got over any fear of being fed by hand. Now, she leans her head over the fence for cookies or carrots every time she sees me. She can be downright aggressive for attention.
    So it seems we’re coming to terms with each other, developing an odd relationship built on respect, curiosity and cookies.  She looks cumbersome and uncomfortable despite the fans I’ve set up in the barn to keep her cool. Thanks to the medicine, she should be producing milk so I am hopeful that she will nurse this baby (you may recall my mentioning that she turned away her last baby. It had to be bottle fed, which is what made the disillusioned breeder sell her in the end).    
     It has
been work tending to a llama each day, making my summer revolve around her pregnancy, but considering I may have to go into the stall to help the birthing process, I understand that the 6 week delay has been for the best. And I trust this will be one more unique experience to color my world, so it will be worth the trouble. Thanks to Pulani’s confinement and my determination to make her more civil, things will probably proceed with less grief for us both. We’ve developed a repore that will make it difficult for me to sell her now. I‘m not surprised. Life has a way of railroading you, dragging you by your emotions towards directions you never imagined you’d go .


    So, that is why I’ve been quiet this month. Llama responsibilities eating up my blog time. I’ve been swamped with work – writing, writing, writing…. I’ve been preparing a dossier to apply for grants and fellowships and working to develop teaching opportunities. Time to get into gear and do something to make me grow, beyond animal experiments. There is so much to share about life here – so much to reflect upon, yet so few hours in a day to put it all on paper.  


     God willing, I’ll post pictures of a healthy baby llama soon.   Perhaps that will untangle my fingers and inspire me to blog again too. I can’t imagine resisting sharing that story, and while Jill wouldn’t want anything written to make her look foolish, I clearly have no problem doing that to myself.

So, until another day . . . 
       
       
    

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Spit

Posted on July 9, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

The bear came back. He had tampered with my bunny cages again. I got pissed.
So, I called the Georgia game warden and we made arrangements for him to come out to give me some advice.
Whatever is attacking my rabbits tends to defecate at the base of the cages, so this time, I saved the poop.


The warden came. His name was Joe. I said, “Joe, look at my poop. What do you think?”
Joe spit. Joe happens to spit every third sentence, which I thought was weird until I described it to Mark and he pointed out that the man probably had chew in his mouth (Ah yes. That makes sense. I’m not used to government officials with a wad of tobacco in their mouths, but then, I’m sure he’s not used to farmers calling him in who have classical music blaring on the loud speaker either.)


Joe considered all the evidence and took a look at my cage damage. He kicked my poop. Then he announced that yes, I have a bear. Nothing else could reach so high and bend the steel supports of my cages or leave me such a nice, big gift poop. I pointed out how the bear throws the heavy cage covers half way around the barnyard. He said they do that because it amuses them. He also said it was odd that a bear would be visiting my rabbits this time of year, because the forest has so much to eat now that the blackberries and such are in season. But the fact that he appears every ten days or so means he had staked out a large territory and he’s made of habit of his rounds. Joe suggested I stop leaving food in my rabbit cages, and then maybe the bear will take me off his grocery stops. This means more work for me and inconvenience for the rabbits, which seems sort of unfair. Joe did say that if I tried to discourage the bear and he continued to visit, they could come set a trap to have him removed, but they rather that be a last resort. The traps are dangerous to dogs and kids, and they’re a lot of trouble. He said that deer season will come around soon, and then we can shoot the bear if we want. Gee, thanks for nothing, Joe.



I said, “What if I start feeding the bear, just leave him a bucket of food so he won’t bother my animals.”
Joe about choked on his tobacco and said that would be a really bad idea.
 
I showed him my llama skull, now sitting in bleach in a bucket in my barn (which everyone in my family thinks is totally gross. Mark says, “What are you planning to do with it, Dear.” I told him I was going to use it to decorate a Christmas wreath for the barn or something.” (I was kidding) What can I say, I just felt compelled to save it. Actually, it is a fascinating thing – it looks like a dinosaur skull because the shape of the skull is so unlike a familiar cow head on the desert. The jaws are long and thin and filled with teeth like a pterodactyl. If only I still had a preschool, I’d donate it to the science collection where they had butterflies and beetles and bird nests to study. Probably scar my students for life, but still, it would definitely be something other preschools didn’t have to offer. Oops… I’m off the subject. Pardon me.)


I asked about mountain lions. Joe laughed, spit, and said that they had reports of that often, but they have yet to document a case. People call them in to see tracks, and they take a plaster, but it always ends up a big dog or something. He said we have no mountain lions – but we do have a few bobcats. They won’t eat anything bigger than a chicken. I told him the rumor down at the feed store about the person whose horse was killed and “split down the middle”. He said, “Trust me, it isn’t a mountain cat.”
Well, that is good news, I guess.
 
Joe said that a bear didn’t kill my llama. A bear would have buried the remains to come eat later. They won’t attack anything that big unless desperate, and with all the goodies I have around here, that just wouldn’t be the case. The fact that the skeleton was intact meant Dali was probably taken down my coyotes. They would gnaw at the flanks but leave the rest for other creatures to polish it off, just as they often do with deer. Had I discovered him sooner, I might have had evidence to support that theory. Glad I didn’t.


Joe suggested we try to shoot the coyotes, because they are not indigenous to the area and there is no law against killing these marauders. But, even if we were crack shots (and we aren’t) we won’t ever get rid of these pests, because they’ll repopulate faster than you can blink. Gee, Thanks for nothing, Joe.   


He said my dead chickens are not a result of the coyotes or the bear. That is probably a possum or dog or fox or something else or most likely a combination of the above.  So, catching the bear or shooting the coyotes still wouldn’t solve my problems. Apparently, nature is a resourceful enemy and she is going to keep coming at me over and over again, despite my best efforts to thwart her.


Joe told me to erect an electric fence around my bee hives for safety. (Then he spit) I might want to put one around my rabbit cages too. (He spit again)  I pointed out that I have no electrical in these areas, and he suggested I purchase solar units. (More spit) This is getting complicated. Thanks for nothing Joe.


I will have to think on all this. I am getting pretty aggravated and I don’t know how much more my tender heart can take.


I’m mad enough to spit – not mad enough to take up chewing tobacco, but still, mad enough to spit. I’m either going to have to buy a gun and learn to shoot it, or start raising goldfish. Neither option appeals to me. Actually, spitting doesn’t appeal to me much either. Some days I really ask myself what the heck I’m doing here.

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Posted in Ginny's Ark. Bookmark the permalink.

Here we go again . .

Posted on July 5, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

Our house is now officially for sale. Sigh.
Since not everyone has had a chance to visit, it might be fun to check out the website we are working on as a marketing device. It features all kinds of pictures of the house and if you click the link to the virtual tour it’s like standing in each room and seeing it from all angles. If you had a glass of Ginny’s homemade wine in hand, it would be exactly like hanging out with us here in Georgia. Anyway, this is the house that Mark built. 
http://showcasere.com/11075/showcase.php?prop_id=31931


Click on “home” and you can see Mark’s new realtor website too. It’s a work in progress so you might want to check back later, because eventually it will be linked to his “other business” of rustic furniture and heritage crafts. Everyday he is adding features, learning about his new business. As he grows more confident and learns from others, he is even starting to implement his own creative approach which is interesting to watch.


