Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

Soggy but Sweet

Posted on September 14, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

It’s raining. Huge torrential buckets coming down in sheets.
Shoot me.
Because you know what I sent ALL day doing yesterday?
Baking.

I made:
Apple Bran Muffins,
Chocolate Chip Banana Bran Muffins
Banana Muffins with Dates and nuts
Chocolate Cheesecake Muffins
Oatmeal Cinnamon Chip Cookies
Dark Chocolate Raspberry Cookies
Double Chocolate Mint cookies
Strawberry Jam Muffins (With homemade jam)
Chocolate Chunk Carmel Brownies
Mandarin Orange Cake



I packaged each in little servings with a pretty pink bow and identifying label.

You see, today we were having a bake sale for our breast cancer fundraiser.




I told Denver that bake sales don’t make much money for the time involved, especially considering it would be a two woman show. Usually, many people contribute to a bake sale, but if only two people are cooking, then it will be a lot of work, not to mention the cost of ingredients all coming from one kitchen for what will probably be not a huge return. But she was insistent that this was something we had to do. She said, “Not everything has to be fancy and made from scratch, Mom.”


Then she rolled her eyes as if remembering who she was taking too. I don’t cook anything that isn’t from scratch. Nevertheless she was so enthusiastic about the project, I couldn’t say no. She put pink flyers all over town, got a few friends to donate some baked goods, and called the City Hall to get permission. She bought us obnoxiously bright pink shirts that say “Cancer Sucks” to wear, and picked up balloons. What’s a mother to do? I started cooking.


One good thing is that we are setting up this bakesale on our new land in McCaysville across from the train station. This is the future home of our art gallery/coffee shop. I kind of like the idea of bringing my muffins to this place, because I’ll be establishing myself as resident gourmet baker in this very spot next year. This can be sort of a warm-up, pre-business experiment on how to present things well enough that people will want to buy them. And I’ll no doubt get to meet people who will be examples of our future customers. Fun.


Mark came into the kitchen yesterday afternoon and saw the explosion of flour, sugar and baking chocolate. He kissed me on the top of the head and said, “You are a good person.”


“Not really.” I grumbled. “At this point, I’m not baking for cancer. I’m just doing this for my daughter.”

He grinned. “I know.”

Anyway, it is 7:48 am. I’m holding out hope that the rain might stop and we can still have a soggy bake sale. If not, I don’t know what to do– perhaps I can freeze this stuff and we can try another day – only I really feel strongly that everything should to be fresh, which is why I chose to bake everything in one day.

Now, I’m settling down to make clay and glass earrings to sell too.  If you are going to bother to have a fundraiser, you might go to the trouble to do it well.

Denver leaves for her jewelry silversmith craftsmen school next week, so this is our last opportunity to work together towards our common fundraising goals. We are behind in our efforts, partially because we have four big baskets being raffled in area businesses and we haven’t picked up the earnings yet, and partially because living in this quiet town makes it mighty hard to fundraise. The dribbles coming in from friends can’t compete with corporate donations and the donations from acquaintances that people in the work force can pursue. And the little businesses around here can’t give much. We are plugging away however – doing our best. (And if you are one of those friends (ahem, luckily for you,  I would never name names J.S.) who said, “I’ll give later”, there is still time. www.the3day.org/atlanta07/ginnyhendry


But rain can’t ruin a day completely. The good news is, there a constant tapping coming from my incubator that is host to my 16 assorted breeds of duck eggs. Perhaps something fun is about to occur. The eggs are due to hatch tomorrow, but after the peacock disappointment and having left to go to Florida again so I wasn’t available to tend to them; I’m not expecting much – no reason to set myself up for dissapointment. If anything does hatch, it will be a special delight.


Ah, the rain has subsided. Might turn out to be a good day after all. Hope McCaysville is hungry and that lots of tourists ride the train today, despite the weather. I will wear my Cancer Sucks shirt, but I feel inclined to take a fabric marker and write (Rain sucks too) on it underneath. See what a whiner I can be.

Wish us luck.


 

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Piecing things together

Posted on September 11, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

We are home from Sarasota. It always takes a few days to “shake off” that town. The ick factor is a combination of the environment (traffic and overbuilding and absence of nature) aggressive cultural attitudes and the entire dance thing. As always, we hear about actions taken by former friends and acquaintances that are so disturbing we feel almost as if we are visiting a place we’ve never been before. (Soap Opera town or something.)


Anyway, the nice part of the trip was the actual teaching.  I watched Mark in his classes, and it was a nice reminder of what a remarkable ballet teacher he was (is). The students actually physically changed within the two hours as understanding of placement hit them like a wave. He watched my class and commented that I was still a lovely teacher, but what amazed him was that I’m still a strong dancer. I am lucky that way. My body seems to hold up well even when I ignore it. For me, all it takes is a bit of music and open space and it’s as if I never stopped. I wasn’t any more sore the next day than I was every day of my life (from 35 on) working as a dance teacher. It was a different story for Mark, however, and watching him hobble to the car, popping Advil like candy, made it very clear that he could not have continued in the field even if he wanted to.


He said, “I love teaching, and even today, after only a few hours, I truly care about those students, even though I’ve just met them. I connect and immediately feel impassioned to help them understand dance. But the pain connected to moving for me is a nightmare. And while some people can teach from a chair, I’m not one.”



We left once again with validation that we made the right choice by retiring when we did. For lots of reasons.



The most interesting thing about the trip was a two hour interview we had with a writer from the Sarasota Herald Tribune, Bill Hutchinson. We were warned not to dare talk to him, because he will turn our honesty against us, but we figured we haven’t done anything wrong, so there is no reason not to speak plainly about what we’ve experienced. He is writing an article about the Sarasota Dance Community and how it is changing. We were central to this huge dance community for many years, so we are important to the piece. I certainly didn’t feel threatened or concerned about what he might say, because in the end, he is a very thorough writer and he doesn’t react to hearsay or pass rumor on as fact. Newspaper men document everything and circle the subject matter from all angles to get a clear picture of truth – at least in theory.  To be honest, I trust him far more than our friends and/or family who we’ve watched jump to conclusions with only snippets of information that for unexplainable reasons, they chose to embrace without question or without seeking logical explanations.


I suppose the fellow could “sink us” as we were forewarned, and twist things to make us look like the dance school felons again, but hey, we’ve already been put in that position by people we once cared about – it can’t be half as bad when the person hurting you is a stranger. The paper took pictures of us and we are told the article will come out at the end of the month.


I must admit, I’ll be deeply disappointed if Bill does paint a dark picture of us, but not for the reasons you’d expect. We don’t live in Sarasota anymore, and frankly, we no longer care what anyone thinks.  But I liked the man so much and so enjoyed talking to him that I’ll be disappointed to learn our exchange was not authentic, but some fact finding mission to promote more scandal.


As we were leaving the interview, I said to Mark, “I wish I’d known this guy when we lived here. I’d have appreciated a friend like him. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have been so lonely and felt so isolated if I ever had the opportunity to meet normal, down to earth, non-dance people like him while we were running FLEX.”   

       

“Of course you’d feel that way. This guy is everything you admire and appreciate in a friend – not to mention he is a writer, so you have something in common. He is intelligent, down to earth, worldly, and has wit. He was supposed to be interviewing us, but every time there was a lull in the conversation, you asked HIM questions. It was kind of funny.”


“Was that inappropriate? Was I obnoxious, like I was trying to avoid the subject of dance or something?” I asked, worried that I didn’t respect formal distance or something. The truth is, other subjects interest me more than dance at this stage in life.


“It’s who you are. I’m used to it.  I don’t think he minded.”


“I didn’t ask that many questions,” I said.


Mark laughed then and said, “Well, let’s see…. We now know that Bill likes his job, especially the freedom to explore those stories he feels are interesting. We know what else he is working on now, a piece about a world class wine appraiser – another thing fascinating to you. He went to the Sarasota Wine festival once, and that was enough for him – as it was for you.  We know the title and year his two books were published (now out of print.) We know the piece he most enjoyed writing was a 30 part piece on the Myakka River, which you suggested would make a good book.  He likes to write about history and cultural change, which you also appreciate. He describes himself as “not that ambitious anymore” (he is 60, no longer a youth with a need to share his personal opinion with the world) when you asked if there are any subjects he feels a longing to someday write a book about. He has a million stories he could tell, but none feel urgent, and fiction isn’t his thing. We know he once taught someone to read just as you did, and it was a remarkable experience. We know he lived in Paris for a year and a half when he was a younger man. He said you must visit Europe before you turn 50, and you ate that up. Trust me; I very much doubt anyone else left their interviews knowing anything personal about the guy. You were still asking questions as we pulled up to the SRQ parking lot – you’d know even more about him if only you had the time.”


OK, so I was curious about this Sarasota writer. The fact is, the world is filled with interesting people, and my greatest joy since retiring from dance is that now I have the time and freedom to make friends with them. He seemed to relate to us as people, not dance gurus.  Anyway, lunch with Bill was fun – he was even natural enough to gently kid me a bit about my new interests. When I told him I was taking a soap making class when I got home, he said, “You can buy that stuff now, you know. Even in Georgia.”


He did ask some interesting questions, such as if we miss the limelight (we don’t) and if we are partially at fault for all that happened because we should have done more research about the people who purchased our business. Perhaps we could have questioned the background of the new owners more, but heck, we are dancers. We trusted our advisors, who included accountants, bankers, business consultants, lawyers, and my father, our financial advisor.  Besides which, we still feel they were lovely people with good intentions (even though they did their best to break down our reputation moments after we left). They just made some serious mistakes and we feel badly for them even now. We are opening a new business now, and this makes me think of them a lot. It is a risky thing, putting yourself and your savings on the line for a dream… I admire anyone who takes a chance like that. But it is true that we have done our share of self reflection to question how we might be at fault for the people who clearly felt betrayed by our choices. What else would explain the madness?


