Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

Yesterday, I had a silent temper tantrum. I stomped into the house and plopped on the living room chair and sighed dramatically.

Mark has been very hard at work setting up his new vocation as a full time real estate agent with Century 21 in the Mountains.  He is working on the computer about ten hours a day and we don’t see much of each other. Meanwhile, it’s spring and there are a million things to do now or forever hold your peace. Such as, if I don’t take advantage of the spring rains and spread grass seed now, I will have to endure another year debilitating mud around the barn. Frankly, I can’t bear the thought.  If I don’t do any planting now, I miss the boat and we go an entire year without any fresh produce. I know homegrown produce isn’t really a high propriety, yet it feels important to me because what the heck is the point of owning and struggling to pay for 50 acres if you don’t use it to provide a more wholesome, natural lifestyle? Every year I put off working to fix my pastures, they grow more overcome with weeds, more useless to the animals and more unattractive. Last year we paid for several tons of lime so the time is ripe.  I’m frantically spreading weed killer, grass seed, fertilizer, lime, trying to fix the situation even though I have no clue what I’m doing. I’ve even kept the horses out of one side, which is difficult because they now have nothing to eat and I can’t buy any hay for a few more weeks – an entirely different problem.
 
I’m knocking myself out trying my best to handle this raw, undeveloped land to make it work for us, but my lack of experience makes me more than slightly inefficient. Sometimes it feels like I am just wasting money, energy and hope. And it gets frustrating.

For example, Mark is unavailable to help me clear and turn over an area of ground with the tractor. If the house is going up for sale, Mark doesn’t think we should have a big garden in the area where we planted last year– new owners might not want the responsibility. We have tons of space on the opposite side of the 50 acres, but there is no water to be had over there as of yet, so nothing will grow. I found an area near the barn that could work for a garden, (though my chickens might cause mayhem with it) but I would need Mark to remove a few stumps and help me till the red clay soil, and for all that he would love to help, he just doesn’t have time this month. Next month will be too late because timing is very important when it comes to growing seasonal produce. That makes me a gal with a huge amount of land and no place  to put a dinky garden. Ain’t that just like life. 

But I can be resourceful when I want something. So, I decided to do container gardening by the barn this year. I planted a lovely bunch of herbs in half barrels, thinking that since they are perennials, I could move the containers to a new house or garden next season. The plants that are only good for one season I planted in big plastic tubs we had from moving. I’ll simply toss them into the compost at the end of the summer, and I can save the soil for a garden next year. I was quite proud of my efforts, but  I made the mistake of showing off to Mark.

He gently said, “Um. . . I hate to mention this, but herbs need bad soil. You must mix that nice black soil with sand and make it grainy for drainage. Herbs in that rich, feed-based soil won’t do well.”
He looked at my furrowed brow and said, “Of course, I might be wrong. You can just wait and see how they do. And the tomatoes do look good.”
Of course, we both know he is going to be right and the herbs won’t thrive .
It seems everything I do, I have to re-do. It is part of the learning process, and although I do love learning, sometimes it is a big, fat drag.
Meanwhile, I am watching huge weeds grow in the pasture. They are monsters and I can’t kill them with a little sprinkle of weed killer. I haven’t learned to run the tractor, so I can’t mow them down. I know they will reseed and create a bigger problem later. We don’t have a lawn mower, or I could mow myself. I just have to watch them grow strong and spread with the lovely spring rains and there is nothing I can do about it. I can mention it to Mark, but then he feels I’m nagging and mowing a pasture is simply way down on his priority list (though keeping his wife happy does help move it up a notch on the chores-I –don’t want-to-do list)

Anyway, all these things are making me testy this month. I guess my bad attitude was powerful enough that my silence wafted up the stairs to Mark’s office and he could feel my discontent.  He stopped what he was doing and asked if I was OK.

“No.” I answered. “I’m finished. I’m done with living on 50 acres. Done with animals. Done with little creatures dying on me. Done with mud and wrestling with tools. I’m done with killing myself to do a job and it all being for nothing because I’ve done it wrong. I’m done.”
“What happened?”
“My four wheeler is stuck in the middle of the pasture, and nothing I do will get it out. I was out there trying to spread seed to fix that mud hole, but I just sank as if I was getting sucked into hell by the devil. The spreader wasn’t working anyway, of course, so I was stuck doing all the spreading by hand. Why is it nothing works around here?
For your information, fifty acres is too much for one practically 50 year old woman to handle alone. I feel inadequate because I don’t have the muscle, the wherewithal, or the strength to keep up on all this by myself. It would be different if I could operate the tractor, but I can’t. You never taught me.
My horses have to be let out everyday because there is no hay to be bought, but they almost broke the chicken coup because they thought it would be fun to eat the scratch – which isn’t good for them, by the way. They knocked over the trash and stomped through my new grape vines. They are a nuisance when released. You’d think if they were so hungry, they’d eat the long lush grass in the field so we wouldn’t have to cut it, but no, they keep eating the new grass by the barn. Dumb beasts – don’t they know I’m trying to make that area nice for them?
For the record, I had to go to seven stores to find those stupid shipping peanuts you told me to put in the bottom of my container gardens and ended up having to grovel to buy a couple of bags from a company that uses them for mailing their own products. And now, you tell me I have to change out the soil? You know what a mess that will make if dump out the contents with those peanuts at the bottom? Am I supposed to pick every one of those stupid dirty peanuts out of the soil, then mix the sand, then return it all? Gee, that sounds like fun. ”