A few fun details (so you can fully appreciate this final Hendry house show and tell)
All the rustic furniture in the house was built by Mark too –he turned all the bowls and made all the baskets and brooms on display. He made the rustic shelves, coffee tables, chairs etc… One reason we’ve waited to take pictures of this place for the magazine and for selling it was because we needed furniture. It was a great house – but empty! This week, he whipped off the porch table, the dining room table and a few other much needed pieces. Needless to say, I am now at a loss of what to nag about. Gee, what a dilemma. At long last, my article about the dancers who moved to Georgia to “Choreograph a house” (I know, corny me) is finally in the mail to an editor. And I finally have a place to put my coffee cup when reading out on my porch. All is perfect on the home front at last. . . except that if this place sells fast, we will be without a roof over our heads AGAIN. Ah well, what ya gonna do? We assume a house this size will take time to move, but then, we thought that about our business and it sold in 5 days and we were told to get lost immediately, which taught us you can never “assume” things will unfold at a pace you can keep up with. Take it from me. Be careful when you start rolling a snowball down a hill.


We cleared the lot on the other side of our land and started building our new home last month – this will be more of a big farmhouse style home. The setting for the new house is just as beautiful to me – only without the water feature. I will miss my ducks, but we’ll still be surrounded by trees and wildlife and cool breezes and crickets, so complaining would silly. Our decision to go this route rather than sell all our land and starting over means Mark will be able to keep his workshop. I’ll have my barn and bees and animals and garden. I’ll have another office for writing, and even a space in the basement for storing wine. We’ll have 35 acres to sprawl out on, and the new house may not be a “lodge” but it will be big and functional and knowing Mark, it will end up a lovely living space too. There are great houses on the market for a song right now, but building again so we can keep the other things we love on this land is the compromise that sits with us best in light of the wrench thrown in our original plans. 
This is the foundation for the new house. The actual house will sit above this. 


From the back . . .

This is my new back yard. Can’t you just imagine lots of shining eyes peering back at you from this forest like in a cartoon? The entire area where the house sits was dense forest a month ago. We couldn’t use the land as it was because it was too dense even to walk through. In some ways, building here is going to enhance the land by making it useable.


This is what the front view will look like. We took out a milion trees and turned it into a sort of yard – it gives us room for outdoor living. We made a huge circular drive by connecting two short roads that were cut in when this was going to be a development. Makes for a nice drive in and sections off this house site in a nice way.

The drive which is off to the side of this cleared area.
   



The other day Mark told me someone he worked with said all people were either builders or nesters.      
“I am definitely a builder,” he said.
“I am a nester,” I said.
“No, you aren’t. We wouldn’t be here if we were,” he said, matter-of-factly.


I don’t know about that, but I do know that I am flexible when I have to be. Life is too short to lament about what you don’t have. Gotta celebrate what you do have and move on. I don’t look forward to moving again, and I dread that transition phase and the temporary loss of my office and routine if that occurs– (cause, I’ve learned I’m just not very productive when life is up in the air) but I am ultimately glad Mark had the opportunity to build the house he always wanted to build, even if we didn’t get to keep it. After all, it is the process that counts.  As he once said, “This is the grand recital of houses. I was in heaven being able to just unleash my ideas and finding out what I’m capable of.” I guess it is like a dance. You are totally engrossed with the creation of the thing, but then you must let it go for others to enjoy.


Anyway, back to the tour. The dining room table is sort of amusing to ex-Flexers – because those benches are former FLEX benches, purple until last week. They sat in storage outside of FLEX for about a year after we closed our third location to open Lakewood Ranch. Mark decided to haul them all the way up to Georgia because the new owners had no use for them and he couldn’t bear throwing them out knowing they cost so much to build due to the spring seat design. When we were packing up the moving van with FLEX stuff,  he said, “You know, I might use these benches some day. The darn seats were a thousand dollars apiece to have built. I’ll cover them with an animal hide or something,” And he hoisted them into the truck.


At the time, I thought he was going to a lot of trouble to haul these heavy benches all the way to Georgia where they would no doubt sit in storage for years. But we had room in the truck, so what the heck.  Then, we thought we might use them at the coffee shop, but  that idea was shelved. And don’t ya know, when he needed something for the dining room in a hurry, down came the purple benches. He put natural wood legs on them and we covered the purple seats in orange ultra suede. Voila! Seating for the new table. I guess all those years of making costumes out of whatever we had on hand certainly trained him well.


When we sold FLEX, staff members told us the new owners always referred to us as “the Cheap Hendrys”. Boy, that stung. We’ve always been frugal about resources because we spent so many years struggling to build a business without any funds to work with that we had no choice. We made a habit of finding ways to use everything we had at hand to give the world an impression that the school was professional and well funded when in reality, we were always frantically trying to come up with creative ways to meet the never ending needs of a growing school. Even when we started earning enough to relax a bit, tossing out the things that could have a second life was hard for us because we knew how hard it was to earn the money that bought them in the first place. And needless waste goes against our world view – because a disregard for resources is ruining our planet.

It killed us to watch the new owners frivolously dumping FLEX educational materials, stock, paper products, furniture etc… when it was all serviceable and sometimes in perfect condition, only because they wanted a different color or a new look or to add things that were not at all necessary to the educational product just for show. It was painful for two old timers who had to scratch and make sacrifices to see such waste, and their indulgence foreshadowed exactly what was to come. But what can you do? We watched that train wreck, sick at heart, long before anyone else saw trouble coming. But then, we knew what it took to keep that place humming, and even at it’s most sucessful, there was little wiggle room for such indulgence. Heck, if that school made enough to allow the owners to write a check for anything they desired, we would have kept it. Alas, there was no goose in the back laying golden eggs – just two very tired, overworked dancers who were so out of steam they couldn’t keep the balls in the air anymore.  Ah well, – that is another (retired) story.


The point is, creativity was our means to an end for years and years, until it became an ingrained habit. You’d be shocked to learn how much of this beautiful house was done  for a fraction of what it would cost a normal builder, thanks to Mark’s ingenuity and creative talents. We’d never had had the resources to build this if it wasn’t Mark at the helm working his magic. Limitations are frustrating sometimes, but for him, it inspires creative solutions and great things happen.


Back to the tour. My favorite “pano” is the one of the porch because it shows off the setting of the house. We had the fireplaces cranking (to show off the house’s potential) even though it was 86 degrees outside. Could barely get it to draw since there was no cool air to create draft in the flue. Smoke filled the porch, and we had to wait for a breeze to come along to take a picture.  Were out there coughing, laughing, trying to showcase the “perfect life” as we were bending over with smoke inhalation. If anyone notices that there are sunflowers growing in a pot next to the roaring fire, they will recognize the ruse. Ha. But in truth, in the fall, this room is magnificent. 


There is a lovely hammock by the hot tub too, but when you sit in it your butt hits the floor. Again, this was erected last minute for the pictures. I implored Mark to fix it so we could actually use the hammock while we are still here. He said he would, but in the end, only because he is motivated to create something wonderful for others, not for us.  I’d have to put my homes up for sale all the time if I ever wanted to live in someplace finished. Ah well. Life is not a page out of Martha Steward Living even if sometimes I wish it was.


The workout room and pool room is now filled with pictures we inherited from closing down FLEX. I must say, it wasn’t easy to hang them, considering what they represent. But we are selling the place furnished, so we wanted to take down all the personal pictures and artifacts that have meaning to us. So, if you recognize the wall hangings, know they were put up just this week with mixed feelings. They are definately for the next guy – and again, it was a matter of using the resources on hand. 