Bill was very insightful in assessing what motivated people to behave as they did, and he seems to have a fair, unbiased idea of how and why the dance community is changing. I expect his article will put things in perspective and be interesting. I will post it when it comes out – even if it does “sink us”.


It is nice to be home. Today, I am taking a quilting class at a very established quilt shop in the area. I already took a quilting basics class, and today I’m starting a two part series to piece together a traditional hourglass pattern throw in colors I think will go well on our porch. I plan to work on several traditional quilt patterns this winter and while most people do machine quilting nowadays, I’ve talked the store into arranging a hand quilting class for me with a very knowledgeable teacher. (I guess I like doing things the hard way.) They say they don’t offer the class much, because people rarely want to do the work of hand quilting. I think it will be interesting. 


You may laugh and think I have gone off the deep end with all these crafts and animal interests. “One more?” You may be thinking – get a job! But I feel as if everything I’m doing is connected. My interests seem to circle history and creativity and nature, and I am enjoying this renaissance to explore new interests (well, in most cases, they are old interests that I let wane when I opened a business and had kids.) more than I can describe. I hope to weave everything I’m learning  together in some kind of writing project soon. This weekend I’m taking a soap making class at the Campbell school – the class always fills, so I had to sign up 9 months ago. Can’t wait.    I don’t know how well I’ll do, considering I was born without a sense of smell and so much of the craft relies on picking scents and herbs to make the soap lovely. Ah well, I will have fun trying something new anyway, and I’ll borrow a friends nose when I need it.


In conclusion, with the Florida trip behind us, I’m off to continue the project of building a new life in Georgia – piecing it together like the quilt. Satisfaction is all about designing something functional yet pretty, which hopefully, will represent who you are and what you value most.


 

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The old me….

Posted on September 6, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

Tomorrow, Mark and I will be going to Sarasota for a few days to help Cory set up business management systems for SRQ (the new school located in the previous FLEX building) and to teach some dance classes. I am looking forward to the trip, but I dread it too. Don’t laugh- it is possible to feel both sides of the spectrum in a case like this.


I’m looking forward to dancing and working with young students again. I miss the creative process and the energy of the student/teacher exchange. Mark and I both look forward to sharing what we know with Cory about building a stronger school. Mark will spend time with him in the office to set up systems to talk about the nuts and bolts of budgeting, taxes, etc… I must admit, I look forward to walking into our previous business without fear of being thrown out or treated with distain. Glad those days are over.


But I hate leaving my life here, even for a short while – I worry about the safety of my animals and I am uncomfortable stepping away from the daily routine I’ve come to enjoy. There is an intimacy connected to our relationships here. The people we encounter at shops or in the street all are quick to stop to chat and the general atmosphere is jovial and warm. I always go through culture shock when we step back into “civilization” – which seems rather uncivilized by comparison. I also hate canceling lessons with Kathy whenever I travel – which has been more often than you’d expect considering we are semi-retired.


I’m guessing I’m in for no small amount of discomfort. I will pay a steep price for being out of dance shape. I don’t hold back when in dance mode, which means I’ll have trouble walking after my first class. Ah well – while the wisdom gained from aging is nice, the physical challenges are no picnic. I deserve every ache and pain for being a big barn potato (as opposed to couch potato)  in Georgia, considering I have a workout room/studio right in my house.  But with the weather so beautiful, who can blame me for choosing nature over the mirror? I’ll return to the more traditional dance, pump and Pilates workouts soon when the winter lures me indoors.


Since FLEX crashed, 5 new dance schools have opened by people previously connected to us. I was told tonight that there are actually 9 new schools in Sarasota. Humm…… Everyone wants a piece of the pie. Forgive me for a moment of honesty, but sometimes it feels like the vultures are circling overhead to pick over the remains. We tried so hard to keep everyone together, a united front. We could have kicked FLEX with our baby toe and helped set the place up back at it’s best again under Cory’s lead. We believed that would be in the best interest for everyone involved. But I guess the last two years took their toll, and trust was hard for any one director to gain. If nothing else, the things that transpired after we left taught everyone that talk is cheap and good intentions can fall flat. In the end, I think everyone feels safer now manning their own boat. 


I also think people mistakenly believe that all they need do is hang out a shingle and throw a few kids into a room with anyone who knows a few dance steps and a school is born. If only it were that easy. Mark and I always spent far more time brainstorming and calling upon every ounce of our knowledge, experience and creativity to piece together a strong program than we ever spent actually teaching. Heck, teaching is the easy part.  In some cases, people are opening dance schools now with no real knowledge of dance education, other than office procedures or a smattering of dance experience. In other incidences, they are trying to copy the FLEX methods, atmosphere and systems, to be the “new FLEX”, falling short of the goal because they lack heart and/or ambition overrides all propriety or integrity. In these cases, I see a lot of effort being poured into image and hype, but little focus on what it takes to deliver on the promises. As such, I doubt all these schools will be around in a year or two.  Nevertheless, it makes the going rough for those who are qualified to run a school.


I should mention here that one of the newly spouted schools in Sarasota  has been opened by our former preschool teachers. (Stagedoor Preschool). They have a dance division too.  I’d like to publicly state that we understand and support their choice. We wish them the best and send them good wishes. (I also sent them some homemade wine to celebrate! Lord knows there is nothing a school owner needs more than a stiff drink when things get frustrating.) They are lovely teachers, very devoted, and they endured two years of hell, hanging on to the bitter end with unfailing commitment to their students and FLEX during the frustrating transition period. They deserve success, and Mark and I both pray they will find it. We think they will have a fine school. A small and specialized preschool most likely, but perhaps that is for the best. The bigger you are, the bigger your problems tend to be. And loving your school and being happy is key to serving it well and staying for the long haul. Take it from two people who were driven out of the business. Sad, but true.


While we feel no ill will towards people opening alternate schools, Mark and I are giving our physical support to Cory and SRQ– not because we are playing favorites, and not because they bought the building (heck, we did have other offers), but because we believe this couple will make the best candidate for building a school that will be closest to what we founded –the fact is, our school filled a viable need in the Sarasota community and we have felt badly since its demise. We still hope something decent will rise from the ashes.  I’ve been talking to Cory for months, long hours on the internet and on the phone, and while others are quick to ask how we attracted so many customers and made money, he always circles round to “how did you create such a strong school and keep up quality?” Cory is interested in the long term. He cares about dance education, and he understands that parents, even if they have the best intentions, are not qualified to run the show like some kind of backseat dance school driver. This means, he has to hold firm to his vision and work to make it pan out – that kind of directorship means you are not always the most popular fellow in town, but you sure are the most consistent.  I think that if Sarasota gives SRQ the chance, it will provide the dance education people are seeking. You certainly can trust Cory to teach those elements of dance that go beyond dance steps – the aspect of the art that builds character.


Anyway, without saying anything more about the dance school biz, I do want to say that I look forward to teaching again. I’ve missed it.


It’s funny. When getting my MFA they taught me to “read like a writer.” After that training, I can’t pick up a book, without seeing it through different eyes. I am no longer oblivious to technique or style, and as such, I can’t ever really lose myself in a story. I am always calculating how the author accomplishes his goals.


After years as a teacher/choreographer, I now listen to music as a dancer too. I never hear music and just enjoy the sound of it. I am always choreographing in my head, or contemplating how it could be used to teach a movement concept. I see huge production numbers in my head, always featuring my past students, I guess I see them because their body types and movement idiosyncrasy are imbedded as my last ingrained dance memory. Even tonight, as I listen to music choosing what to bring to the studio, I feel movement seep into my body and I see past students orchestrating it. The energy builds inside of me and with it, steps, concepts and teaching objectives – it is as if the ideas come through me, not from me. I am out of shape, yet just the thought of returning to the classroom makes me instantly feel like a dance teacher with lots to share once again. I wonder if this dance persona will ever leave me, or if this is some kind of art residue that will linger forever.


My only disappointment is that I know the students we will be teaching this trip will be new faces, or younger students that we were not heavily involved with during our tenure at FLEX. Working with young, eager dancers from any source is always a joy, but I will miss the faces of the students I knew and loved. They have all moved on to other schools, and their time and focus is carefully controlled and manipulated by their new teachers in ways I can’t begin to understand. It sure is peculiar from a mentor’s point of view, but what can you do? I’ll never get over their lack of respect or their rude dismissal after years of our involvement. But as I’ve said in the past, I can’t be accountable for the influences they’ve had after our term as teachers. Obviously, what we tried to instill about honoring and respecting those that contribute to your artistic growth didn’t stick. Or maybe it is just that our society (and the dancers in it) has changed and the new generations haven’t got the time or inclination to waste effort on anyone or anything that doesn’t serve their immediate interests.


Whatever . . . if nothing else, it makes me very glad we retired and left the dance world behind. I am old-school and I haven’t much tolerance for the “what’s in it for me NOW” approach to dance training. I guess my attitude is perfect proof that I’m an old fart. You know you’ve become crotchety when you start saying, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to…” and “when I was young, I walked 10 miles in the snow, uphill both ways, to pay homage to my teachers.” And the younger set rolls their eyes and blows you a big raspberry.


Ha. I am not as offended as I sound. I’ve long since passed the offended stage. I landed on disappointed and resignation long ago.    