(As I said, I was having a tantrum and while I know Mark is doing what he is supposed to be doing and he is working diligently to provide a living for the family, I’m still feeling as if he had this bright idea of buying a huge chunk of land then lost interest and plunked it in my lap. When he found this land he talked about gardens and homegrown eggs and living close to the land, but from the beginning it has felt as if I was the only one interested and all he does is make gentle criticisms like a big fat know-it-all when he should be out there teaching me this stuff since he is the garden guy and the tool guy and the guy that was inspired by friends who did these country things back in Massachusetts in the first place. You see, tantrums have a way of exaggerating truth in a person’s mind and making you feel all self righteous and indignant and abused. I was on a roll.)
“We can sell this place and move if you like,” Mark said.
“Not on your life, Buster. I’m also done with living unsettled and in transition. I’m not going to work this hard and take off before I see the result of my efforts. We are going to make this work.”

Mark offered to change his clothes, get on the tractor and pull my mule out of the mud. But we had to do it now, because he was supposed to go into the office and he would have to quickly change back into decent clothes and get going. He apologized for not being more available to help me. Told me we could talk about this whole country thing and if it is right for us.

Now, even in my most ornery state, I’m not so selfish that I don’t see reason. And deep down I am very appreciative and impressed with my husband’s hard work and his commitment to supporting the family. Not like he is having fun. The last thing he deserves is a complaining wife. And honestly, I love having a chunk of land. It is my choice to have animals and a garden and to put efforts into developing the land to be more agriculturally sound. There was no way I was going to have him stop his work to go muck in the mud to appease me just because I am spoiled and in a bad temper. I told him that we could get the mule out another time, and that I wanted him to take care of his own priority list. Really, he needed to ignore me. I was just having a bad day and I would get over it.  Nothing I was up to was really important in the big scheme anyway. I took a shower and read something, and that helped.

A few hours later, I was walking to the barn to feed the horses when Kent drove home
from his band practice. He paused the car and said, “Wassup, Mom-o. Why are you walking?”
I explained that the mule was stuck in the pasture and I was having a bad day.
He said, “I’ll get it out for you.”
“You can’t. No one can. I’ve tried everything. Dad will get it out tomorrow. Or the next day. He’s busy.”   
“I’ll get it out for you..”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
I knew he wouldn’t be able to free the mule, because the dang thing was two feet sunk, thanks to my tantrum. I just sat in my seat cussing and gunning the tires for about ten minutes when I got mad. I have a very intelligent way of handling my frustration, you see.

I pointed out that he was wearing decent shoes and that it was a god awful mess out in the pasture, which was why I was out there trying to plant grass seed in the first place. Just so happens I destroyed yet another pair of good running shoes just this morning.

He said, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t own a decent pair of shoes at the moment.”

“Well, if you can get my mule out, I’ll buy you TWO pairs of shoes, ” I said.

I should have known, that was the ticket to assure my son would wedge that mule out of the deepest hole or die trying.

We trekked down together, and while we were walking I saw something huddled in the grass.
IT WAS MY FEMALE PEACOCK, PALATE!
I was shocked. She wasn’t dead after all. I went to check on her, and it seems she had a bum foot. Something must have tried to get her, thus the pile of feathers I found,  but she was resilient and got away. She has been laying low to heal. I can’t tell you how delighted was. And in one swift moment, I no longer felt sorry for myself or hated my life, or was filled with negativity. Peacocks have a way of dragging joy out of the deepest regions of your gut.

I was no longer alone in my misery. My peacock had risen from the dead, and  my son was around to cajole my spirits and add muscle to my pitiful efforts.

I climbed into the driver’s seat of the mule to show him just how stuck the machine was. Kent offered to push. I gunned it. He shouted. I turned around. There was my son looking like a negative of himself. He was covered in mud from head to toe, big chunky wads of goo that the wheels had churned up and tossed at him like a machine gun was dripping from his arms, shirt, jeans and forehead.
He tilted his head and a fist size wad of mud spilled out of his ear. “Thanks.”

I laughed so hard I almost fell out of the mule. Thus began our determined quest. We wedged sticks under the wheels. Next, we tried huge slabs of cardboard. We tried rocking it, pulling, pushing, etc.. Nothing could get that sucker out. I gave up and told mud boy I’d buy him the shoes for trying anyway and I went to finish spreading the grass seed by hand. Kent kept messing with the four wheeler, unwilling to accept our failure. About ten minutes later I heard a warrior’s yell, and sure enough, he was driving towards me. He had wadded up the cardboard and wedged it under the wheels and somehow driven out. I don’t think he was fueled by gas nearly as much as he was fueled by determination.