Oddly enough, we are not sad about selling. It would have been wonderful had things worked out with the sale of our business as planned, but since it didn’t, the “lodge” has become a source of stress and a symbol of disappointment. It was the perfect Hendry dream house, true,  but in the end, it is just a house and there are more important things in life. I certainly want my world to be about more than acquisitions, so when it came to a decision of working like dogs under stress to try to keep it, maybe even opening another dance studio, or to let it go and downsize to continue living a life with creative options, there was no question.


Mark is busy with building his new real-estate career now, working 7 days a week. This won’t last forever, he assures me. I miss him, but I am proud that he is committed to forging a new career, and I honestly believe he will be very successful. He is out with buyers viewing properties today and he’s already started to acquire listings. People trust him, and well they should. He is very knowledgeable. For one thing, he has always loved land and houses and he has a creative eye which means he sees the potential others might miss– for another, he has a builder’s knowledge to recognize quality and he always makes some pertinent suggestions for improvement. Last week a woman listed a cabin on a creek with him, but the entire creek was hidden behind tons of mountain laurel. Mark went out there and spent a day cutting it all away to reveal 360 feet of creek. Changed the entire property. Not many realtors give that kind of service, and don’t ya know the place had three showings this week and they might be getting an offer today. 


He has a big ol’ billboard with his beaming face going up on the highway this fall and we are working together to develop a marketing plan for him. After being Robin to Batman at FLEX for so many years, it is very nice he has something of his own for the first time ever – good for his self esteem and sense of pride. He’s never felt better about work.  I’d shoot myself in the foot before I’d sell houses for a living, but that is what makes the world go around, right?


I am diligently working on my new book, a memoir called “My Million Dollar Donkey” about our experiences and just how difficult the simple life can be. This story is filled with comical scenes about a city girl going country, beekeeping, horse training and the works, but also contemplates how difficult it is for Americans to shed their consumer mindset and social expectations, despite how wholesome living and an earth friendly existence is all the rage. What is romantic in theory is filled with shit in truth, but what a great adventure life can be when you are willing to sink ankle deep in crap.  I am pretty happy with the project and think it has potential. I am also dabbling with rewriting my second historical romance – big project, but one that keeps beckoning me.


My first book (historical) came back from the agent with a nice note that said the writing was wonderful (whew) and they even passed it around so several people in the firm could read it ( a very good sign that they seriously considered taking it on) but they didn’t like my heroine because she was too resourceful and independent for the time (1848). That is a fair criticism. I agree, and yet, I can’t imagine her any other way considering her circumstances.  I was depressed for a day, then I sent the book to the other agent who had put in a request for a full manuscript. It now sits with her, a long shot, perhaps, but at least it is still in circulation. With each rejection, I learn something new, about myself as a writer and the Achilles heel of my stories.  I am ultimately convinced anything I write now will be much, much better, so really, I am trying to move forward and shelve my early attempts– chalking them up to learning experiences.


Now, it is all about having the discipline to sit my butt in the chair to create something new rather than moseying down to the barn to play Dr. Doolittle. It’s a trial having turned off that constant revving engine that used to reside in my gut making me constantly achievement oriented. Perhaps it is age that is slowing me down, or the slow whisper of the breeze surrounding me out here, but I just don’t feel pressured to prove anything anymore. I guess there is good and bad in that. I may not rock the world with amazing feats, but I certainly feel at one with it now.


 

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Llama Trauma

Posted on June 27, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

I feel like I’ve been in a motorcycle accident. Actually, it’s just a bit of llama trauma. I’ll explain.


Summer is in full swing now so I really had to get my momma llama sheered before her baby comes (July 13). Wool is so hot that if you don’t sheer a llama before the worst of summer, they can actually expire from heat stroke. It’s only been 9 months since my animals were sheered last, because last year I couldn’t find anyone to do the job until fall. Usually, sheering is done in the spring, but this year I waited in hopes that Dali would magically show up to get this haircut too. Once I found that animal pelt in my driveway,  I decided to go ahead and call Don, the fellow who owns a llama farm in Hiawassee. I hated to ask him to drive 2 hours to sheer one llama, but he is the only person I know who has the skills to do it properly, and I knew he’d help me if I asked.  At her advanced state of pregnancy, Pulani must certainly be suffering so it was time to get her on a correct schedule. Don agreed and we scheduled an appointment. This meant I had to catch my belligerent female llama and have her secure in the barn before he arrived.


When faced with this kind of trial, I turn to my son. He is at all times, a congenial and thoughtful guy, and as I expected, he agreed to help me catch Pulani.


Now, this llama of mine is a very evasive, impersonal bitch who often strokes my ire because she’s bossy with my beloved Dali. She takes his food and spits at him, giving my dear donkey a hard time too. I’ve always had a tender fondness for Dali, but Pulani has had a bad attitude from the beginning. I only keep her as company for Dali and for bringing new llama’s into the world. In all fairness, I haven’t bothered with her for a full year, so I’m guilty of indulging her bad habits which makes her even more difficult.  I’ve talked about selling her all winter, but haven’t done so because I thought I should wait for the baby to be born first.


For an hour and a half, Kent and I chase this llama. We have a system where we both hold a long rope, stretched out between us as we approach the llama. We try to corner her so she has to run into the rope, then we quickly change sides so the rope winds around her neck, enabling us to move in and correctly loop the lead around her neck, or even better, get a halter on. We had her once, but she went wild, flinging her head in circles to unwind the rope. She is smart. Mean, but smart.


Finally, we had to admit that we couldn’t catch her alone. She is nothing like Dali, who acts a bit standoffish like most llamas, but is gentle enough to catch. Once Pulani understood our intentions to catch her, she was determined to evade us at all costs. She charged from one end of the pasture to the other, jumping the creek and hiding in the ribbon of trees along the perimeter of the pasture.  We followed her around, but it was soon obvious we needed a third party to chase her into the rope. So I called Mark and talked him into coming home from work at a reasonable hour to help. As we were leaving the pasture, Kent convinced me we should try one more time, so we wouldn’t have to  admit defeat. We sneaked into the woods after her and stood a few feet away, talking about our strategy, when all of a sudden, Kent starts screaming and flailing about like a mad man. He runs out into the open. For a moment, I thought he was kidding around, but then I saw that he was covered from head to toe with wasps.


I chase him down and brush him off, but he was still yelling in a panic and in pain. He had stepped on an underground hive and it only took a moment for the wasps to attack. I was standing only two feet next to him, but not a single insect bothered me. Weird how fickle nature can be.


Kent was stung 15 times, on the face, legs and arms. I felt horrible. Pulani watched from the woods, smug as always, probably thinking we got just what we deserved. Damn llama.


We went to the house and took care of his stings. A few hours later, Mark came home and we had to go back out to catch that llama again, and Kent, good sport that he is, was willing to give it another go. Now there were three of us (and Neva trying to help) but still, we couldn’t get close enough to Pulani to catch her. I made a pact with Kent he wouldn’t have to go into the woods, so every time the llama walked into the trees to avoid us, I had to charge in making noise to chase her back out. I figured I might run into the wasps myself, but what choice did I have? It is, after all, my llama.
Pulani would see me, run out and jump the creak to go to the opposite side of the pasture. I’d walk another five minutes, fuming, to get near her again.


As we were jumping across the creak to get to the other side of the pasture, Mark said, “What’s that horrible smell?” He looked down and jumped back. “Um. . Honey, I think I just found Dali . . . or what is left of him. Stay back, you don’t want to see this.”


Of course, I ran over. I needed to see whatever it was. Closure, don’t ya know.