So tonight I am preparing to reenter the dance world for few days. I had a busy day  getting ready to leave town. I tutored Kathy (*side note – cool thing happened today. She was reading from a book, her finger slowly tracing the words as she stumbled over them, and she came to a big word. She sighed, and then gave it a try. After sounding out the letters, she looked up at me with a grin and said, “Marvelous?”
“Yes… and isn’t it marvelous you can read that word?” I said.
She hooted with excitement, then slapped me five, because it really is a hard word, and not one she would have gotten a mere month ago. That brief moment – her beaming with pride and celebrating a simple thing like reading the word “marvelous”- stuck with me all day. Little things like that make life fun.)


Where was I? Oh yeah, I did laundry at a mat, because my laundry machine is broken and I have to have some clean clothes to pack, and I cooked some peach preserves, because I didn’t want my big bucket of peaches to go bad while I was away. I am now waiting for Denver to come over so I can take her on the animal rounds because she will keep the ranch creatures fed and cared for while we are gone. So after this busy day, tired and ready for a break, I am going down to the studio downstairs to pick out music and work out a few ideas in front of the mirror. Nothing like waiting for the last minute to prepare. But I know some of my best classes are the ones I do not plan – and you really can’t prepare a class when you don’t know the students in advance.


It is hard to believe that tomorrow at this time, I’ll be teaching jazz in the very space we practically lived in day and night for eighteen years. Mark will be teaching ballet. While visiting, we will go out with the teachers who maintained a relationship with us through it all, and they no doubt will make fun of me and my winemaking and peacock rearing experiences, as they are so fond of doing. It is fun celebrating friendship now that we are not “the boss”.  The ease between us and old acquaintances (and the laughter) is precious. We will teach again on Friday. On Saturday, Cory set up a master class where all the proceeds will be donated to my upcoming cancer walk. This was his idea, and I’m truly grateful, although his generosity didn’t surprise me a bit. It is just like Cory to give something back even though he has barely gotten organized himself in this new endeavor. That is the spirit of dance I’ve always tried to instill and one more example of why we feel good about him taking over where we left off. Anyway, it will be meaningful to me to teach in support of a cause I believe in. A nice way to end the visit.


Tonight, I will go to bed dreaming of dance, feeling like the old me. Thoughts of donkeys, llamas, horses and bees will be pushed to the back of my mind as I revisit my first and foremost love, dance. It feels good. I am grateful for the opportunity to teach again in the building that holds so many happy (and some not so happy) memories for us. I hope I will leave at least a small, but positive impression behind, a humble contribution to help set Cory’s dancers on a positive learning path. But mostly, I am glad to have an opportunity to walk through the halls of the place that will always be FLEX to me, to convene with my memories and make peace with the final end of an era.

It was a good school. A good school will take its place. Life goes on.


 

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My Joys

Posted on September 5, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

I thought I’d give you one more peek at the progress of my barn and my new heart throb horse.

It is a really good barn. The boys make fun of me because I am decorating it with horse paraphernalia. They say,” What’cha doing? Trying to make this a “girly barn?”  
I’m a girl. Do the math. 

I think they just don’t know what to make of someone who hangs a flowering plant on a horse hook on a building that they consider designed to be primarily functional. But on the sly, Ronnie confessed that he thought it was a fantastic barn and if it was his, he’d spend all his time down there. “It’s real nice,” he said in his southern drawl. I agree. If you want to know where to find me . . .

It will be interesting to see what they think next week when my 6 foot black cutouts of rearing stallions come. I ordered them from a fellow who makes them at the flea market, and I plan to attach them up on the sides of the front near the peak. Yea, this is gonna be a designer barn when I’m through! I even bought little 9″ wooden cutouts of horses that I am spray painting, then I’ll paint the names of my horses on them as name-plates for the stalls.

As I ordered the cutouts, Mark grinned and says, “You are corny, but hey, it’s your barn. Have a ball.”

What can I say, this is the “recital” of barns. Might as well make a show of it.

For now,  have a nice little iron bench on the porch, at least until Mark makes me something rustic and more suiting (and comfortable). I bought a horseshoe welcome sign made of rusty iron at the flea market, and in the tack and feed room I have little signs Neva gave me for Christmas that feature horse quotes. I even bought a stop sign that says “Whoa” instead of “stop” for the area where you ride the horses in. I’ll hang it this afternoon. Ha. I am having fun.


The door still isn’t hung, but it will be done when the second rail comes it (somehow it didn’t come with the order) I have hay rolls in the hay storage already. Yippee! There is even a wheel at the peek of the roof that we will thread a rope through to hoist things up to the upstairs for those occations when I don’t’ want to walk up the stairs with stuff. Very traditional. They are putting in the electric in a week or so, and then we will add light fixtures and a water pump – and a fridge! Upstairs, I’ve put all my beekeeping supplies, bird cages and even a table and chairs for what have you.  If any of you ever rob a bank and need a hideout, this will have all the creature comforts of home. Just wipe your feet first….


Details, details….. I am hoping to train the animals to come running when they hear the dinner bell. Easier than me calling. If Pavlov can do it, it can’t be that hard, right?
  
Everyone is happier now with this barn. Not just me, but he animals too. 
This, by the way, is why you should never buy a white horse. Ahem…… I should have named him pigpen, he spends more time upside down than rightside up…. He was rolling with pleasure after a nice dinner in his new stall.  



She is so pretty, I can’t help but show her off…. She may be pregnant, but so far, she still has a fine figure.

Yes, EVERYONE loves my new barn…
 

Tomorrow and I am going to Sarasota to teach dance for Cory. I am actually dragging myself away from my barn to prepare today. I will write about that that division of life later .
Sometimes it feels like I am many different people all rolled into one. Time to wear a different hat for a while – hope it still fits.

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A busy week with friends

Posted on September 2, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

When we sold FLEX, lots of people were unhappy. But two friendly business acquaintances (a couple that did computer work for us) said, “Oh goody, that means we can be real friends now.”
And they proceeded to become just that.

At the time, we told lots of people, “Come up and visit sometime.” 
This is the one couple that did.


They came to visit us only two months after we moved the Georgia, taking great interest in our little cabin and the land where we were going to build a house. They loved the serenity of the mountains and the wholesome environment and talked about one day moving here as we did. (They are fifteen years younger than us, so it is not time for them to make such a big change quite yet.) Talking about what we think is important in life while sitting around a campfire was a great way to get to know each other better, seeing what our interests were beyond the scope of our business dealings. We found the more we got to know them, the more we enjoyed them. Our humor meshed.


They came up again when the cabin was in a more finished state and went with us to see the newly dug house site. We all went horseback riding and ate apple pie at the area orchard. This time, when we sat around a campfire, we were not burning the old paneling and furniture from a dilapidated cabin, now we were burning wood we wanted to clean out of the pasture was on our new 50 acres. Mark and I talked about our plans to develop the land and Steven offered to help whenever we needed some muscle.


They came again in the winter just after we moved into the new house even though we didn’t have much furniture and we all had to wade through unopened boxes. They did all the appropriate ooh-ing and ah-ing as we talked about how far we’d come. They were the first people to sleep in our guest room (and to point out how cold it can be – we have since fixed that). On this trip they even looked at a few lots for sale, knowing someday they want a cabin in this area. Steven began his campaign to get us to sell them “a small acre on the back corner of our land……since you have more than any one person needs….” Umm… love ya, but no. Yet, if we ever do start selling off parts of this land, I can’t imagine a better neighbor. 


Now, they just came up again for a five day visit. This was different, because usually they come, stay a day or two, then have to go. Now we had time to actually do some things. We hiked to one of the area’s waterfalls, and rented a pontoon boat to go tubing. It was a toss-up between this and white water rafting, but the pontoon won because they are closing the marina for the season this week, and we thought we should take advantage of the lake. The rivers are always open.  Diane was available to join us. It was all adults – different for us, but nice in it’s own way.




I’ll post a picture of the place we hiked, but we’d just walked a long way all uphill on a mountain, so we look the worse for wear.

I

I cooked big meals, we rode four wheelers, and they got to see the final work on the new barn. Steven helped Mark for a few hours in the workshop. It was a busy week for us, so they just sort of pitched in and lived the Hendry life for a few days.

For example, the first night they were here happened to be the night Shane, the trainer, was delivering my new horse. I had made us a lovely dinner with homemade multigrain bread, pasta with my fresh tomato sauce and grilled shrimp, salad from our garden and cherry and peach crisp. We sat down, took three bites, and I got a call that the horse was on the way. I was like, “Glad you are hear to visit . . bye!” And I ran down to the pasture leaving everyone to eat alone. (I guess I won’t be winning any trophies for best hostess of the season.) I was so excited. The horse’s name on her papers is Superfine Joy, which suits her and describes how I feel around her – so I am keeping it – calling her Joy. The horse wouldn’t load in a trailer, so Shane rode her over in the dark from his ranch. She arrived all sweaty and agitated since she is just beginning training, but Lord, she was beautiful.

Shane said, “I adore this horse. She is strong and alert. You can feel the power under you. I wish I’d have bought her myself before you came along.” (He was considering it.)


“I don’t want too much power there, Shane. Don’t forget.” I said, patting her on the nose while she pawed and snorted. It is still hard to believe this will be my horse.
 
Shane laughed. “She will be a doll baby when I’m done. Promise”


Joy is probably the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen, or maybe I’m partial. She joined Peppy, my other horse, without a moment of fighting or establishing dominance and they have been warm and congenial companions ever since. She is gentle and sweet (at least when no one is riding her) and I could only describe her as striking as she runs across the pasture to see me each time I drive to the barn area. She takes my breath away. I love this horse! I even taught her to take a cookie from my hand, though the first few she spit out – she couldn’t figure out what a sweetie was.