I love that about teens. They have a way of tackling the impossible simply because they don’t know what they can’t do.

We drove to the barn and hosed off about ten gallons of mud from both the four wheeler and Kent. He admired my container gardens, helped me put Palate into the chicken house to convalesce and we checked out the work we did last week together. Kent helped me plant six grape vines in a mini-vineyard (complete with stakes and wires to support them) on Mother’s day, and he bought me one of those funny resin gnomes (we named him Pino as in Pino Grigio) to watch over the plants. He is mighty proud of his contribution to Mom’s winemaking. It takes three years for wine vines to produce healthy fruit, so we made a date now for him to come home from college for the first bottle of Kent’s Pino Protected wine.

So, I got over my temper tantrum and went to the house to make a nice dinner for Mark to come home to. I decided to keep plugging away to fix the mud even if my attitude isn’t always rosy as I go about the task. I’m going to fix those pastures and start a pasture maintenance program to assure my horses have food when hay is scarce. I’m going to grow tomatoes and peppers and squash and cucumber and herbs in my containers and have a bumper crop and force feed my family all summer  with more produce than I might have grown in a traditional garden. Even if it kills me.

It’s been one of those icky months, but a few highlights include :
We found a home for the puppy.   
My peacock is alive!
I found a way to grow produce even if I can’t have a traditional garden this year.
I called and met with a local dance studio owner – I’m consulting with a studio owner in Singapore and plan to visit there in Sept. and I’m working on a dance studio management book – all subjects that deserve a different sort of blog. But they are interesting.
So, if I look past the mud and my agricultural failures, life isn’t so bad.

And even the agricultural pursuits are an adventure if I’ve a mind to keep a good attitude. 
The post master called this morning to kindly say, “You have a package of bees here. A few bees are on the outside of this hive. Um…. Can you come get them soon?”
It is raining, so that makes it a bad day for transporting bees to their new habitat, but what ya gonna do?  I must go pick up my package, scramble to set up my two new hives and figure out how to move the insects from the shipping crate into the hive (Last time, I hired someone to bring me bees, and he set up my hive and did the transfer for me – this time I’m on my own). It will be another challenge – but at least no mud is involved in this particular pursuit.

Last but not least, I’m going to a reading in Atlanta tonight (an official date with my recently absentee husband) to the history center to listen to an author discuss his historical novel. Just so happens this author is also my most favorite actor of all time. Gene Hackman! I’m so excited. Mark is accompanying me, not because he is all that interested in the book or the history center, but because he has to babysit me so I don’t embarrass myself as the out of control enamored groupie I have the potential to be in such a case.
Gee, I hope when I go to have my all time heartthrob sign my book, he doesn’t notice the dirt under my fingernails or a hitchhiking bee doesn’t climb out of my pant leg to sting him. At a fancy literary event in Atlanta, that would take some explaining.

Happy Mother’s Day to the mother’s out there.
Denver and Kent are working today and Mark is in Florida on a business trip. So that leaves me and Neva to celebrate.  That’s fine. We always have loads of fun together.
My only regret is that I am forfeiting my one day of year when I can force the family to do my bidding. I usually pick a canoe trip, much to everyone’s misery but mine. They lucked out this year, but that doesn’t mean I won’t make a play for a Mother’s Day Canoe trip rain check later.

Today has to be a better day than yesterday, because yesterday was the worst.
I cried.

When I went down to feed my animals, I found one of my  big metal cages had been tossed several feet, than rolled over many times until the door finally opened. My lovely (highest pedigreed) bunny had been killed. She was literally skinned, so only her pelt remained – just a face and ears and body, like the carefully cleaned raccoon pelts you see in stores. Whatever did this was hungry. The tarp that I had covering the cage had been torn to shreds. I don’t mean it was ripped, I mean it looked like fringe.

No dog can do this. This had to be a bear. Spring is the time bears come out, hungry and sniffing for trouble. Damn bears.

I noticed that my second big cage had been shoved around too. A big, heavy wood piece I put on the ceiling for enhanced shelter had been tossed about 4 feet and this tarp was shredded too. The cage had not been knocked from its stand (probably because it weighs over 100 pounds) but it was askew. Had the bear been successful, he would have gotten my other female and all her babies too.

This made me upset, but it’s not why I cried.

I was cleaning up the mess, picking up my beloved bunny’s caucus and whispering a “sorry,” when suddenly I wondered, “Hey, where is Palate?” My peacock tends to hang around whenever I’m at the barn. She is curious about me and we are buds. I had a sick feeling so I took a walk to find her. I found a pile of feathers instead.

THAT is when I cried.  If someone had driven up to the barn at that moment with a U hall and said, “Hey, want me to cart away every animal you have and relieve you of this burden for good?” I would have jumped at the chance.