There in the creek, in my very own pasture (which means Dali was killed inside by something big and mean and very near all of my beloved animals) was a llama skull, ribcage and residual fur. It was horrible.


For some reason, this made me even madder at Pulani. I was thinking  “Why couldn’t it have been you the attacker ate instead of the good, sweet llama.” Of course this wasn’t fair at all, and the fact was, Pulani’s preservation instincts and sour disposition are probably why she survived.
We chased her for another hour, my heart heavy because all I could think about was Dali’s last moments – if he was frightened or if he suffered. And my anger towards Pulani was escalating, because she really didn’t have to be so difficult. We were trying to catch her for her own good, so she wouldn’t suffer in the heat and to assure she would not be out there like bait for the llama-eater’s second course.  


A car came sputtering down our road. It was the neighbor’s kid with a friend. He was trying to learn to drive a stick shift. They stopped and apologized for driving on our land, explaining they didn’t know how to turn around yet. I said, “No problem. Hey, want to help me catch this llama?” 


Sixteen year olds just can’t say no to a question like that, so the boys joined us. Now we had 5 people after that llama. We caught her a few times, but at three hundred pounds and in a sour mood, she pulled the rope out of everyone’s hands every time. I was getting so pissed I was ready to shoot her. Really.


“Without Dali, who needs her anyway,” I grumbled. We’d been out there three hours now and were no closer to catching her than when we started. My attitude had gotten as bad as hers.


Finally, I said, “Give me that rope. I’m getting her this time, and unlike you wimps, I WON’T LET GO UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!”


And we caught her, and I didn’t let go.


Unfortunately, this meant she dragged me about 15 feet over the rocks, like I was the stunt man in some kind of Western Movie. In the end, I had to let go. The skin had been scraped off of the entire right side of my body. My right breast looked like something out of a horror movie, (not that I flashed it to others, even though I wished I could for sympathy and so I’d get extra credit for sustaining injuries in the line of duty). I also had a bruise the size of an open hand on my right hip. My knuckles were bleeding and swelling and there was a scrape on my chin and under my eye. Ouch.


The boys couldn’t help but laugh nervously at this woman who cusses at llamas, is willing to get dragged in the dirt to prove she is master of the beast, and who had just gone around bragging about how she wouldn’t let go, then paid for her folly.


I rolled over and sat in the dirt, wanting to cry – not because I was hurt (though I was) but because I was so mad. I brushed myself off, dabbed at the blood and said, “Well, I didn’t let go.”
“And you expect us to admire you for that? Look at you,” Mark said. “You should have let go.”
What was he thinking? The man has been married to me long enough to know that letting go is not an option.


It’s not like sitting there feeling sorry for myself was going to get the job done, so I got up and went after her again. We kept chasing Pulani until she was got so hot and tired, a horrible gurgling came out of her throat, like a growl. I figured she might just drop down dead before us, but that was OK with me. I was ready to pull a Blazing Saddles move and walk up to her and punch her lights out anyway.


In the end, she let us catch her because she didn’t have it in her to run anymore. Neither did we, but she didn’t know that. She did reserve enough energy to fight us all the way to the barn. And don’t ya know that the moment she was inside, she behaved sweet as pie, peering over the gate to beg for food. Damn llama.


Damn me. I actually gave it to her.


The next day, Don came to sheer her. I told him what it took to catch her and showed him my bruised knuckles. She behaved like your average lovely llama, just to make me look like some kind of liar, I guess.


He said, “You have to give her a break. She is pregnant, you know.”
Of course I know. That is the only thing that kept me from shooting her or punching her in the nose.


I told him about the sad fate of Dali, and he said, “Well, you know what they say. If you’re going to raise live stock, you’re also going to be raising dead stock too.” (Grin)


Then he told me about the two llama calves they lost this year and how all twenty of his guineas had been picked off. So, it isn’t just me.


At 58, retired and now building up new business running a llama farm, he has a jovial sense of humor. I appreciate his down to earth view of life and the conversations we have as he runs the electric sheers over the llama and hands me huge hunks of wool to put in a trash bag (because I will send this to the carding mill with angora fur to turn it into magnificent roving).  We talked about the huge adjustments that come with living in a small town, raising animals, and living in a closer relationship with the land when you were formerly a city dweller. He said, “It isn’t for everyone, but it sure feeds my soul. I’ll take a day out in the sun with a llama over a day in an office any time.”


He inspected my garden, which this year is just twenty rubber storage boxes used as makeshift containers. I have zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant and peppers already making a debut.


He said, “My garden has been doing poorly because all the trees around the area have grown so big the last few years, they now block the sun. Maybe I’ll try what you’re doing so I can pick up the plants and chase the sun when I need to.” 


Considering he is always helping me with out with my questions about llamas, I liked that I had something to contribute in return.


He told me a story about how some customers of his, a gay couple, who always stand over him with scissors while he is sheering their llamas. Every time he pauses, they fuss and clip off any stray hairs to make sure their llama’s hairdo is perfect. He laughed and said, “It’s so silly. Even you don’t do that.”


Even me? What’s that supposed to mean? I had to ask, “What do you mean, even I don’t do that. I’m not fussy, am I?”


He leaned against the llama’s back and grinned and said,  “No, but are you aware that the music you always play out here isn’t your usual barn music?”
I guess he has noticed I always have classical music blasting. I laughed and said, “My daughter does kid me about that. Just the other day she said, “Only my mom would be out in a barn, shoveling horse shit to classical music.”


Don said, “Funny, but the music doesn’t seem to fit you. I’d take you as a country music type. Don’t you like country music?”


I explained that I like it fine, and listen to it plenty since Mark has it on all the time, but it isn’t my first choice. My first choice is always Jazz and blues. My second choice for a radio station is NPR because I love the interviews. Then, I’ll go for a classical station. The problem is, I don’t get many stations on my little boom box at the barn. I have a choice of country, a Christian station, and a very highbrow classical station. So, considering the options, you always hear Beethoven and Brahms at my barn. If I ever remember to bring CD’s down, I’ll be blasting jazz and vintage soulful blues.


“You’re not what you seem,” Don said, packing up his llama gear.
Up here, few people do have an inkling of who I am. But sometimes I think the people from my last life were just as clueless. I had to choke back a smile, wonderng what he would think if he ever spied on me when I was alone at the barn. Dances with Wolves has nothing on me. I have Dancing with Donkey down pat. No joke.
 
Anyway, now my female llama is secure in the barn, cool at last, thanks to her new hair cut. I go in the stall everyday (limping because of my bruised hip – still covered with scabs) to desensitize her with handling – partly because I know it is important I do this to teach her to behave better, but also because I know it annoys her and she doesn’t deserves too cushy a set up after yesterday.


I guess you could say we are tolerating each other, but I must admit, some good friendships begin that way. I’ll decide her fate when the baby is born. If she turns the calf away and refuses to nurse it (as she did with her last offspring), she’ll find herself on the auction block before she blinks and I’ll be left with one baby llama to bottle feed. If she is a good mother and does her job, she has six months reprieve and we’ll see how I feel about her later. But between you and me, I’m guessing my llama days are numbered.


I still have to consider the safety issue. Today, when I told the people at the feed store what happened they said, “That was your llama missing in the paper? Sorry. It might be a mountain lion. We have those around here. Just last week one of our customers lost her horse to a lion. She found it split open down the back, filleted.”


Did you have to tell me that? Eee-gad. My heart can’t take much more of this.