Mark kept saying, “Watch out for Peppy. He is getting jealous. You usually fawn all over him, and he doesn’t like the way you are ignoring him.”

I pooh-pooed that comment, until the next day, while petting and loving on Joy, Peppy reached out and bit me. Right on the breast ! I now have this huge mouth print that looks like a gigantic hicky where I should have pretty cleavage. Harrumph. It didn’t hurt so much as shock me.  (Normally, Mark would get jealous about a telling mark like this, except he has already accepted that I’m having an affair with my horse.)

Peppy has never shown aggression, certainly not towards me, and I didn’t have any food or anything to provoke an accidental bite. No, that bite was true jealousy – that is so like a boy, ya know. So I am careful to dish out my love equally now. Eesh.   

Anyway, Steven and Sara were here to witness the arrival of my heart’s desire. That was fun.

The next night, I plied our guests with another nice homemade meal – twice baked potatoes, brocolli in cheese sauce, crispy baked chicken and more homemade rolls. I was buttering them up for a favor (the guests, not the rolls). I even made Steven his favorite, Milk chocolate brownies, still warm from the oven (he is a chocolate person). When dinner was done, and everyone was in a good mood, I explained that I had finally received a long awaited call from a man who sheers llamas, and  he was coming out in the morning to do the job. I needed to catch the llamas and contain them so they would be ready. I was certain everyone would find that lots of fun.

“We don’t have much llama catching experience,” Steven said, trying to get out of the impending task. Aparently the way my kids groaned let on that perhaps chasing llamas isn’t all that fun.

“I have homework,” Kent said.

“I’m here to talk with Sara, and she hasn’t finished eating,” Denver said.

Mark knew better than to make excuses, and he was trying to avoid eating the brownies anyway, so he agreed to help and then guilted everyone into joining us.

We spent the next hour chasing llama’s, Kent and me on foot with ropes and the men on four wheelers. We got Dali easy enough. He is used to the routine and isn’t frightened of us. But the new llama, Pulani, was a trial. They’d corner her and get a rope around her neck, but then she’d drag the boys ten feet, duck under the rope and get away. She was fast, smart, and determined not to be caught. Eventually she just got so tired from running away in her heavy wool coat, we practically walked up to slipped the rope over her. Neva had been filling water buckets and aranging some feed to make the barn ready. The llama’s slept in the almost finished barn to become our first overnighter tenents. Love that barn!   


In the morning, the fellow came to sheer. He put the llama’s in a portable shoot, to give what they call a “barrel cut”. (Can’t shave the entire beast because it is too close to winter now.) My poor llamas really do look like overgrown poodles now. But at least they are cooler and I have a big bag of (what I’ve been told is) very fine wool fleece to take to the Southeast fiber fair next month to get professionally carded for spinning. I have such a hankering to spin my own llama’s wool combined with my angora fur to crochet a scarf to wear all winter. That will be one special scarf to me, even if others don’t recognize it as such.



The man, Don, taught me not only how to sheer the animals, but how to clip their toes and other basic care. It was fascinating. Steven and Sara watched, then later Sara said, “I love animals too, and I want to have more of them, but thanks to you, I’m seeing how much work it is, so I might just stick with my parrots and dogs.”
She doesn’t know what she is missing.


Mark and I decided to arrange for Don to come out again in the spring to give a full body cut (for the sake of learning how it’s done) and the next year we will buy electric sheers and start sheering the animals ourselves. We did it by hand last year, but that is simply too hard with more than one animal. We will have three llamas in a year, since my girl is pregnant, so we need to consider what is most cost effective and convenient.  Besides which, I like being self sufficient when it comes to these things.


Don was a nice man, a few years older than me. He told me he stopped working at 48 and gratefully, never had to go back. His wife has been spinning for 4 years and they now have 38 llamas. He takes care of them all, and travels to cut for other people now too. They are active in the fiber arts guild, and they have booths at fairs etc… I laughed and said, “Few people would call what you are doing “not working”. I’m guessing you work all the time.”


He said, “We have what I call labor intensive leisure. Sometimes I say, Honey, I want to go get a job so I don’t have to work so hard.”


I understand what he is saying. Many people consider “working” as something defined by a steady job with a boss. Work can be more creative than that. I’ve always pieced together my livelihood by engaging a range of creative endeavors; figuring out how to make an income doing what I love. Self employed, one way or another. This kind of work lacks the stability of a “normal” job, and the pension if you are lucky enough (or boring enough?) to stay at a single task for years and years. You don’t get insurance or a company car, but it does offer a certain sort of freedom and challenge to life. Anyway, it works for me and always will – and I can honesly admit we’ve always lived well enough, and that reinforces my content with the system. It is interesting to see what will come of our interests at this stage of life.


Don said he was glad to come out to sheer my llamas because he likes to know all the “llama people” in this area of Northwest Georgia and Carolina. I thought that was funny,  because it meant he considered me a “llama person.” I’ve been called many things throughout my life, but llama girl has never been one. Just goes to show how a person’s  definition can expand and change over the years. I’m one of those “llama people” now. Who’d ‘a thought.


The next night, the boys went fishing. Sara was reading and enjoying the quiet, so I decided to bottle some wine that I’ve been meaning to get to. It was a big job, because I had to soak and clean the labels off of all the wine bottles stored in the garage. The boys came home earlier than I expected, and Steven nagged at me for starting a project because that meant I wasn’t available for the “big game” We play sequence into the wee hours, every night when they are visiting. I suspect Steven has rued the day he wanted to be friends, considering every time he and his wife, Sara, visit, we girls kick the boys butts in this game. The boys are always  obnoxious and pompous and the girls always classy and brilliant as we nail them– yep, that’s the truth of it. But don’t mention it to Mark or Steven. Boys are such sore loosers.


Steven and Sara don’t drink, and filling wine bottles is only so interesting, so they sat on the porch listening to the coyotes while Mark helped me inside. We bottled 29 bottles of Pinot Grigio, filled them, corked them and put them aside to label later. I like doing this with him because bottling is the one time I can say, “Put a cork in it, Dear,” and not get in trouble. By the time we were done, it was late and Sara and Steven had gone to bed, so Mark and I took our turn sitting on the porch drinking the first glass of homemade wine.  Mark agreed it was amazingly good. Yippee! It will be over a year before we can drink the wines I made from raw fruit, like the blackberry, strawberry, apple and tomato currently aging, so suddenly I have an appreciation for the wine grape juices you can buy to hurry this process a bit.  Think I’ll do another batch that way. 


Anyway, it was a busy week – fun because we had the opportunity to entertain, yet life didn’t come to a standstill. Our friends were around to witness our joy as we celebrated the final closing of our Sarasota building, after weeks and weeks of it being put off – which relieves a huge stress from our world. They were here when we signed the contract to guarantee the purchase of our new land for our next business. Abviously, the next time they come, there will be more developments to witness in Hendryland.

They witnessed the work of our world and yet explored Blue Ridge Lake with us, and some area trails too. All told, it was a week that combined vacation fun with everyday ranch-farm-homestead chores. I think they enjoyed it. And it is always fun to see your world through someone else’s eyes – puts everyday drudgery in a new light, ya know.
They left yesterday, so our time is ours again to plug away at life. That is good too. I admit, with no one to entertain, we curled up in bed early yesterday and watched three movies in a row. Big blobs – that was us.


I must go walk. Still in training, don’t ya know. And I gotta dust off my dancing shoes. We are going to Sarasota to teach next week, but I’ll write about that later.

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Barn Show and Tell

Posted on August 23, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

“You’re pretty excited about this barn, aren’t you?” one of the workers, Josh, said to me today.

I guess I couldn’t be more obvious. Lord knows, I’m down there several times a day, trying but not suceeding at staying out of the way of the construction. I watch the progress, giddy with delight as the structure takes form. Yes, I love my barn. I’ve wanted a barn since the day we bought this land and acquired horses. I waited patiently as other things took precedence, sloshing through mud, my tack stacked haphazardly in a storage building 500 feet away – getting banged up and dirty from transport. I’ve fed the animals in rain, sleet, wind and in the dark. But not anymore. Now, I will have a place for everything, the convenience of a controlled environment and  peace of mind because my beloved creatures will have a safe dry place to keep them out of inclement weather.  And it will keep ME out of inclement weather too. Yippee!


The upstairs of my barn is a huge loft which will store my beekeeping supplies and additional hives and supers. I can keep extra cages and incubators here, and it will be a warm, safe place to house newly hatched chicks or peacocks.  I can start all manner of projects up in that spacious work area. And it’s mine, all mine. Yippee!


The right side of my barn is a hay storage area. Now, we will be able to purchase our winter’s hay early and keep it fresh, and I won’t have to stress because there is no hay to buy anywhere, or the few bails we tucked under a tarp went bad. Yes, my animals will eat properly this winter. Yippee!
The big front door (not yet built) will be on a slider, so I can have it fully opened to let the breeze in. (In the winter, I can slide the door open only as far as I want to keep the insides warm. The back door of equal size is on traditional hinges so I can keep them closed, or swing them open to drive a tractor through or to let in light and air. More yippee’s!