I don’t ever say never, but right now, I feel I’m done with peacocks for good. And I’m leaning towards letting my bunnies go too. Except that this week I received all the fiber from my llamas and bunnies that I sent to the carding mill 5 months ago, and it came back all soft and magnificent, like miles of fluffy cotton streams. It is ready to spin, and I will soon have gobs of yarn made of my dear pet’s fur- so this week, I’m thinking my animals are glorious and fun. Weakens my good judgment, ya know.

In case you were wondering, this is what carded wool looks like. The black wool – remarkably soft – is a combination of my llama , some black sheep wool and angora, the white is a sheep fleece with my angora blended in for softness. The tan happens to be camel and alpaca, with a bit of rabbit thrown in because I wanted to make the blend meaningful. I bought the raw wool for the animals I don’t own on the internet. Just had to try it for experimental sake. The gray is pure angora. Luxurious!



Mark is out of town for a few days, which makes the current animal threat even more frustrating. Without him here to help me devise a solution, my rabbits are sitting ducks. That bear can just return and devour my other bunnies tonight unless I do something about it.

I’m embarrassed to say I’m not exactly skilled at working with tools. The best I can say is that I used to walk around Home Depot looking for inspiration, fueled by a need to be creative for a dance. I bought stuff like PVC pipe and a saw and made 3 D boxes for a dance in a variety of sizes. Lots of cussing and blisters, but hey, it was all in the name of art. I have never been very experienced with hardware, but I could figure things out when I needed to.

So, if I could figure it out for dance, I certainly can figure it out for rabbits.   

I went to home depot and bought some big shelf brackets and wire. I bought wood screws too. I already had bought myself my very own power screwdriver/drill about two weeks ago. It was on sale for 19.99.  I thought it was time to begin my own barn collection of tools. Mark has about a dozen expensive drills, but I’m not allowed to touch his tools. And we have a drill at the house for quick projects, but it is meant to stay in its place.

Mark sort of sniffed when he saw I’d bought my own drill and commented that I should just use the house drill when I needed one. To buy another drill was wasteful.  But I know I’d get yelled at for not putting it back or using it in the wrong way or something and I don’t want to feel he’s doing me a favor by allowing me to use the family drill. Besides which, then I have to count on it being charged, and I rather be responsible for that kind of thing myself. Furthermore, I don’t want to have to traipse to the house to collect tools when I’m down at the barn and need to do a quick mend. As you can see, I’ve built up a strong case for wanting my own (cheap) tools, so when I saw the modestly priced drill, I snagged it.

 I love that drill. I’ve put up my very own pegboard in the barn to hang tools in the feed room. I’ve made holes in the feed buckets and the salt block holder so they won’t fill with water when it rains – been wanting to do that for three years now. I drilled holes in the big plastic tubs I’m using for a container garden this year (I’m on a mission to perfect the tomato crop).  I hung some additional hooks for my rakes and put up a couple of clocks. My new motto is “To drill is a thrill”. I always plug it in so it is charged and ready.

Having done my home depot shopping, I stopped by the feed store and purchased two big metal rabbit cages to mount on the chicken house. I have my buck mounted this way, and he has always been safe and secure. Mark helped me with that project, but we never got around to doing it for the other rabbits, even though that was the plan when I had the chicken house built and insisted it have a little roof for the rabbits.

OK, so now, I have to do this project myself or risk losing my rabbits. I’m a girl on a mission.

It takes me 5 hours. No shit. I spent about 1 ½ hour putting the cage together and three hours screwing in the brackets (I didn’t measure so I put the top brackets too high, of course.) Then, there were obstacles, like the fact that it took me 25 minutes to figure out how to change the direction of the screwdriver to take a screw out rather than drill it in. I had to reposition a bracket. Alas, figuring out my cell phone isn’t the only thing technical challenge to a gal like me who spent far too much time dancing and far too little time living for the last 50 years.
 
Once I had the cages wired onto the brackets, I wired them to the roof beams for extra support. In the end, I had a very secure cage for my mother bunny right next to my boy. I got an extra bonus –  my rabbits won’t be lonely now. They immediately slept nose to nose, content. I stood there watching, wondering how tall this bear might be and if he has long arms. Damn bear.

I still had five baby bunnies in the other cage. Denver showed up and helped me repeat the process again on the other side of the chicken house – no roof here but I figure I can cover the cages for now and talk Mark into building me a roof later. Doing all this the second time was easier (slightly smaller cage). I put the two babies we are keeping in this new set up, wishing I’d bought one more cage. I stopped at two because I didn’t want to go crazy buying cages until I was sure I could mount them successfully. Today, the store is closed, but tomorrow I’ll purchase another cage and put it in the remaining space on the chicken house outter wall. I left the other three babies in the original cage, but this time I put cement blocks on the heavy wood top to help keep it secure. The rabbits are simply getting too big to keep together – which stretches my safe cage options.

When I finished, I called a friend who has mentioned he’d love an angora and urged him to pick a bunny or two up ASAP. I’m determined to move these animals now.