This may sound morbid, but I’ve decided I want Dali’s skull. I’ll bleach it and hang it in the barn – like all those cow skulls they use for western decoration. Mine will be a private shrine to a special pet. . (and it will serve as a great conversation piece). Kent thinks I’ve really lost it, but that didn’t stop him and his friends from bragging that they’d retrieve it for me. They walked out to see what was left of Dali, but they came back so grossed out they said they wouldn’t touch it for a hundred bucks. Big sissies. I figure we can wait a few days until the remains are picked clean by nature, then I’ll put on gloves, get the skull and bury what is left of my old boy in a respectful way – classical music accompanying the chore, of course.  I don’t fear dead things the way I did when I moved here (desensitized, apparently), and because it’s Dali, I want to assure he rests in peace.
You can bet the scarf I’m making out of his fur will be very, very dear to me.


Anyway, that is the story of my llama trauma.


    

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What a doll!

Posted on June 21, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock


Summer is a wonderful time for family . . . except for the fact that after about a week, you want to kill your sweet offspring The kids wake up everyday wondering what you have planned to entertain them, and after two days of Neva announcing she was bored and my answering “no, you’re boring” (very snotty mother, I can be) I decided to figure out some organized activities – quick. I signed her up for two sessions of Girl Scout Sleep away horseback riding camp (and a third  session that happens to be a mother daughter horse camp we will attend together. Once a girl scout, always a girl scout, you know, and I figure this is the closest I’m going to get to camping with my favorite girl nowadays.)


So, we scurried around getting her ready for a week away from home. It just so happens that as I was checking my e-mail for a camp confirmation, I received a message from the Campbell Folk School that they were offering a June special with guaranteed space and a discounted rate for local residents. As if on auto-pilot, I signed up for a class for the week Neva was going to be gone. It seemed like a good idea in the moment, because Mark has been working all the time, Kent is busy with friends and I’m alone most of the week anyway. My taking a class now would not interrupt the family at all. But moments after I sent in a registration, I was sorry. A week alone would be prime opportunity to get some decent writing done, sans guilt, and to spend uninterrupted time with the horses too. Damn me.


The more I thought about it, the more I really wanted to kick myself for signing up, but I felt it would be too irresponsible to forfeit the 50% deposit ten minutes after signing up. In the end, even though I was not very enthusiastic about going, I decided to attend because I couldn’t bear being that wasteful. I’m much more conscientious and careful about our resources now that Mark has gone back to work. I respect his efforts and don’t want to abuse his return as he strives to forge a new career.  


So, despite reservations, I went to take a cloth doll-making class. It turned out to be a delightful week, primarily because the class consisted of some of the nicest women I’ve ever met. They were full of good-cheer, artistic enthusiasm, and positive encouragement. I had lively lunch conversations with people taking other classes too, not the least of which included a boisterous meal with a table full of blacksmiths that couldn’t resist sharing jokes and teasing any woman bold enough to crash their table. Nice to know I can still give as good as I get.  

My best buddy was a 71 year old woman from Atlanta with the most positive, nurturing personality I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I want to be like her when I grow up. She tried making a doll that looked like Opra. She wants to send it to her favorite star.


A established quilt teacher took the class and made her dolls out of recycled materials. She used casset tape for hair and cut up credit cards for decoration.

Everyone had a different style and unique vision. It was fun to see everyone’s first attempts at doll making.


Two art teacher’s took the class and incorporated multimedia techniques to create doll works of art. They labored to make a perfect doll with more patience and understanding of visual art than I could ever demonstrate. Remarkable. Her doll is “Icaris Falling”. She wouldn’t dare put a face on it, for fear it would be ruined.
 


I’ve always had an interest in fiber arts and love creating characters (on paper or in my head), so the subject of doll making appealed to me. The teacher is a renowned doll artist, with work featured in several doll books.

Her work was fun to see – here are some of her creations on display to inspire us.

(She called this one ‘Armed and Dangerous”)



I found cloth fairly doll-making easy to grasp, because if you have a great deal of experience sewing (which I do) and are comfortable with the human body (I am) you only need common sense to come up with something that resembles a person.  I made three dolls in the time my classmates made one. They called me “gifty” since I seemed such a natural and proceeded with such ease, finishing a doll a day. Honestly, I think I was just less conscientious than they were. I was having fun with trial and error and wasn’t too hung up on perfection. I consider any craft class a learning experience and I don’t need to go home with a perfect creation to make it seem as if the time spent was worthwhile.  If I like doll-making, this would be the beginning of my journey and my early dolls would be beginner attempts anyway. If I don’t stick with the craft- why stress to create something perfect  -you are only dabbling for fun.   I guess I should take the subject more seriously – but hey. . . it’s a doll.


When I got home and showed off my creations, Mark said, “You made dancers? Why?”


“As a matter of fact, that happens to be a wood sprite,” I corrected, pointing to my standing doll (which I made to practice wire frame characters.


“A wood sprite . . . in perfect arabesque and on pointe? Ha. That’s a dancer. Accept it. You can’t stop making dancers.  If you can’t do it in the studio, you’re gonna do it with a sewing machine.”

Eesh. Can I help it if, when drawing a pattern from scratch and assembling a body I happen to make it in the vision of the bodies I’ve been staring at for the last 45 years. . . . Every body in my mind is at least one part  dancer. The natural state of humans is to keep in motion. (Physically – mentally) Dancers then are perfect examples a person living fully.

So my dolls all ended up willowy with beautifully pointed feet. Shoot me. They rest in flexible poses that suggest movement and relaxed grace. That is my idea of beauty. 

My teacher didn’t instruct us on face technique. She makes her dolls face-less because faces are so difficult and she is never happy with the result. I stumbled through and did the best I could with my faces by guessing how to go about it.  Had I left the faces off, I suppose they would look more “arty”. I admit the results of my face-bearing dolls are nothing to be excited over. But to me, the face is the soul of a doll – the place where the character and personality rests, so I had to try . A doll without a face seems incomplete – like a person without a personality. I think it is a cop-out to avoid this most difficult part of creating cloth figures. I figure I’ll take another class on cloth doll faces someday and see if I can improve. Till then, my amateur dolls with silly mug smiles will have to do.


But what I must say about my hand-made original dolls is that I adore the intimate elements only I can appreciate. My doll’s hair is made of wool fiber I collected from my first llama (boo-hoo). One has hair made of the first yarn I ever spun – hand died with marigolds I picked in the garden. The bodies are made of fabric I used for the first quilt I’ve ever made (I haven’t played show and tell with my quilt attempts yet, but some day, I will.) I wrote words on the arms of one doll to remind me how to make sense of life. “Contemplate . . . Write” These things make the dolls seem special to me – as if they are representative of my private world.


Neva will be going back to camp another week in July, but I won’t be running off to play next time. I’m committed to using the time wisely to make headway with my writing – no frivolously playing with dolls. I’ll chalk up the first week she was gone to a summer kick-off – silly “camp fun” for us both just in celebration of the warm days ahead. I must admit taking the class was good medicine in a way, because I’ve been starved for companionship and conversation lately, and that is always in abundance at the Campbell School.

It was a nice experience, and I chose not to ruin it by feeling guilty about what I wasn’t doing all week. That is the key to happiness, I think, accepting that your life is composed of all the choices you make along the way. You must always focus on the good rather than dwell on the “other path” and what it may have led to. You must trust that the choices you made were right for you at the time, driven by your deepest needs. Not that my deepest need is to play with dolls – but perhaps getting out, visiting with others, being distracted and other forces were the true motivator this week. They say children learn through play. No reason to assume adults are not the same. Embrace play and you grow.