The left side of my barn has been partitioned off as a small corral so if I want to keep the stalls open, the horses can stroll outside for fresh air. When the dutch doors are closed, (so the horse stays inside and has a window, or this can be closed to keep in warmth) these covered areas can be used as two separate open stalls, so donkey and the llamas can be housed there (also to keep out of horrible weather). The inside boards are removable (my idea) so this can be converted into one larger open corral. In June, I can use this area as a temporary pen for the new llama, so I can watch her give birth. Hate to think she’ll go hide among the trees in the pasture, drop that baby and leave it.  I’m hoping that confined to a smaller area, she may accept her baby and feed it (fingers crossed). Anyway, I’ll be able to control that situation one way or another, so we won’t have to go chasing a newborn if we have to bottle feed it. Yippee!


Inside, the two stalls are 12X12, which is roomy and nice for a horse – even a pregnant one. Another yippee! If I was to admit to one impractical indulgence, it was that I talked Mark into approving a small concrete patio in front of the outside door to the feed room. This is because I want to put a nice bench here to sit on while waiting for horses to eat and for guests to rest after a ride.  I just think it will be pretty as an entrance. The feed room can also be entered from inside the barn for convenience and so you feed the stalled horses and stay inside. But on those days when you want to feed everyone outside, and don’t want to open the main doors, the feed room is assessable. The tack room is conveniently located inside so you can saddle a horse with a minimum of effort. Both rooms feature a nice work bench, a peg board for hanging tools etc.. and even a fridge so cold drinks (and carrots) are always at the ready. 


You might think I’m a traditional red barn sort of girl. I thought of going that route. Even did some historic reading so I fully understood the significance of barn colors and how and why they were painted red long ago. But in the end, I decided I liked barns best natural gray and weathered (and this also means avoiding having to re-paint every couple of years), so we plan to let this one turn in time, then we will put a sealer on it. I want a barn that looks timeless and blends in with the surroundings.  

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want a pretty barn. This weekend I am going to the flea market to buy some big black wooden cutouts of horses rearing (had my eye on them for some time) to be erected high on the front on each side of the upper door. Mark is giving me a wagon wheel (he’s been collecting them for furniture making) to put up there in the peak and we will attach the power beam light to the center of it. I am now scouting all manner of horseshoe hooks and other theme paraphernalia to decorate the space. I’m buying a flag that has a llama on it. Yes, I am all for practicality, but I am a big queer-bo theme lover too.  I have every intention of placing pretty benches and planting flowers around the front.  I will have a loud boom box for music (so I can dance around the barn when no one but the horses are looking). I figure this is my home away from home. Might as well make it inviting.

There is still a lot to do. We have to pour concrete in the tack room, feed room, under the stairs and on the porch. We have to finish off the inside stairs and the big front door. I have to rake out a million little rocks, because they built the dang barn on my temporary gravel road and didn’t first bull doze them out. Oops. I need to put bedding in the stalls and mulch in the corral. We need to get the electric company to put a line to the barn, then call an electrician to put in lights and electrical plugs so I can see when the days grow short (which is coming up.) And I need water! Once we get electric, Mark and Ronnie are going to dig a big pit in the creek and put in a pump so I can get fresh creak water on tap. Sounds complicated, but they insist it will work.

Like everything in our life, it is a work in progress.  But I couldn’t be more delighted. This is the very best playhouse the little girl inside me has ever had!  
I’m truly grateful!

And best of all, the next time I see a sad, stray cat that needs a home, I’ll have a dry, soft hayloft to offer. Every barn needs a barn cat to keep the mice away. But I’m not going looking for a cat. I will wait until a desperate cat finds me. If it was meant to be . . . .

 
  

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Rodeo

Posted on August 22, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

I went to the rodeo last weekend. Don’t laugh. I adore the rodeo and go every year. Denver and Diane have never been, so this year I invited them to come. Everyone needs to experience a rodeo at least once. Mark went to an arts auction fundraiser and didn’t make it back in time to join us. Honestly, I don’t think he worked that hard to get home at the designated time. He likes the rodeo, but there are other events he enjoys equally as much, and I didn’t mind him skipping it this year. He was having fun with a friend and I think that’s important. Besides which, it gave me free reign to ogle the cowboys.


I am always impressed with the rodeo participants. I marvel that there are people in the world who are willing to get on a wild beast to prove their manhood and show off their unique skill of handling livestock. It is like watching history and a slice of timeless country culture all at once. The competitors share a supportive camaraderie. They maintain a sense of humor and respect for each other as they vie for purses and titles. 


You find die hard advocates involved in every human interest – dance, beekeeping, horseback riding, winemaking, raising angoras, gardening, woodturning, basket making, collecting, – you name it. It always intrigues me that every endeavor you can think of seems to have a sub culture of people who take it to the next level. If there is any kind of definable interest, their will always be a group of people obsessively involved. There are competitions to validate talent, seminars to explore the latest research or techniques, and organizations to keep the people with the shared interest in communication. You can pick the most obscure thing, and before you know it, you discover there are tons of people totally in to it.


The rodeo (participants, not the audience) is another sub-culture – a world of horse lovers, trainers and ranch hands, taking their particular interest to a new level. It’s an event  designed so cowboys and cowgirls can vie for the highest standing in competency tests for roping, steer handling, bronco riding, barrel racing etc…. They win prize money and recognition. It’s also nice for the ego and I suppose it’s a way to gain income to support their fondest pleasure – spending every waking moment working with horses. 


The rodeo is a bit like a circus, only instead of sequins, the performers are covered in dust. If you sit up close, you dodge flinging mud rather than confetti thrown from a clown’s bucket. Gorgeous beasts parade around, muscular and wild. The cowboy’s mounts are impressively trained, quality horses – it’s obvious these boys love their equestrian best friends.  The display of fine animals alone, working in harmony with man, is breathtaking.

We found a seat in the first row of the stands, balancing some “chicken on a stick” (barbeque) and some fried chips. First, there was the parade of horses and the introduction of those competing. Next, we sang the national anthem and watched a big, fully-loaded Ford truck drive around the ring – at half time, three names would be chosen to toss a boot into a bucket from 20 feet away. Dunk the boot and you drive home the truck. I’ve never seen anyone win.


Then the riding events took place.


When the first gate opened, a wild horse came charging out, bucking and rearing as the young cowboy hung on with one hand, the other flailing in the wind, barreling past us and slamming into the gate where we sat. Diane and Denver both squealed and almost dropped their chicken on a stick.


“Holly shit!” Denver said. “That looks so dangerous. This is like . . . REAL.”

“What did you think? The rodeo is not like wrestling, where they stage pretend matches and growl and posture for entertainment. Animals react by instinct. The gifted cowboy is ready for whatever is dished out. But aren’t the animals magnificent?”

“Magnificently? More like wild! Someone is going to be killed.”


“Not likely. The boys get hurt sometimes, but they consider a few broken bones a badge of honor.” I pointed to the ambulance at the ready at the back of the horse paddocks. “These boys are good at what they do – they travel the rodeo circuit months at a time, and make a living this way. The clown cowboys are there to distract the animals and help when dangerous situations occur. It is a controlled environment, even though the animals seem out of control.”


Denver and Dianne were instantly enthralled, enough that they even ignored the cotton candy man. Neva had the presence of mind to stop him, however, which is good because I love cotton candy almost as much as I love the rodeo.  Denver was amazed that when the cowboys were thrown, they simply picked themselves up, brushed off their jeans and limped to their friends with a shrug.


She said, “They look so young . . .  and so cute. They look like they’re only 18 – 24. Just about my age.”


“Anyone much older can’t handle the physical challenges. And I think a mature person just grows smart enough not to engage in something that may end up giving them a concussion and three broken ribs. Most of the bronco riders are young. Some of the ropers are adult men. Early 30’s. ” I said, imagining my daughter toying with the idea of becoming a rodeo groupie now, thanks to my invitation.


Denver perked up in her seat. Ha! She thought she was coming to the rodeo to see the animals, but now that she realized this was a prime opportunity to watch young he-men strutting around and spitting, she recognized how important it was to pay attention.

“Ah, that one fell hard. He needs someone to kiss it to make it better,” she said with a grin. “But I wouldn’t want one of these fellows as a boyfriend. You don’t want a boyfriend that can get broken at work.”

“No, that would be inconvenient.”


Dianne kept wincing as if she could feel each participant’s pain; also as if she was sure a horse would bash through the fence and ride right over us at any moment. She kept asking what they were doing and trying to accomplish. I explained the best I could. I still don’t know how they determine points. But I do know the basic goals of team roping, bronco busting, barrel racing, and things like wrestling a young steer down to the ground in less than 10 seconds. I shared my skimpy knowledge between shouts and exclamations of delight as I watched the feats of skill in the ring.


Every few moments an animal would ride by us, snorting and sweating, kicking mud our way. We could catch the face of the young man riding by, grim determination matching his struggle to keep astride. We could feel the breeze and heat from the animal, hear its hoofs hit the dirt, and see the wild look in its eye. Few things in the world feel this real anymore. I love the raw, upstaged element of a rodeo. It is so unlike theater performances or movies or other amusements. I love the earthy wildness of it all. The rodeo is passion, nature and masculinity all rolled up in an entertaining package.


There’s comedy to keep the night moving too. While the techies change out animals, the announcer introduces silly events, just for the fun of it.  They call all the kids under 8 into the ring and let a calf out with a ribbon tied to its tail. A hundred little giggling kids chase the calf, trying to snag the ribbon to get a prize. Next, they do this with the kids 8-12, and you can bet Neva was at the head of the line. Alas, the calf darted a different direction and someone else got lucky.


I’m shocked that in this day and age they’ll let a bunch of pedestrians into a ring littered with horse dung and a live, scared animal, without first making everyone sign some kind of legal release. Kids slip in the mud, get run over by the excited calf, and get shoved into the fence. They crawl back through the fence dirty and smiling.  But no one cares or runs to their little darlings to fawn over their boo boos, cussing the organization. This must be the last place on earth where kids can be kids and parents don’t threaten to sue.