Rabbits were not my only project of the day. While driving to home depot I spotted an animal in the middle of the road. At first, I thought it was a skunk, but when I got close, I saw it was a tiny puppy. He was lost and it looked as if he was bound to get hit, so I stopped the car in the road. When I got out, I saw he was dirty, starving and scared. OK, he’s a stray. He tried to get away from me and almost got clipped by a car coming the other direction. Obviously, I couldn’t leave him there or he’d bite it. So I pulled to the side and tried to capture him. He was only about 5 weeks old. If he’d been dumped by someone, he would not be so fearful of people. I figured he was one of those wild puppies that are born in the woods from a stray– a sadly common occurrence around here. I didn’t not see any more of the litter or a mother anywhere. So, I tried to coax the wild dog to me with a calm voice, but he was desperately scared, and so very, very small. He started to scramble up the bank by the road, but it was too steep and he slipped back down, so I reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. He then tried to bite me and he was scratching and making a racket.

There I was, holding a wild baby dog, but I had to get back in the car and drive. I’m alone; there is no box in the car – what’s a girl to do? I put the dog in the back seat and he climbed under the seat and whimpered.

Neva had spent the night with Dianne, so I picked her up. As you can guess, she was delighted. We drove to the vets to have the puppy checked, but the office was closed. So I brought the dog home and we gave it a bath. He was filled with fleas and ticks and he was so scared that every time I held him now, he lay limp in our arms like he was dead or in a coma. We fed him and he polished the entire bowl of dog food and the entire bowl of water in about three minutes. OK, now we are sure he was a stray, because he was starving on top of all else.

Every time we held him in our arms and stroked him, he immediately fell asleep. He is just so little he needs his rest like all babies. He is not exactly a well adjusted puppy, but I’m feeling very glad we rescued him. I keep having to remind Neva that we probably won’t keep this dog, but we can be happy that we found him and are giving him a second chance. Frankly, this young a dog probably wouldn’t have survived for much longer outside and if he did, he’d grow up to be a wild stray. They don’t live a very good life, and they are often caught and put down or shot by farmers.

The dog spent the day eating and sleeping and slowly, he warmed up to us. He hung with us at the barn as I struggled with the rabbit cages and he seemed more comfortable there – I guess the “outside” is more familiar.

I tend to believe in fate somewhat – that the world sends you what you need when you need it. Not that I’m superstitious, but I think we each have an energy that connects us to the earth, and we can draw things to us when we need or want them most. All day, I looked at that little dog wondering “why today?”

When I’ve shared my grief over the bear and dog attacks down at the barn with friends who share my agricultural interests (and have far more experience), they respond that I should get a “barn dog”, which is an outdoor dog you train to live in your barn. They claim the dog will eat and sleep there and be happy because he has lots of freedom, yet he also has protection from the elements. The fact that the dog isn’t sleeping at the foot of your bed doesn’t mean he isn’t loved. You give him the ongoing care and companionship a dog loves (because you are down at the barn everyday), and you train him as you train any pet, but he sleeps at the barn. When the dog considers the barn home, he will protect the area at night. My son’s dog, Teddy, was born in a barn and though, in a place like Sarasota, the idea of an outside dog is scandalous, here I’ve learned some big breeds prefer the outdoors to the house. In Teddy’s case, despite the dog’s outdoor preference, Kent has trained him to come in at night because he wanted to sleep with his dog – Poor Teddy is always restless and wanting back out at 2Am – even in the dead of winter. He has me convinced that some dogs really can be happy outside. This is not the case with our other big breed – a lazy old plot hound that would sleep in a comfy bed 24-7 if we allowed it. She refuses to stay out when she knows it’s time for bed.

Anyway, this little puppy is helpless and bitty now, but he looks to be part husky. He has the coloring of the area huskies and the blue eyes and the very dense fur. This means, he would make a great outdoor dog, because he will be a good size and he won’t get cold in winter. He is young enough now to train anyway we choose. So, while I don’t really want another dog, I can’t help but wonder if this dog showing up on the very day my rabbits and peacock were Hor de oeuvres is not the universe’s way of sending me what I need to keep my barnyard safe.

I will think about it. In the end, the real question is, can we – a family of serious animal softies – keep a dog in the barn when winter comes and it is cold and wet outside – because three big dogs is simply too much for one house and I don’t want to set us up for an inner struggle and feelings of guilt when the weather turns. If we keep this dog, it HAS to be an outdoor dog.

So maybe we will find him a good home – but even that wouldn’t guarantee he’ll live the cushy life of an indoor dog. Up here, many people keep their dogs outside and it’s considered perfectly normal.

I just feel that no matter how you look at it, we have saved a little dog from a sad end. He is young enough that we can probably find him a home, or we will assume he was sent to us for a reason and give him a home with us. It is good dog karma no matter how you slice it.

Even if he is only with us temporarily, he needs a name. I called him Newman – because everyone knows Paul Newman has the most beautiful blue eyes ever, and this dog’s baby blues are a close match.  


I first suggested we just call him Blue – but Neva felt that name suggested he was sad and thought it might jinx him. Once we associated those feelings to our little lost dog, “Blue” just sounded wrong.