  


 


 

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Unleashed

Posted on June 19, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

As I explained earlier, my duck has been sitting on unfertilized eggs. They were starting to rot and turn green, yet still she guarded them like the queen’s diamonds. She is a wonderful, diligent mother, but obviously unwilling to admit defeat. I decided I should take the eggs away from her so she would return to the pond (and thus I could reclaim my barn) but this caused a moral dilemma. If I took them away while she was out for her ten minute food break, she’d return to find the nest marauded and might feel guilty for being irresponsible. If I destroyed her coveted eggs in front of her, she’d consider me a threat forevermore. (No comments please – Mark has already heckled me, reminding me it’s just a duck, not an elephant with a memory or conscience.)


Anyway, in effort to find a gentle solution, I went to the feed store and purchased three baby runner ducks. Runner ducks have long necks and graceful slim bodies. (I think they’re reincarnated dancers). I then put a cage over the mother duck and scooted her off the nest and removed her eggs. I cracked a few on a hillside just to be sure they were indeed dead eggs. They were – the insides were all green, foaming ooze. Yuck.


I reached into the cage with my baby ducks and rubbed them all over the mother duck, scooting them under her wings and belly. She didn’t like it a bit and the baby ducks weren’t exactly thrilled, but I was trying to get the mother’s smell to saturate them. Then, I put the babies in the cage with the mother duck and waited.


At first the mother rooted around the nest looking for her eggs, not falling for the idea that these ducklings were hers for one minute. The baby ducks happened to be a week old already, so they didn’t seem to take to Romer as their mother either. I guess when you are born in an incubator; the concept of “mommy” is alien. Everyone kept to opposites sides of the cage and I figured it was a stupid experiment. I watched for about an hour, just to assure the baby ducks would be safe and for the most part, they seemed to be. Then, Romer started pecking at them and I got uncomfortable.


O.K., I thought. The duck caper didn’t work.


So, I removed the baby ducks and put them in an empty chicken run, thinking they could live there until full size, then I would release them at the pond. But no sooner had got I them situated than Romer flew out and frantically tried to get into the cage.
Now, I started to think she had attached to them after all and perhaps considered them her ducklings. So, I open the door, but she didn’t know how to get inside. A bunch of curious chickens wandered in, however, scaring the ducklings. (Why is it everything turns out more complicated than it’s supposed to be?)


I try to catch Romer, but she evades me and flies back to the barn. A moment later, she returns and wants in the cage again. Back and forth she goes, checking her nest to validate that her eggs are missing, then flying back to stare at the cage as if unable to accept that these big babies were hers. It took me about an hour, but I finally chased her into the run and shut the door. I had to go inside, stooped and slipping in the mud, to catch the chickens and get them out. What a pain.


Romer hisses at me, hating that I’m in her space. She also doesn’t seem happy to be reunited with her adopted ducklings, because she goes to the opposite side of the cage and ignores them.
Now, I don’t know what to think, but I decide to leave them together just to see what happens. They coexist.


A week later, it’s hot and the cage is full of flies. The ducklings follow Romer around like she’s their mother, but she is very aloof. I decide it isn’t fair to force motherhood on her so I open the cage door to see what she will do. She just stares at me and doesn’t move. I go to the house, thinking I’ll come back and check on the situation later. Moments after I’m home, Romer lands in the lake, swimming and playing in the water as if in celebration. She looks giddy to be finally free.


Neva says, “Mom, what if the ducklings followed her and got lost half way to the pond? We better check.”


So, we take the mule to the pen and find the ducklings are playing in a tub of water I provided, happy and secure in their home, totally uninterested in the open door. But should I now close the door or leave it open? As we wrestled with this decision, Romer shows up, walks by us and returns to the cage so she can continue ignoring her adopted ducklings. Now, I figure she’s just a very reserved mother, devoted in her own way.


I don’t know if she considers these babies really hers, but she has clearly taken responsibility for them.  I suppose when they’re old enough, she’ll lead the ducklings to the pond and they’ll all take up residence. The other ducks will wonder why Romer’s offspring is tall and graceful, considering she is short and plain, but everyone will accept things for what they are. I guess this is the ugly duckling story in reverse.


Why do I share this tale? I guess as proof that I put a god awful amount of energy and time and attention into farm experiments in the name of curiosity (and kindness) but all it does is reveals my middle aged insanity. Ha. I need to get back to work.


Meanwhile, I shall now share the sad tale of what happened to my llama on the lamb.


For two weeks, I’ve had a lost llama announcement in the paper. I’ve put up numerous posters and talked to everyone within a mile radius. Rabbit, the man who owns the feed store, is convinced someone stole Dali, and I starting thinking so too. Nothing explains a llama up and disappearing like that.  Still, it would be a hard heist to pull off, because someone would have to chase the llama all over the pasture and have a trailer in the waiting, and I’d see that going down. Even if it occurred at night, my dogs would make a racket. I just couldn’t imagine it working.


Then yesterday, my dogs dragged a big hank of animal pelt home. Neva said, “Yuck, they found something dead.”
We got out of the car to check what it was. Was it a squirrel? A rabbit? A bird? No, it was a large black animal pelt that looked remarkably like the black wool of my llama.


I called Mark to ask if he had bought an animal pelt to cover a chair or something. Perhaps he dropped it and the dogs picked it up. He said, “Of course not. Ginny, are you sure that’s not your llama?”


I put it in the garage to study. I went out there a hundred times to look. The more I looked the more certain I was that this was what was left of my beloved Dali.


When Mark got home, I had him inspect the fur. He sighed and said, “That isn’t a dog or a bear.  The fur would be different – silky and straight. This is from a big wooly animal. Poor Dali.”


I made Denver look.  She said, “Of course it’s Dali. You can tell. Throw that away Mom! What are you going to do, send it to a lab to be tested just to be sure it’s him?”


I’d like that – and while we’re at it, I want a DNA test to find out who the murderer is so I can press charges at Mother Nature’s court.


So, now I have to deal with the fact that something killed and ate my 300 pound llama. I called the man who sheers my llama to ask his opinion. He’s a llama expert.
 
“Could it be a bear?” I asked.


He said it might be a pack of coyotes.
I pointed out that llamas are often purchased as guard animals because they attack coyotes. They are natural enemies, but the llama is the bigger, so how can a coyote kill a llama.


He argued that if a llama is outnumbered, he can surly be killed by a pack of wild coyotes. Still, I’m betting it’s the bear.


Now, I know why my female won’t come out of hiding. I thought she was just pregnant and hot.  Now I’m convinced she knows something I don’t. I’m thinking I should buy one of those motion censor cameras and set it up down at the barn for hard core proof of what is endangering my beloved pets. Then, I’ll be better prepared to find solutions.


This was the first time I had my llamas separated from my horses. Yesterday, I put them back together, thinking there’s safety in numbers. Donkeys are powerful coyote fighters and they can kick any canine’s butt so I feel better having him near. Just in case.


Late last night, a friend of Denver’s came to deliver some hay I bought to my barn. I told the boys I’d go down and turn on the lights and wait for them with a check. Denver had a fit. “You can’t run around your property at night. If the bear will attack a huge llama, it will think nothing of attacking you too.”


“Are you kidding,  I’ll kick that bears ass if he dares show his face,” I said in my best tough gal voice. As I drove down the lane in the dark, my eyes scanning the forest,  shadowed shapes jumped out at me from the dim light of my mule headlights, I imagined if I saw a bear, I’d run it down. I truly did love my llama. Now, I have his baby llama due on July 13 (yes I’ve been counting down the 340 days of pregnancy like a kid in anticipation of Christmas) I worry that both the mother and baby are at risk so my mind is racing with concern.