As they set up the stalls with the next animal and a rider gets into position, the audience listens to jokes and watches the antics of a cowboy clown, who works to keep our attention on the center of the ring and off the angry banging in the paddock. To the side are games for kids, like rock climbing or bungee jumping and all manner of food – corn dogs, fried pickles, popcorn, barbeque and snow cones. You can wander over to see the young steers awaiting the next event, where they will be chased, roped and hog tied. They look lazy and bored, but you know in an hour they will be bleating and running full force, giving the cowboy a run for his money. 


The thing is, you simply can’t get bored at a rodeo. It is loud and stimulating. People shout, stomp and clap to get the animals worked up. Music fills the air, sweaty heroes are on display, junk food, good attitudes and smiling people abound. It isn’t sophisticated, but it is full of life. I just love it.


This year they sponsored a recreational event where local business owners could send a team of three into the ring for a special challenge. Each team was given a shirt, pair of pants and a hat, and they had to catch a young steer, bring it to the ground and dress it. The team that accomplished this first would win a prize. It was funny, because half of them couldn’t even catch the calf, and the ones that did had an awful hard time getting it to the ground, then figuring out how to dress it. All these mature adults were slipping around in the mud, shouting at each other and the cows. Meanwhile, a half dozen calves are darting to and fro as if they didn’t want to get anywhere near these inexperienced clods. Those that had the cow down were dodging its hooves and arguing about how to put a shirt on the dang thing. We had to laugh at the failed attempts of these three stooges groups, each trying vainly to tackle a baby cow and work as a team.


I was like, “LET’S DO THIS NEXT YEAR! We’ll have the coffee shop so we can be the Bean Tree Team. This gives me an excuse to buy a young cow! I’ll tell Mark we NEED a baby cow. . . . we have to practice dressing it.  . . for the sake of the biz, ya know. Yessiree, we could win this competition next year and that will put us on the map.”


“I’d like to see you catch one of those cows, Mom. Besides which, who would wrestle it to the ground? Not like you can talk Dad into doing that! (Denver had a point. It’s pinning the cow to the ground, grabbing it by the horns as it darts by full speed and twisting it to make it fall and roll that obviously takes a great deal of muscle and daring.)


“I’ll find someone with more ranching experience to join our team, just to do the cow tackling part. You can put the pants and shirt on it. I’ll stand by and place the cowboy hat on its head and collect the prize.” I said.


Denver crossed her arms. “You get to do the hat? Why can’t I get the hat?”


“I’m the boss. And I’ll be the one to remember to bring the hat.”


She laughed, knowing I was kidding, but from the look in her eye it was clear she wouldn’t put it past me to sign us up someday. Yes, this subject is not closed.  But then, my family knows you simply can’t take yourself too seriously if you want life to be fun.  Frankly, I’m not afraid to try anything once, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s mandatory to drag your kid into un-chartered waters because it gives you ammunition to tease them for the rest of their life. Priceless stuff, ya know. Anyway, we couldn’t look any more foolish than those mud-plastered, grinning, work buddies we were watching in the ring, if we tried.
 
It was a nice night. If you haven’t seen a rodeo, make it a point to go. Study the cow dressing – then, give me pointers if you can. Better yet, if you beg, I might even let you join my team. But I get to do the hat.
Yee haw.

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The Late Early

Posted on August 20, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

I am deeply, morbidly depressed. Melancholy beyond description.


Early died.  Herein, I guess I have to refer to him as “the late Early”.
 
Yesterday, when I went to let him out of the cage to roam freely around the barnyard, he seemed oddly quiet. He remained laying in his nest. I stroked him and picked him up for a bit of tender fawning, wondered why he was being so calm. Then I placed him back down, and watched him settle back into his comfortable position by the food bowl. Humm…. Odd.


Mark and I took his mother out to lunch, and the subject of peacocks came up. I gushed about my affinity for this bird and how he has touched my heart more than all the other animals I’ve been working with. I have no qualms about my favoritism.  Early is representative of many things. He is the first creature I hatched on my own in an incubator. The only surviving egg out of two big batches of peacock eggs, which makes him seem more precious and rare. Unlike the chickens, he is stoic and delicate – exotic as he gracefully struts about in his regal way. His tail is filling out and getting long. He looks otherworldly out there in the midst of everyday chickens. Early seems a tangible symbol that even though I’ve embraced this world of mud and outdoor living, I’ve kept an element of elegance in the package. I simply adored this bird, both because of his personality and the meaning I attach to his existence. 
 

But when we came home from lunch, he was dead, lying peacefully by his bowl. Clearly, he’d been sick and that was why he’d been so quiet that morning. I was grateful he hadn’t died because a dog attacked or he had been eaten by a opossum or fox. I don’t know if I could’ve handled that. Nevertheless, when a pet dies because it’s sick, I wonder if I could have prevented it. Did I feed him too much or the wrong combination of nutrients? Was the water I provided tainted? Was the cage unclean? I go above and beyond to create a clean environment for my animals, so it is unlikely I could have done anything more to keep him healthy.

Nevertheless, I feel so badly when I lose them. I was at least grateful he died peacefully, nestled in the place he considered home. Even though the pen was open and he could have crawled away to a quiet dark place, he felt secure there in that familiar place.


We inspected the bird, just to assure ourselves that there was no foul (fowl?) play, and speculated on what happened.


Mark said, “Maybe it’s the heat.”


The fact is, it’s been over 100 degrees outside for about two weeks now, and the animals have been suffering. I shaved my angoras, worried about them getting heat stroke, and I’ve been stress out about the llamas because they are dearly in need of a sheering (the man to do the job right t is out of town for one more week). But the fact is, Early has total freedom during the day and usually spends his time in the barn or under the workmen’s truck in the shade. Besides which, peacocks are tropical by nature. You have more problems keeping them healthy in the winter than the summer.


We decided he was probably just sick.


The peacock eggs in my incubator were due to hatch several days ago, but it looks like they were unsuccessful.  Bummer. If they hatched, I could imagine Early’s little soul winging it over to an egg – then it would be like he was staying with me. But no. I am a peacock-less girl now. The elegance in my world was fleeting. 


Mark said, “Don’t be sad. I’ll buy you some healthy, grown peacocks. No more guessing or dissapointment that way.”

“I don’t want adult peacocks,” I said, (This felt not unlike someone like telling a little kid you will buy them a puppy moments after they discover their dog has been hit by a car. Beloved pets are not so easily replaced when you have formed a relationship with them). “Adult peacocks are aloof because they don’t imprint on you.”


“I’ll get you young birds.”

“How do you expect to do that?”

“I’ll find them,” he said.

i don’t think he can, but I felt the sentiment was sweet.

Later that night, we heard the dogs suddenly barking like crazy. Mark gets up out of bed, gets his riffle and stomps out into the night.


I knew what he was doing. He thought that if something was coming to eat my ducks again, this time he was going to blow it away.


I said, “Don’t accidentally shoot Cheese or Crackers! Or the dogs!”

“Don’t worry.”


Now, I’ve never seen my husband shoot a gun, and I’m not convinced it’s as easy as he says, even though the gun he bought was chosen because it has a powerful aiming scope, and when he tried it, he hit the target every time. He says its user friendly. Nevertheless, the idea of my ballerina boy wielding a gun is too weird to accept. This is beyond the scope of my husband definition. I mean, the guy is multifaceted, true, but blowing little animal’s brains out doesn’t seem to fit his image.  I waited, wrestling with a sick feeling as I listened for the sound of that gun going off. I had pictures rolling around in my head of my husband hopping back into the bedroom because he’d shot off a toe or something.


I imagined he was thinking, “After the peacock, I’ll be damned if anything is going to pick off any more of my wife’s birds. Lord knows, it will send her into the brinks of despair – then who will do the laundry?” 

So, I took his willingness to get up out of bed to go hunt the poultry enemy as an act of love, even though it did feel like I was in an episode of the twilight zone.


It was a false call, thankfully. In the morning, the ducks were well. Out by the barn, something had eaten one of my guineas however. I haven’t mentioned it, but the five babies wandered away and became wildlife dinner days after we got them, but my adult guineas have been loyal, recognizing home and sticking close. Alas, now I am down to two game birds. If they are male and female, (I’ll check it out) I’m going to cage them together so they can have some babies. If not, I’ll wait until spring to try game hens again.


Mark said, “when the barn is finished, we will get the electricity installed and we can put motion sensors and lights out there. That will make a big difference and you won’t have to worry so much about predators.”

I’m sure he is right. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I’m having a bad poultry week now.
 

I am really upset about the peacock. It feels not unlike when a beloved dog dies – I miss him dreadfully. I even cried thinking about him, about his cute little peeping the day he hatched and how he reacted in such an excited, attached way whenever I came near the cage.  I know it is silly, but I formed an attachment to that dang bird – which I’m careful not to do with the farm animals (For practical reasons. After all, they are not like the domesticated pets in the house. Horses are the exception of course. And donkey. And the llamas. Oh, why not admit it; I grow attached to them all.)


I will miss the late Early. I’m not giving up on peacocks, but I will take my time finding new birds to give that touch of elegance to my existence. I will wait until the barn is finished and we have a perfect peacock pen built. And then I will look at young birds and see if they take to me. When I see one with that special look in his eye, I’ll think “bingo.” And I’ll probably name him just that.  


 

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Cheers

Posted on August 16, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

My kids love that I make alcoholic beverages now.

