This is a Pied peafowl. It is sort of a hybrid of a blue peacock and a white one, and considered a new species. You can see the bird is primarily a traditional blue peacock, but it has slashes of white in the tail and on the body. Sometimes, these birds have glorious white breasts, or they have big streaks of white along the tail giving them an even more mottled look. This particular peacock recently had eggs, which were thrust onto e-bay for a quick one day sale.
Of course, I bought them.
My two pied peafowl eggs should arrive tomorrow, where I will carefully nestle them into my incubator and begin the 31 day watch once again, becoming a slave to turning them four times a day and checking the temperature and humidity. I figure it’s now or never – or at least, it’s now or I have to wait until next spring due to seasonal complications. Early needs a spouse (and a spare) and I can’t expect him to wait a full year for some warm feathered friend to nuzzle with this winter, can I? This time, I will set up the incubator in my office so I can spend more quality time with the eggs. I’ve just started re-writing the first novel I ever wrote . They say the first book is like a pancake, good for seasoning the pan, but really it is best to just toss it in the trash and chalk it up to a learning experience. The problem is, I still like the story and want to give it some attention- perhaps a few peacock embryos in the room will be good luck – for us both.
While I was at it, I made another bid for four additional “surprise breed” eggs for a different seller. This person keeps blue, white, purple and pied peacocks in one big cage so he can’t determine which eggs come from which birds. It will be a surprise! I like the idea of that- a potential hatch and the anticipation of waiting for the birds to feather to determine just what breed they are. My bidding will go on for a few days, but I am only going at it half heartedly. When I told Mark that two new eggs would arrive tomorrow, he rolled his eyes and said, “Why don’t you just buy a chick so you know you have something for your investment.”
He doesn’t get it. I’m not buying peacocks. I’m buying the experience of hatching peacock eggs, trying my hand at raising a new pet from seed, and forming a special relationship with the bird due to it. Perhaps this is just a romantic’s view, but that’s how I see it. Anyway, we are building a big ole’ peacock pen, and it seems a waste to do all that for one young bird (and his chicken buddy).
Early is doing fine, by the way. I moved him out by the chickens to a bigger, makeshift pen. There is a small support beam in the corner, and he perches there as high as he can. Peacocks like to perch far up off the ground, which makes sense considering the length of their tails when fully grown. It will take Early three years to mature completely (it will be a while until I can confirm that he is indeed male). But he still looks wonderful to me, snow white and strutting with pride despite his puny size. (I don’t have the camera today, or I’d post a pix).
Anyway, I’m diving back into the peacock hatching game, hoping for better luck this time. When at first you don’t suceed……. drive your family crazy until you do.
Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock
Pied Pals
the Art of Spending a Day well
Yesterday, Mark and I found ourselves in that rare and wonderful state of having no kids. Neva was spending the night with a friend and Kent was invited to Six Flags with Denver. There was a time when a quiet house meant our fancy would immediately turn to romance, but in this case we gleefully said, “Let’s DO something.” (Sad isn’t it.)
I’ve been wanting to go to Atlanta to the High Museum of Art every since we moved here, a concept that gets painful winces from the kids. The museum is currently featuring an exhibit from the Louvre in Paris – a three year cultural exchange with different elements of the exhibit arriving each October. I keep telling Mark that if he doesn’t get me there to see it, he will be honor bound to take me to France to see the exhibit in its entirety. We actually enjoy art museums, so he was the one who suggested we take advantage of the day to go. I was thrilled.
I happen to adore European painting and sculpture from the sixteenth through eighteenth century, because not only is it romantic and soulful, but I’m fascinated that the work has been preserved so long, through wars and changes in social attitudes and just physically surviving wear and tear and decay. Further, I’m impressed with artists doing such miraculous work considering the limitations of the times. They didn’t have electricity to light their way, glasses to help them see if they were older than 40, factories producing canvases or acrylic paints. They didn’t even have dyes to color those paints, but used ingredients from the earth. The tapestries are so detailed with such fine threads, I can’t help but stare, imagining someone sitting on a hard stool set upon a dirt floor, leaning over a hand made loom, threading the machine hour after painstaking hour with delicate, hand spun wool threads which already represent hundreds of hours of creative labor. I stare at the marble statues, so elegant and sexual, imagining a man chipping away without power sanders or progressive tools to do the job. Heck, the printing press wasn’t even invented to provide written instruction – each artist learned from others spending years as apprentices and/or a student supported by the crown.
People did these stunning works with only base methods at their disposal, producing representations of humanity and their culture in such painstakingly detail – at a time when even the simple act of making dinner or getting something to wear was a huge, cumbersome task. The idea that mankind made art a priority back when survival alone took huge effort, says allot about the role of art in their society. They were not nourished with an expansive arrangement of foods to provide balanced vitamins as we are today– and in fact, may have been riddled with disease. And their fingers were no doubt frozen half the year, slick with sweat the other half considering the barbaric living conditions of the world.
The respect artists earned (and the cushier life) says a great deal about the social castes and the imbalance in wealth too. My mind spins with curiosity about how we got from a starting the point where we were all equal Neanderthals pounding each other over the head with a club, to a world where select individuals became Monarchs making the rules and living so extravagantly it makes Bill Gates look common, while the masses were poor, lived a subsistence lifestyle and accepted their inferiority to the ruling class.
History reveals just how strange humans are at the core.
Anyway, we enjoyed the exhibit. Bought a season’s pass so we could take our time and see the entire museum over the course of months. We did check out about two floors of the museum in addition to the Louvre exhibit. One floor was contemporary art – neither of us like that style much. We simply can’t appreciate a huge white room that features four canvases’ that are nothing but squares painted the primary colors. I mean, I can read the meaning of the display and understand the symbolism intellectually, but I don’t buy it as true art. If contemporary art is something I can do without training or talent, it just doesn’t impress me. There were LOTS of pieces in this area of the museum that look less complicated or developed than the work our former preschool students produced. Contemporary art is just not our thing, I guess.