I’ve decided it’s time to catch Pulani and put her in the barn where I can keep close watch. Then, I will start preparing, like Rodeo Rambo, to strike out with a vengeance at anything that dares threaten my herd. Who’d have ever believed these would be the kind of problems I’d be focused on during this semi-retirement period of my life? Not me, that’s for sure.


Mark is now working full time at Century 21 In the Mountains. He’s putting in 12 hour days to set up a new career (more on that and an introduction to his new website soon). This leaves me racked with guilt, so I’ve dived into my current writing project with tunnel vision (thus less blog time). Getting productive is easy for me under these conditions, because I don’t feel comfortable pushing the responsibility for family support on one person. I’ve talked about getting a job – perhaps getting my Georgia teacher’s certificate so I could teach English and creative writing at the high school – or even opening another dance school (don’t say it . . . Mark already pointed out how misguided that idea is.)


My talk about potential work opportunities really annoys him. He says, “You’re supposed to be home writing. That was the deal when we sold FLEX. You said you were a born dance teacher and didn’t want to ever have to do anything else for a living, and I promised you wouldn’t have to if we left dance behind – except to write and/or teach in your chosen new field. Don’t you have faith that I can support us?”


Of course I know he can. I just don’t believe he should have to. We made “the deal” expecting certain outcomes from selling FLEX , but they never materialized. That is not his fault. Life is what it is. You make compromises and do what must be done and adjust along the way. Marriage isn’t every man out for himself, but two people working together as a team to accomplish shared goals. At least, that is what it should be.


I’ve always been a primary contributor to our household. To step out of that role plummets me out of my comfort zone and now I’m wrestling with all kinds of feelings ranging from embarrassment over my selfish, indulgent existence to feelings of total inadequacy as a non-contributor to our finances. I simply can’t sit around playing with animals, making wine and writing while my husband has his nose to the grindstone, worrying about real life issues. For now, I’m pouring all my discomfort into serious writing. Perhaps that’s my instinctual way of moving in a new direction–challenging my inner potential to see what comes of it. It was far easier for me to write when I was squeezing pages into busy days filled with a wealth of stimulus and surging experiences than now that I have endless quiet hours stretched before me and my muse has long since abandoned ship.  Funny, that. Every writer’s dream is a life filled with time and opportunity to record the endless stories in their head, and here I am living that dream, but suddenly paralyzed and feeling empty of words. Luckily, I have a way of forcing myself to move when stuck.


So, here I stand, crowbar in hand, thinking it’s time to unwedge myself from the rut I hadn’t noticed I was creating. And as long as I have a crowbar at the ready, I think I’ll take a swing at a bear.  Rodeo Rambo has been unleashed. Not a moment too soon.


 

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Neva doesn’t think anymore.

Posted on June 4, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

The other day, Neva came in to the kitchen and said to me, “I can’t handle this blog I created. I think I’m going to end it. How do you kill a blog? ”


I smiled. She’d only had the blog for a week and made a few entries. “You love to write and you’re very good at it. Why stop blogging?”


She rolled her eyes dramatically. “I feel so much PRESSURE. Like I have to be interesting all the time. Life isn’t that exciting. And blogging takes so much time.”


I pointed out that the best writers are those that can make mundane, common things interesting through perspective. My favorite writer currently is Michael Perry, and he writes about the most common things. It’s not like a blogger has to have a fascinating experience to write about everyday – just rambling about life is good practice. Besides which, I happened to find her blog interesting because her voice is interesting. I also pointed out that it was summer and she had plenty of time for a blog project. She only needed to write once a week or so to keep blog readers checking in.


“I can’t stand it. It’s like homework. And the worst part is, you sit down and do all that writing and you don’t know if anyone is going to bother to read it anyway. You feel stupid, like what is the point? Do you ever feel like that?”


“All the time,” I said. “Blogging is fun at first, but in the big scheme, it takes discipline. That is the hardest part of writing- it’s so easy to just stop or do something else. There is no guarantee that the effort will ever manifest into something with a tangible return, other than the self satisfaction that comes with creation. Everyone loves the idea of writing, but to actually sit down and write can be grueling. I often feel no one is reading my blog – that I’m sending messages out into the silent world like someone tossing a bottle with a note inside out into the ocean. Fat chance it will ever be picked up. But then, a good friend will leave a comment and I’m filled with a sweet sense of appreciation, because someone is out there and they care enough to check in and see how things are going in my world. One reader is enough. In fact, none is enough, because writing isn’t like oral conversation – you don’t need two people to communicate. It serves you even if you are alone, because it is a way to make sense of the world and to clarify your mind.”


I thought my argument was quite compelling and insightful. Apparently, it wasn’t inspirational enough. She killed her blog that night. She said, “Maybe I’ll start another one in the winter when there isn’t so much to do.”


You see, she is very busy on her computer playing with these webkinz all day. An eleven year old has got to get her priorities straight.


I was disappointed, because I thought her blog was delightful, but I understand the complexities and the frustrations of keeping a blog. And I understand how, in a moment of weakness, a writer can bury one. It only takes a bad mood and a swipe of the hand. Honestly, we can wipe out just about every lovely, extraordinary thing in life with a flippant decision and/or a lack of caring. Hanging in there is hard, no matter what it is you are hanging onto.  


So “Nevathinks@blogsot.com no longer exists. But there is a correct time for everything. Now is this free spirit’s time to live fully . . . . later, with years behind her and some perspective, she may wish to write about it. 


  


     

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Boys, boys, boys

Posted on June 4, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

For years, my life was awash with girls. We worked with a thousand dance students each season, less than a handful of boys in the mix. Since my own children spent so much time at the studio, their lives entwined with dance, this skewed population was somewhat disconcerting. It made for an unbalanced life for my son and I worried that he was missing out on the typical male bonding and camaraderie men experience while growing up with peers. Most of his friends were girls and he was constantly involved in activities that are considered feminine by nature, dance competitions and performances rather than sports or camping or whatnot. His was a world of sequins rather than grit with the wrong kind of hormones raging all around him. It wasn’t a choice; it was just a result of the limitations of our lifestyle.


Now, it seems my son is hell-bent to rectify that former imbalance. He is filling his world (and mine) with males. And dirt. And noise. And a different kind of raging hormone altogether. I’ve been around kids all my life, but this is a novel experience for me, let me tell you.


Kent has dozen of friends in Georgia, good, down to earth, earnest kids who like him for who he is. He and his friends go swimming in the lake. They come home bruised and sore and laughing about foolish escapades. They go camping, tubing, play soccer, fish, argue and wrestle, make a racket playing loud, violent video games. He’s never been more at ease or happier just being a normal guy. No one here knows Kent once danced. I’m forbidden to mention it. I think that’s silly, but I respect his wishes knowing someday, with maturity, his negative connotations to dance will subside and he will understand that it’s a part of him, like all our life experiences. 


The nicest thing about seeing Kent with his new friends is knowing that the speculation that once hovered over his friendships no longer exists. In the past his friendships were always questionable –  he couldn’t help but wonder: “Do my friends really like me, or (because they are all dancers) are they sticking around because my parents run the school, and they think being nice to me might influence just what kind of dance experience they’ll have?”