My twenty one year old, with way too enthusiasm over her newfound freedom to drink, says, “You have GOT to teach me how you make this stuff. If my MOM can do it, so can I.”

My underage son, says, “You have GOT to let me drink this stuff. Can’t be bad for me if my MOM makes it.”

But, it’s the little one who seems to truly marvel at the process. Every time a friend comes to the house, she takes them into the pantry to show off her mother’s big 6 gallon jugs of fermenting wine, then opens the cupboard to show off the jars of aging cordials. She likes to point out how the airlocks bubble, proving something interesting is happening inside, then goes on, professor-like, to explain how sugar and yeast make alcohol.

Her friends say, “Gee, that’s a lot of wine. Your mom must drink ALL THE TIME.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow and says, “With her help, you won’t get a reputation for being a great cook. You’ll be the new town drunk.”

“She doesn’t drink it. She MAKES IT.” Neva points out, with logic that, strangely enough, makes sense to her friends. “Besides which, she can’t drink it ’till later. Next year she’ll drink it all.”

Gee, thanks. It’s better for my reputation to have my drunkenness on temporary hold.


I seem to have a big bucket of something brewing by the door of the kitchen all the time now. Every time I pass that way, I pause to stir it a bit. This is tomato wine in the first stages – it is not as gross as the picture makes it look. When I am done clarifying it, it will look like a zinfindal and taste not unlike it too.


After a week or so, when the major fermenting is well on the way and I no longer need a wide air release to handle the gurgling, foaming liquid, I’ll transfer it to a carboy where it will continue to ferment for a month or so with a bacteria killing agent. Here’s my blackberry, strawberry and Pino Noir doing just that.


I feel empty myself when the primary fermenter is empty, so I start thinking “Hummm…… What’s next?” and I browse the recipe books to consider what is in season and appealing to my taste buds. Meanwhile, I re-rack the wine again to get rid of sediment that will make it bitter, readying it to wait a few months before finding a home in 30 traditional wine bottles. Because the wine is always dry at this point, I sweeten it (or not)  I am actually ready to bottle my first batch now. I bought a nifty floor model corker and collected bottles – even got a fancy bottle tree to hold the bottles bacteria free once they are sterilized. I bought a fancy computer program for making labels and picked a few styles of labels that seemed a good representation for the wines I am making. Yep, I’m ready to begin my Hendry Home Winery collection, only …..   I forgot to order corks. Duh. It’s always something, ya know. Anyway, when my rush order corks arrive in a few days, I’ll be ready to go. 


I am also having fun with cordials. I am focused on fruit cordials now, because I want to make everything in season (none of that cordial flavoring liquid for me – I like the old fashion real fruit and seasoning left to ooze flavors for a few weeks myself.) I’ve made Strawberry, Cherry, Peach, Prunelle (Plums), Blackberry, Pineapple, and Hypocras (a strawberry based cordial with orange rind made with a wine base).




I am making a mint cordial today. (Grasshoppers, here I come!) I am ready to move on to nuts, coco and coffee cordials too. Seems like fall-ish flavors to me. (Oh, and for your information, there are no recipes for pumpkin cordials – drat.) Some of these concoctions will be used as an after dinner parfait, some will be combined later with other ingredients to be turned into cream based cordials for gifts or holiday celebrations. Some will probably just be used to give a flavorful kick to my cooking, and some will be poured over homemade ice-cream as an adult dessert when friends come to dinner. I don’t know if I really have a use for them all. It’s the making, not the consuming, that I enjoy most. And displaying, of course. Half the fun is the bright, colorful array of pretty bottles filled with something yummy.

With all these flavorful, pretty liquids brewing, I had to consider what I wanted to put them in. I wanted my cordials to be as pretty bottled as they are in the jars, with the deep colors sparkling and advertising their rich flavor, so I went on E-bay and began collecting antique bottles. Some are cut in interesting, historic design. Some are colored, some clear. They went for only a few dollars, but with shipping, I had to watch what I bought. The bottles ended up 5 – 7 dollars a piece, which can add up and negate the thrill of making the brew for almost nothing.  Then, with bottles on the brain, I went to the flea market, and low and behold, I noticed old bottles everywhere. When you aren’t looking, you don’t notice something like dusty old bottles. But I did now. Suddenly, I was in old bottle heaven. I picked up the very same kind of bottles I was buying on E-bay, only this time I got them for only 50 cents or a buck! Heck, if I was smart, I’d buy them all and sell them on e-bay. That is probably what the other people are doing, and there is always a ding-bat like me willing to buy them. 


I now have a healthy collection of antique bottles. I don’t plan to stop making cordials until every one is filled. I always fill the little ones with left over cordial, so Denver has a little collection of her own. Denver is young enough that she still thinks drinking means snapping the top off a beer can – she doesn’t really understand the concept of cordials, so for her, it is all about the bottle. For me, the ex-bartender, a cordial means a world of designer drink possibilities.


My next problem is obviously going to be “where the heck will I put this stuff to age?”  Not like we have a wine cellar. We do have a small room in the basement with the water tank in it that I’ve used for hatching eggs. Since I now have a barn for my animal interests, I’m thinking of cleaning the room out good and setting up storage shelves. Bottles of wine must be stored on their sides, and since I will have about 120 of them in the next two months, a simple wine rack won’t suffice.  I’ll need Mark to help me design something. He will sigh when I ask. (Always a project to put him out, ya know.) But in this confined room, if my corks start exploding (beginner’s luck – it means the wine started refermenting in the bottle), nothing important will be ruined. And I’m extra careful, so hopefully, my wine will not start attacking anyone.

Anyway, today I am mulling over a name for my wine so I can begin making labels. I’m thinking the brand can be called HENDRY HOUSE (private reserve). Sounds lovely. Better sounding (though probably not as appropriate) as “Ginny’s  Rot Gut.” 

A rose by any name is still a rose, and while I doubt a pretty name will make my wine any more drinkable, the power of suggestion is something to consider. I am convinced friends will be more delighted to recieve a bottle of something that at least LOOKS fancy and professional.

Speaking of which, I haven’t made rose pedal wine yet…… and since my tomato wine is about ready to rack – that means an empty bucket. Can’t have that! Do you think Mark will notice if he comes home tomorrow and his 10 prize rose bushes in the front of the house are picked empty? I’ll blame it on the deer. That seems to be my best overall excuse for most of what goes wrong around here.

Cheers!



P.S.  A few updates:

* Something ate 3 of my five ducks. I’m left with the white one and one Appleate (the pretty spotted one which now has a green head.  Pissed me off good. I also have one brown duck.  I bought another batch of duck eggs just so this winter my ducks will have a flock – safety in numbers don’t ya know. These will be my first barn raised critters.

* Yesterday, my peacock eggs were due to hatch. I stare at them twenty times a day. Nothing! I’ve got a bad feeling about this potential hatching. Drat. I might have to change Early’s name to “Only”.

*Barn is coming along nicely. I’m so excited. Here is the picture at this point. Actually, this is a few days old. They’ve finished the roof and are now on the doors. My farrier made fun of me because it is such a nice barn. He said, “I suppose it does have air conditioning…. where you putting the couch?” These good ole boys sure like making fun of me. Ha, well, I give as good as I get.

Last but not least, Mark just took a week long broom making class at the Campbell Folk School. At first I thought “Brooms?” but when I saw his work, I understood the appeal. He puts an artistic twist into everything he touches, and his work is, as always, magnificent. The teacher told him he should sell them – they are of a quality you see in art galleries – his brooms certainly surpass what most students do at the start. No surprise to those of us who know him.

Handmade brooms go for 80-600 dollars, and Mark’s are on the upscale end. These one of a kind brooms are particularly lovely as wedding gifts and home warming gifts (real estate agents give them to people buying expensive, fancy cabins) because the history of the broom and the symbolism is very interesting. Mark will include brooms in our artwork in the new shop and he is doing research to include a descriptive folklore explaination of the meaning of each broom. Here are a few of his creations – the first is on a naturally shed deer antler-  the other handles he gathered in the woods and finished from odd bits of stick and limb.\





He made more, but these are the ones I have pictures of. He gave me the big one above left for sweeping the kitchen floor. Like I’m gonna use it to sweep! Get real. I happen to know how difficult these are to make and how special such a broom is. He is particularly good with devising interesting handles, don’t you think? But then, he is good with wood. He has been trying to come up with a name for his hand turned bowls, brooms and baskets. He was toying with “Dancingwood”, which I thought was appropriate, but I think he is leaning towards “Woodweaver”. Soon he will settle on some artesian title or another, and he’ll build a website on this division of craftsman products that will be featured in our gallery. I’ll keep you posted.

*Last, but not least, yesterday, our offer on a plot of land directly across from the Blue Ridge Scenic Train station, was accepted. We will close shortly – as soon as the FLEX is finally closed (keeps getting postponed). We are now beginning the process of planning and preparing to build the afore mentioned business. Gosh, it is exciting to break new ground and venture places you’ve never been. Scary, but exciting. I loved our many years in dance, but I don’t miss it. Especially in light of society changes and some of the people now involved in the business  – I keep hearing disgusting news about one former employee particularily, but that is another issue and not one I wish to address. Ick’s me out and makes me ashamed of her.) I’ll share our exciting gallery vision eventually, but that is subject for a blog all its own. It’s a BIG idea – different in the best of ways.

Now – I must go attend my bees. I’m overdue.

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Gardening this year

Posted on August 14, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

Last week, I spent three hours picking little yellow, hairy bugs off of bean plants. Organic gardening – It’s a romantic ideal, but in reality, it’s yucky.