Another day – another slight shift in our world. If you pay attention, you start noticing how change happens, day in and day out – it’s the subtle things that add up, the small decisions – to stop the car or not to stop – to do a task or put it off  . . . These are the things that make your world what it is. 

It’s all about forks. In a split second, life can change. It’s a matter of shifting your shoulders a few degrees and choosing to walk the alternate root when you come to a decision– which isn’t so hard considering both directions happen to begin at the very origin where you are currently standing. All it takes is one step aimed towards a slightly different angle.

A single step is no big deal, except that it leads to a second step, then the next and the next, and before you know it you’ve put a great deal of distance between where you started and where you’re going to end up. Fact is, no mater how slight the degree of change is, an angle does not provide a parallel course. Walking a new path drives the gap between two courses wider as time goes on.  So, when it comes to forks, it is wise to take care in making your choice.

It is with this in mind that Mark and I decided to reconsider which road we will take next.

Yesterday was one of those “harsh” days.
It began when I went to feed the horses. Got stung twice by a wasp. It hurt. Needless to say, these were only the beginning stings I had to look forward to this day.

I’d decided it was time to let my poultry run free again so the day before, I opened the pen. The marauding dogs haven’t been around and I need those guineas to be out and about eating fly larva to control the fly population currently festering and getting ready to break out. It’s nice to have my chickens roaming again, roosting on the hitching post and scooting and scratching about the pasture and woods. But sure enough, my male peacock was nowhere to be found. I guess he flew the coup – literally. The female was complacent and obviously she’s gripped the concept of “home”. Unfortunately, I’ll no longer have that wonderful spectacle of Prism’s fanned tail to brighten my days. Damn peacock. He may be out in the woods somewhere- Mark swears he’s heard him, but I’m not counting on the bird coming home. My peacock egg was due to hatch this week but it’s just sitting in the incubator like a pet rock. Apparently the ol’ boy didn’t do his job in the procreation department despite all his strutting and acting like a big shot. Needless to say, I’m Peacock pissy this week.

When I finished tending the animals, I went to retrieve the mail. Mistake. I got a letter from one of the agents that requested my book – the agent I was coveting most. She declined representing me, saying “This is not a commentary on your writing, but on the market. I only take on what I can sell and yours is not a story I feel confident I can move.”
I took the news well. I told Mark I was quitting writing forever because I suck so bad.
He sighed and said, “Sure you are.”
“I mean it.”
“OK.”

That conversation was interrupted by a call from our builder, Ronnie. Someone had cut the lines set for our coffee shop footers the day before. That meant several hours of work had to be redone. We guessed it was the barbeque man. Ah well. We called the police and they promised to watch the site carefully.  The strings were reset, but cut again while the workers were out. So that is how it’s going to be . . .

Another call. Our house was being appraised for a refinance. The number came in just shy of what we needed to qualify for the spectacular rate Mark locked in. Damn. We offered to put in the cash to make up the difference, for it was really not that much, but don’t ya know they wouldn’t give us an extension to work this out. They preferred to decline the refinance (not surprising because the rates have gone way up since we locked in the agreement.) It wasn’t that important, because we are putting the house up for sale this week anyway – we just thought the refinance was a wise thing to do in case it took awhile to unload.  Meanwhile, the appraiser apologized and told us the house was worth much more than the figure he could assign, but he was having trouble establishing this because there are no comparables within the last twelve months in this area. There just aren’t many log houses as unique or grand as this one here in Nowhere, GA.  Now, if he was allowed to use comparables from 13 months ago, he could appraise the house for 30 % more, because several artistic log homes on Blue Ridge Lake sold last year for a fair price. The fact that we live in such a small place and the market has been so slow is complicating things. Buzz. Sting. 

We got a call from the bank. Despite a verbal OK, theye reconsidered our coffee shop project and now did not want to back it. They’re worried bout the future of the specialty coffee industry because they have an article about how Starbucks is closing locations and restructuring their stores – all information we already knew – the article is in our files. Hell, we’ve done over 6 months of intensive research on the field, flown to Portland for professional training, hired a consultant, talked to roasters and vendors and well, you get it. Not like we didn’t study marketing trends first. They said they would back the project if we would just move the shop to Blue Ridge, where the train begins rather than the destination location. There is a great deal of thriving commerce in the bigger town which they view as “safer”. They just don’t trust our little town of McCaysville will evolve to support our ambitious plans. The fact that we already own the lot in the smaller town doesn’t seem to be a consideration. 

For all that this is aggravating, their reservations are fair. We’ve been aware of the risk from the beginning – being the big fish in a really small pond makes it hard to find enough food to keep you swimming strong. We have another bank willing to back us so we can still proceed. The problem now was, our confidence had been shaken. We believe in listening to others with experience and paying heed to outside opinions. This doesn’t mean we always follow the advice we are given, but we sure contemplate it and pit it against our own judgement in a fair debate. 

Mark said, “We better revaluate our concept and look at the numbers again.” 