Not that Kent’s friends in Sarasota weren’t adorable kids – only that peculiar things occurred. For example, they would all take up a collection and present him with a $200 electronic device as a birthday present (even when we didn’t throw a party to establish a reason to give a gift) but we were never asked to pitch in for a collection for one of the other kids – they were not all honored with expensive toys on their birthdays. Don’t get me wrong, the gift was generous and thoughtful – but we worried about the message that went along with it. Our kids were not celebrities or born into privilege but their lives were slightly out of balance as if they were. It is hard to raise children to have wholesome values, a normal perception of what life is all about, and humility when people are so quick to offer you special treatment.


Perhaps it was payback for how often they were ignored due to the pressing nature of our work. Perhaps people felt sorry for a boy stuck in a girl’s world and they wanted to be extra nice to compensate. There is only so much inclusion for a boy who is a constant member of a girl’s dance click, and you can’t blame the girls for trying to keep him involved. Anyway, I longed for a simple life where my kids learned true life lessons in a natural manner.  I wanted them to have easygoing friendships based on mutual interests and because the kid’s personality’s click. And I wanted my son to grow up to be comfortable in his own male skin. This was obviously going to be a challenge while Kent’s entire social world was wrapped up in FLEX. 


Now, Kent has this large, eclectic group of friends, and none of them are a result of his involvement in dance. He hangs out with boys primarily, but girls are always calling too. He acts annoyed that so many females like him but I think he’s delighted. For the record, he isn’t interested in any of them because he says none of the girls in Georgia can hold a candle to his former FLEX flames. Perhaps we got out just in time for other reasons – I’d hate to imagine my teen son running amuck with the hearts of our dear dancers. Talk about a sticky wicket.


Anyway, now Kent is the sort of fellow that doesn’t fit into one specific click, so he dwells on the fringe of many- a friend to all. He is very popular – I believe it is because he is so decent and laid back and truly non-judgmental of others. It doesn’t hurt that he is a straight a student, has a nice car (which he upkeeps himself with a steady job), is suddenly tall and lanky and getting muscular with adorable dimples and he’s become a talented drummer with his own rock band. Above all else, his friends love him because he’s funny. He has a bizarre sense of humor and it’s getting more defined each year. He is quick to see the humor in a situation, make light of things that might set another person off, and is a constant source of entertainment with physical humor. When he was younger – I thought he acted weird to get attention – and perhaps he did. Now, he is very much his own man and I must admit, he has a powerful wit, a quirky side and I enjoy his company more than I can describe. He is simply a “feel good’ sort of person to be around. He makes me laugh.


I now have a collection of teenage boys hanging around – boys from Kent’s school band, boys from Kent’s rock band, boys from Kent’s job, and boys who don’t fit into any category other than the fact that Kent met them at school and they’ve become fast friends.


The other day, I had six strapping male teenagers sleeping downstairs. I crept down in the morning to wake Neva and they were sprawled out on the couches, beds, and floor. Males certainly take up more space than females and they are far less fussy. They sleep where they land, chests exposed while wearing day old jeans.


Kent says, “You don’t have to feed us – we’ll scrounge and get by.” Yea, like I’m gonna let 6 young men run havoc in my food pantry. I made them a big vat of ziti, a batch of tollhouse cookies, a gallon of popcorn and I cut up a watermelon. This held them off for an hour or so. Of course, they were working up an appetite. They had dragged out my two kayaks and spent the afternoon racing across the lake, diving off the dock, seeing who could stand the cold water the longest and then they decided to erect a rope swing. I told them there wasn’t a tree limb hanging at an angle to support a swing and to give it up, but boys can’t resist conquering the impossible. They knocked over two trees, cut down another that seemed to be in the way (I made them drag the branches off into the woods so they didn’t leave a mess for us to deal with later) and when they finally threw a rope over a tree, it got stuck AND the tree bent over like a wilted flower. Eventually, they were so sunburned and cold they did give up and elected to get into the hot tub – then they ventured inside to scream and yell over the video game they were playing – a rock band game. More food was required. Girls were discussed.


They left the next day for various responsibilities– some went to work – others went to see the high school graduation. Band members had to play at the ceremony. At dusk, they convened again. Apparently, they had not finished their web game or finished talking about girls and cars and music and whatever. More food was needed – we were getting down to grilled cheese sandwiches now. As I explained to my son, I need more than a ten minute warning if he wants me to entertain his friends in the banquet style to which my family is accustomed.


“We are fine,” Kent insisted, reaching for the last box of hot pockets from the freezer. “You don’t need to take care of us.” He says this with a smile, of course, because he knows it’s impossible for his mother to resist any opportunity to feed people. 
Yesterday, the boys decided on a moments notice to go camping (outdoor recreation is a popular, common pastime here in the mountains.) I zipped together a cooler filled with drinks and candy and a bag of salty snacks – throwing in marshmallows of course, (I believe in being prepared for all eating emergencies and my pantry is kept like an independent grocery store – people kid me about it.) I received a big hug from Dylan. He said, “You’re like . . . perfect.”
Yes, these boys are easy to impress. They can be bought with marshmallows. Love that.


They happen to be useful too. I never cease to find a chore for them to do. This weekend they moved a huge tabletop from one room to another for me. Been wanting to get that heavy glass top moved for ages but Mark couldn’t do it alone. It took several muscled sets of hands – but no problem-o when Kent’s friends are around.


I am far more comfortable with my son under roof than off who-knows-where – and I like having the chance to really get to know the young people he’s spending time with. I adore boys – they are fun to watch, fun to listen to, and ultimately they can’t help but be flattering. I’m told I’m their favorite mom – I can “smoke Dylan’s mom in the kitchen” (This is apparently quite a feat because his mom does cook, meaning this is a compliment and not commentary on how well-done I make my hamburgers).  I’m told I’m interesting, as moms go, not because I am intelligent or talented or have a colorful gamut of interests, mind you, but explicably because I make wine. That is a cool Mom hobby to a teenager from the Bible belt, ya know.  One boy (I call him Muppet because he looks like one) is impressed because he never met anyone with a library in their house. He is referring to my office which is a far cry from a library, but does contain a few walls of books. Ha. No one will ever accuse these boys of being intellectual – at least not for a few years.


I worried that when we left FLEX I’d grow old quickly – like leaving a time capsule and having all that preserved time you held off by living in that controlled environment suddenly hitting you at once- aging you double time. Kids keep you young, and I couldn’t imagine my life without teenagers challenging me to keep up with what was “in” and “cool”. Not that I’m cool, ‘cause lord knows, I’m not. The kids at FLEX always had a heyday pointing out how clueless I was about what was “in”. I’m the last to recognize new music, understand high tech gadgets or to follow pop culture fads. But I was considered cool for my own unique reasons – primarily because I could move in a unique way. So, even if I’m not “cool” in a conventional pop culture way, I’m not boring either and I gel with young minds easily. I think it’s because I’ve retained that veracious lust for life that is common to the young- I’m still interested in adventures, so I’m not stodgy. Or maybe I’m kidding myself and it just feels that way. Does any stodgy person really see themselves as such? I’m probably a delusional, certifiable old fart.


Nevertheless, it’s nice to keep up my teen-relationship skills with my own kid’s friends. It’s a comfortable place for me to be, drowning in kids, answering questions, philosophizing, laughing with them. And it can be done without dance. Who knew?
Lucky me, I have another child coming up to the teen ranks soon, so my practice field won’t fade anytime soon. I’ll even get to circle back to the world of girls soon. Of course, these girls don’t dance and teen girls don’t eat so much, so I won’t have my current secret weapon to win their hearts.
But all girls love horses…. (Grin)
I’m in like Flynn.

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