I couldn’t even get my little nature loving daughter to help.

She took one look and said, “This is gross. Besides which, I hate beans. You’re on your own with this one, Mom.”

This from a girl that, in most cases, likes bugs. Don’t ya hate it when your loved ones abandon you in a time of need? For all that I tried to explain how noble and important organic gardening is, she wouldn’t be swayed. So much for my Tom Sawyer talent.


Nevertheless, I am all about living true to what I believe, so I was willing to spend an afternoon all alone picking little yellow hairy bugs off of holey, half eaten leaves, because it means I can feed my family fresh green beans, sans chemicals or preservatives, only hours after they have been picked.


Our garden is almost finished producing for this year, other than the tomatoes. Gardening is sad in a way, because you tend the plants and without even knowing it, you form a relationship with them. Then, suddenly, they shrivel and die, almost before you have time to say your good-byes. It seems anticlimactic for something that has served you so well and brought you nourishment and joy.  There is always next year, I guess, and new plant-friendships to be made. Besides which, to be honest, when it comes to the work, I am not sorry to see an end to this project. Living in tune with the seasons makes every month feel new and different. I love that. so, I am ready for some cold weather so I will come indoors and do more writing for awhile. I didn’t get that degree for nothing, even though I’ve enjoyed a break from writing work.


It was a dismal year for gardening – partially because we missed much of the term when most of the pivotal planting and preparation for a garden has to be done, and partially because of the bad weather. We were working with some serous obstacles. We had to be in Florida four times during April and May (planting season.) I bought strawberry plants twice, and both times they died in the garage while we were unexpectedly called down to Flex for last ditch efforts to iron out the mess. We bought seeds and all kinds of herbs that didn’t make it into the ground due to an impromptu trip too. Frustrating. Then there is the fact that Georgia had a late frost, followed by a drought, so everyone agrees it’s been a bad year for gardeners. That, at least, alleviates my feeling totally incompetent as a beginner veggie planter.


Some of our efforts fell flat for no explainable reason. We planted cantaloupes and the plants flourished and flowered, the bees had a feast, but nary a melon grew. Humm…. Don’t know why. We planted corn, and it’s coming up now, but it is sort of skinny compared to our friend’s corn and has a few worms. I’ll pick bugs, but I draw the line at worms. I’ll do some organic corn gardening research on that one for next season.  All our carrots and beets went kaput too. We think the dogs dug them up before the seeds took root because we kept seeing seeds scattered on top of the soil. We’d stick them back under, but the next day, they’d be lying on the dirt again. Damn dogs.


But our squash plants proved to be overachievers! It got to a point where Kent no longer said, “What are we having for dinner, Mom?” and instead said, “What will we be having with out zucchini tonight, Mom?” I put zucchini in bread, cookies, and brownies. I sautéed it, stuffed it, and fried it. It made it into soups and blanched and froze a dozen bags of it.


Our lettuce did well – still going strong. I often walk down to the garden with a big bowl and scissors and cut lettuce for our evening salad. I mix the fresh dark green leaves with walnuts and feta cheese and it’s heavenly.
We also had a huge bean windfall. They just kept coming. Fresh green and yellow beans by the bucketful had to be harvested every third day or so. I was up several nights till 11:00 blanching and freezing beans so we will have our own garden fresh beans on the Thanksgiving table (and many other nights besides). I even tried pickling some beans – not that anyone here will like pickled beans, but I was in pickling mode and couldn’t snap out of it. We have dozens of jars of pickles now in a variety of styles – traditional dill pickles, bread and butter pickles, sweet garlic dill pickles, and lemon dill pickles (I figure, any food that gets my husband to pucker up is worth making.) We will have a taste test in a month or so to determine which recipes we like. It is not so much about the pickles as about the process, you know. And besides which, I’ve never had a pickle fest. Plenty of pumpkin fests. This will be different. Gotta try everything once

Then, there is our ….. um…… globe thing.

Here it is a week ago – it is plenty bigger now:



We thought it was a pumpkin, but it doesn’t’ seem to be turning orange. So we decided it was a watermelon, but it isn’t turning green. Humm… It doesn’t look like a gourd. It looks like a honeydew melon, but we didn’t plant those. You see, Mark decided to fill the burn pit after I burned down the forest (for obvious reasons) and when he was done, he just tossed some seeds for pumpkins, watermelons and gourds on the dirt. We didn’t expect anything to take really, but a vine did pop up out of the dry dirt, despite the drought and the fact that our hose doesn’t reach that far. It flowered. The bees visited and made such a racket you could hear them echoing inside those big flowers ten feet away. But only one globe thingy came from it. And it keeps getting bigger and bigger. We stand at the edge of that dirt pit and stare- speculating. I guess we should bring it in and cut it open, but I can’t bear to see our globe come to an end. And secretly, I’m still hoping it will turn orange and be our Halloween pumpkin.

We have learned the subtleties of Georgia planting this season, and learned about the deficiencies in our land. It is hard to be a gardening star when you don’t know your soil. So we will plow the garden under in a few weeks, and then, we plan to lime the shit out of it. Speaking of shit…… I will be moving my chicken manure and other goodies from the pasture out there too. We are expanding the size of the garden, plotting out an herb garden and other perennial areas. We have big plans for turning our half hearted attempts at growing things this year into a glorious banquet next season. Next year’s success begins now. I hope we will be plowing an area and treating it for a future vineyard too. I’m still hot for that one even though it takes a few years to get going.

While gardening is a lot of work, it is soulful, fulfilling work that feels good in every way. I have strong feelings about eating locally now, thanks to much of what I’ve been reading about health and our environment. I love the challenge of using all that free food from just beyond our backdoor. It forces me to try new recipes and learn new things in the kitchen. Mostly, I love being outside. I love sticking my hands in the dirt, and listening to the birds. I love how the guineas will wander over and eat a few bugs (anything to alleviate my task is good) I marvel at how things grow and what they look like in their natural form (which is NOT covered in cellophane at the grocery store, oddly enough). I get a kick out of walking just outside my door with an empty bowl and returning moments later with it overflowing with the makings of dinner.  I even love the look of the garden. It is alive and ever-changing. Most people place a scarecrow in the midst. My neighbor hangs a dead crow from a stick (don’t ask). In our case, we set our knight in rusty armour (formerally from our Sarasota Orchid garden) out there to watch over the garden like a gallant man of honor. He seems sort of out of place, and yet he suits the enviroment perfectly and adds character. Kind of like us – former dancers plopped down in Georgia living a hybred country/artistic life .  

Anyway, when our garden stopped producing enough to keep me busy, I went out to the farmers market and BOUGHT home grown tomatoes – boxes of them – to play with. I’m not about to let the season end without having my fill of kitchen exploits.

This is what I brought home this weekend (to go with the 12 tomatoes from our garden) 


I made a big vat of tomato wine – which sounds horrible, but actually they say it makes a fine blush that is indistinguishable from grape blushes.

Then, I made homemade spaghetti sauce. It took me an hour just to blanch and peel this many tomatoes. Then I spent an hour squeezing those slimy suckers to get the juice out to assure a thick sauce (the juice went into the wine). Mark woke up a few hours later (I get up early for these kinds of projects – he sleeps in) He took one look at the tomato-splattered kitchen and his tomato-splattered wife, and the heaping pot of squished tomatoes, and said, “That looks like a lot of work. I sure hope it is good sauce.”

“It BETTER be. I’m making this for YOU,” I said. (Mark is always talking about how much better food is fresh from the garden and that is one of the reasons I am so enthusiastic about the “grow it and cook it” concept.


I thought when we began this idea of growing food (we talked about it the day we decided to buy 50 acres) that,(gardening genius he is) he would be out there helping to weed, pick bugs and harvest this stuff while I was on kitchen duty. I wanted to pick a bit, but thought my part would be in cooking, canning and serving the food. But it has been more of a one woman show this year. Except for the initial tilling and once time of tilling between the rows (and one day I MADE him pick beans with me) he hasn’t bothered with the garden. He has a habit of staring at the plants and saying things like, “Somebody will have to pick those bugs off by hand,” or “Somebody needs to put some food under those plants if we expect them to produce well- it’s in the garage, by the way.”

He hasn’t figured out that he qualifies as somebody yet. So far, I’ve been the family somebody. Next year, I hope somebody turns into everybody.

Where was I? Oh yeah . . tomatoes. For hours I cooked down the tomatoes with garden fresh peppers, basil, oregano, parsley, garlic etc… added red wine and red wine vinegar, salt, and other goodies. In the end I had 6 huge containers of sauce to freeze for later. I thought I should have had at least 60, but the dang things cook down so much. Anyway, I still have tomatoes from our garden to make another batch – and this pot we will eat fresh. This wholesome, organic, eating local thing is good for you, but it does take a commitment. Not that I’m complaining. It’s fun. But it is work too. Nevertheless, at meals, it’s all worthwhile. I figure a bit of pasta, some homemade sourdough bread (my other new favorite thing to make now that I have a sourdough starter gurgling in the kitchen) and some garden lettuce made into a salad and I’m the next best thing on food TV –  the Little Home on the Prairie chef.

I guess it is just another way to feel grounded and connected. In a world where life has become a blur of malls and fast food and consumerism, it is nice to slow down and do something that requires peaceful effort in quiet, breezy, solitude. Eating this way, you feel cleansed – cleansed by the healthy food, and the fact that you know where it came from and what it represents. It assures everyone sits together to break bread and share fun dinner conversation too. All in all, I’m willing to tackle the little yellow bugs for that.
 
    

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