The fact is, people open businesses and lose their life savings all the time. Usually this kind of thing occurs because they are overconfident, underfinanced, or didn’t do enough careful planning to be ready for whatever trials are definitely going to come their way. (Murphy’s law).  So, we sat down and crunched numbers (again) and talked about risk (again) and came to the conclusion that we’ve learned enough that we could definitely make this business work. But this brought the conversation back around to what it will take from us to get the required results. The fact is, if we wanted our lives to be consumed by work and stress, we would have kept the thriving and successful business we had. We loved our work. We just couldn’t withstand the personal costs indefinitely. And now we must ask ourselves if what we are planning is going to thrust us right back into the fray – like finally escaping an abusive spouse only to marry someone who hits just as hard and often (only it hurts worse because this time you’re married to someone you don’t love as much).

Which brings us back to the million dollar question – what kind of life do we want? We have to remember why we left our old world behind, define what makes us happy and be brave enough to go after it. We had a vision for the kind of life we couldlhave when we left dance. I wanted to have time in my life for reflection and discovery. I wanted to celebrate family and nature. And I wanted to write. (Even though today I quit because I suck so bad.)

Mark wanted to build houses and do woodworking and perhaps do a bit of speculating with land. He wanted to dabble in real estate and not have his life consumed with the foolish drama that was always prevalent in the dance school business. He wanted to be creative without compromise – which means he should take care before making his art his living.

What the heck does coffee have to do with any of that? Actually, it started out with us wanting an art gallery to display Mark’s work. Then we started doing research and decided we needed a more consumable product to support the business overhead, so we added a little coffee bar. I thought I’d do some cooking because I love feeding people. Then we started researching the food service department of the business and decided to get training. We hired consultants so we had a better understanding of the nuisances of this specialty business, and the next thing you know we were defining our concept and creating logos for what had somehow become a full scale restaurant, bakery, espresso bar and art gallery. The next thing you know, we are talking about franchising and opening future locations and  . . . well, you get the picture. We were fueled with confidence that our personalities, small business experience and creative gifts would help us excel in this new business.
But the fact that we can do something doesn’t mean we should.

I have a theory about what is driving us. Selling a successful business and making a good deal of money is a dream come true in theory, but in reality, it puts you at a disadvantaged in regards to being free to follow your heart. You have the funds to do all kinds of things you always dreamed of doing, but suddenly you are the steward of this huge nest egg which represents a once in a lifetime shot at opportunity and future security. You want to be worthy of this egg, to respect it and not take it for granted. Afterall, you can’t forget the sacrifice and misery it took to get it. The idea that you may piddle it away or waste this profound gift by not making practical decisions (which translates to fiscally prosperous decisions) is a constant concern. Meanwhile, people are mad at you for leaving all the success you had behind, constantly predicting how sorry you will be when the money is gone because you can’t replace the empire you so frivolously threw away. You wonder if they’re right and start having dreams of being 85 and struggling to pay bills and not being able to afford a hearing aid, looking at yourself in the mirror and thinking, “I could have retired prosperous and secure, traveled the world and had a drawer full of hearing aids if only I hadn’t been so selfish and sold my dance school 40 years ago for peace of mind.”
Regret is a sad thing, so you fear it. And that means you can’t really celebrate your good fortune because you’re consumed with what you’re not doing with it, rather than appreciating what you are doing. The idea that you dare relax for the first time in your life and make indulgent choices for the soul seems fiscally frivolous and kind of stupid. You become too guilty to enjoy a life that isn’t about building equity and accumulating wealth because our society conditions us to think a certain way.

I think we have this weird idea buried deep within that because we sold an empire, we better damn well build another one so that in twenty years we’ll be in the same financial position we would have been had we stayed in dance. But that is stupid. Because our luck could have turned at any time with dance (we were getting too old to keep up physically and frankly, we sensed a shift in the business environment and social attitudes of our area, which would no doubt have changed the dynamics of our business. We were “on top” and the law of diminishing returns pointed to a period of struggle on the horizon and frankly, we were not up to weathering another FLEX decline on our watch. So the fact is, there’s no telling how we would have ended up if we stayed in dance forever – we might even have ended up with far less than we have now had we played the hand –and we might just as well have had regret for “what might have been” had we hung in there unhappy and sacrificing saniety because it was “safe” and practical for our future.
        
We left for good reason and we need to remember it. And we must drown out the voices of doubt (others and our own) that question whether or not we can be happy with a life that ceases to be some kind of monopoly game – calculating our future payoff for the misery we are willing to endure in the present.

So, having endured enough stings for one day – we pushed our business plan aside, looked at each other quietly and waited to see which one of us had the guts to voice what they were thinking first

“What would you say if I said, let’s skip this entire coffee shop thing. It won’t make us happy. ”
“I would second that motion.”
Court adjourned.
(It doesn’t matter who said what in this kind of conversation, because clearly we were experiencing a vulcan mind meld.)

After months of planning, traveling to get training, and investing in research etc…. we have halted the project. Our investment thus far will be written off to “life education.” Needless to say, the barbeque man will think cutting a few strings worked to drive Hitler away. Ah well, he lost his bushes so we are even.

I would be lying if I didn’t say we were disappointed with our decision on some levels. We were fueled with the promise of the project and now have to reboot our brain to focus elsewhere. It was raining out and we were depressed because we are again “ungrounded” and living in limbo does not suit us at all, so we went to bed and watched six episodes of the John Adams series that we had on tape. (We know how to handle a disappointment –crawl under the covers, watch a historical movie and wallow in your feelings of uncertainty.) Then, inspired by John Adam’s passion, we got up and took a hike on the opposite side of our land to choose a new house site. We decided to stop hemming and hawing and list our house with nine or twelve acres now to rid ourselves of living with a stressful mortgage ASAP. Between this house and the two FLEX buildings we carried long after FLEX was caput, we’ve had enough of living to pay the rent.  We decided to build a new house right away – this time a nice,, practical farm house. Mark called the builder to redirect his efforts from the coffee shop to a new home, and they staked out the house and got the permit that very afternoon.

Mark and I made a pact. This time, we are going to stick with the original plan – to forge a semi-self sufficient life of semi-simplicity. Things did not plan out as expected regarding our business sale, so we have to make changes and that is a dissapointment,  but we will still have 35 acres, a barn and a workshop fully outfitted with tools. We can afford a lovely house built to suit our lifestyle nestled in the woods (no pond, but hey, I’ll have trees and damn if I won’t get a hammock this time around) and a life set up without much overhead, so we are lucky, lucky, lucky. We certainly can continue to follow our heart and fill our lives with the things that count this way.

Our builder said, “I couldn’t understand why you wanted to bury yourself in a coffee shop anyway. Let’s build some houses together – starting with yours. “
And that is what they plan to do. Mark is going to complete the orders he has now for furniture and perhaps take on a few more – but since he doesn’t have to crank out a store full of merchandise or support the family by his art, he can follow the wave of inspiration and have some fun. He’s going to start up his real estate career with Century 21 tomorrow, something he’s always wanted to do – they’ve given him an office. And he and Ronnie are going to build houses together.
 “I will support us by piecing together a career,” Mark announced. “You can stay home and write – which is what you were supposed to do when we sold FLEX. That will pan out in time, no denying. ”

I’ve always been a major contributor when it comes to supporting the family, so this is a lovely gift of confidence and freedom, but a bit surreal.
“I can’t be some slacker expecting you to take on the brunt of supporting us,” I said.
Mark lifted one eyebrow. “I’ve done my share of working for you. FLEX was your thing and I was along for the ride – slave labor. This time, I’m ready to take the wheel. Given a chance to do what I want,  I might surprise you with what I’m capable of.”
Of course, nothing he does would surprise me at all.  
 
Mark added, “And if you really feel guilty, you can come into the workshop and give me a hand once in a while.”
Hopefully, that won’t be literal. Does the man know I’ve never held a power tool in my life? Perhaps he means me to sweep.

It will be a curious experiment.

So, I am going to send my book out again, to the agent who requested it with an exclusive. . . (Even though I’ve quit writing because I suck so bad.)    And I’m going to dig in and finish my “moving to the country” memoir to see if that is the kind of story an agent can move in this market –(even though I quit and I suck so bad.) I’m going to figure out how to do a bit of teaching (writing) because I long to immerse myself in my new art and I desperately need the interaction with others. I also plan to offer my services to the neighboring dance schools for a few classes. I have a studio in this house so I can dance all I want, but I’ve discovered that for me, dance is something meant to be shared. I miss the wonderful camaraderie and synergy that happens when I’m in a room working with young people with a passion for dance. I don’t ever want teaching dance to be my living again, but I do want dance to be a part of my world. (Funny thing is, Mark said the same thing – he wants to do a bit of choreography and coaching on the side just to feed the soul – but he never wants to be a slave to the art – or dance parents- again.) Guess our feelings are an example of holding onto something with an open hand. A bird is more likely to stay if free to fly away at will.

I’m also going to cook for my family, and get back to running, and enjoy my kids and contemplate the universe while shoveling horse shit and weeding my garden. I’m going keep working with Kathy (who is doing so well) and perhaps take on another literacy student someday, make wine and mess with bees and have interests for the sake of the simple joys attached – all things I would have had to put aside if I were diving into a new business. And who are we kidding? If contributing more will be in the best interest of my family, I will. 
 
The best part of shifting direction at this fork in the road is the fact that we can beam ourselves back to the beginning at any time. Because we still own that lot and we have the variance and the permit and a rather marvelous business plan and we even have a bank in the wings who will work with us. Opening the new business can just simmer in a pot – we can proceed in a year if we feel we need to, or even in five years. Till then, we will sit tight and see what goes on with our economy, our proposed industry, and our town. We will live without the pressure of a high risk, all consuming venture for the first time in our life. Gee, that will be unchartered waters.

Anyway, that is the plan today. A dip on the rollercoaster of life that makes your stomach lurch, but doesn’t unseat you or make you want to scream. It’s a step.