I love early American Art, with bronze sculptures of American Indians and paintings of the west and Victorian furniture and glassware and art. But just as we were enjoying this wing, the museum closed. Sigh, next time.
On our way out, a renowned Atlanta jazz band was playing under a canapé for museum guests. It was part of a “family day” celebration at the museum. Since it was starting to drizzle, we ducked under the tent, took a seat and listened for awhile. The only thing I love more than old art is great, vintage jazz. I was in heaven, but a half hour later, the set was over and the band started packing up. It was time to head for the car.
On our way home, we were going through Marietta, so we met up with some good friends for Dinner – thus rounding out the art theme of the day. The wife, Patti, is a basket artist (we met her when she was our teacher in a class at the Campbell school, but she eventually became a good buddy of Mark’s. They go to basket conventions together now and share all kinds of enthusiasm for wood and basket art. She is taking a soap making class at the Campbell school with me in Sept., but really, she is Mark’s best buddy. She introduces him to others as “my twin” which is comical because he is 6/2” and square, and she is 5/2” and round. ) Her husband, Mark, happens to be the one and only artist who draws Spiderman for Marvel Comics. He actually travels the globe to sign autographs and represent and promote the company and their current projects. He primarily stays home drawing all the time. It takes effort to get him to go out – usually this involves luring him with the potential game of pool and/or a cold beer – his obsessions. His primary obsession, however, is his work as a cartoonist – yesterday he mentioned that he is happy his character isn’t someone lowly like Stretch man, but a bonafide superhero everyone knows and loves. (And no, the hit movie did not boost sales or secure his job in any way – I couldn’t help but ask.)
We had a nice time. I couldn’t help but ask him about this work (which I’m told he likes to talk about, thank goodness, because it is an endless fascination to me and while I think it bores his wife, I can’t resist asking him questions). We had a rousing conversation about the new Harry Potter movie (we all don’t like the new Dumbledore) and talked about their last trip to Italy (Mark and I are going to Italy next fall,– we were considering France, but have heard such negative things about the local’s attitude towards Americans, we’ve decided it is probably not the best place to go for a FIRST trip abroad. We’ll wait until we are more travel savvy to tackle that one).We talked of raising kids and grandkids and our dreams and ambitions and everyday likes and dislikes. It was natural and simple and lovely – but we stayed too long considering the long line awaiting tables outside. Oops.
Anyway, it was a good day – good art, good friends, good music and a good meal. Laughter, wonder and NO KIDS. Doesn’t get any better.
Today – well, that is a different story. I’m cleaning up after animals, and weeding and cooking (that part is not bad) and doing laundry. But somehow I am distracted so the work goes by with ease. I am thinking about Louis the IVX through VIX and how spoiled Marie Antoinette was and how she must have been frightened and indignant and furious when the lowly peasants dragged her up to the gallows to decapitate her. I’m thinking of those tapestries and the meaning in their design, and wishing the nameless people who made them (and some with names we learned) could have known how, hundreds of years after they died, their creations hang in a place of honor where thousands of people admire them – and not just royalty. Bet it would have made them proud.
History is better than any fictional story – because if you really consider the details, not just the general facts, it is simply a collection of stories of individual people. And their stories are so authentic and remarkable it moves you beyond description. At least, that’s what it does for me.
B & B
Every Thursdays from 6-9, throughout the summer and into the early fall, a park down the street from us features what they call “Pick’ in in the Park”. This park runs along a curve in the Ocoee river and has park benches, picnic tables, a playground, and roofed pavilions. Most impressive is the rolling river and graveled walkway beside the water. It is a quiet, simple place with striking beauty, more remarkable because you never see more than a few people (if that) at the park. Except Thursdays, of course.
“Thursday Pick’ in in the Park” is simply a night area musicians are invited to come play. No group is formally scheduled as entertainment for the community. No one puts out jars to take donations or advertises a CD or upcoming performance either. Yet many musicians come, just because they love music and camaraderie and the informal audience. They show up with banjos and fiddles and guitars and what have you (the occasional mouth harp and washboard show up too) gather wherever they land and jam. Sometimes, the musicians all gather in one area around the pavilion for one big makeshift band. Other times, they form various clumps around the park, so you can walk from one end to the other and hear different groups or even a solo folk guitar. People gather around any area where music is being made. A couple hundred people show up with lawn chairs and blankets. Kids run in the grass playing, dogs chase balls into the river as they play fetch; people spread picnics on the grass. It is very casual. You could swear you’ve just been dropped into Pleasantville.
When we go, I always pack a picnic dinner. Last night, we spread out blankets and I set out the food. Neva was playing with neighbor kids in the river, catching crawdads. Denver and her boyfriend had not yet arrived. Mark and I were sipping coffee and enjoying the music. I couldn’t help notice people kept staring at our “station”. I wondered what was up with that, because lots of people picnic here. Yet we kept getting the “double take” look. Finally, it was made clear when one fellow walked by with his dog and chuckled and said, “That is one pretty presentation!”
I looked at our picnic and saw what others were seeing. I had made saucy chicken wings and tortellini and a big ring of deviled eggs with fresh cherries heaped in the middle. We had peaches and cheese. The food was so colorful, glistening in the early evening sun that it looked like an article out of Southern Living Magazine. It happened to be a very pretty picnic set up. Yes, we have landed in Pleasantville, everybody.
We ate and our pretty display was soon nothing but empty Tupperware. Then, my neighbor walked by. She told me that last night a bear was on her porch. She just wanted to let me (and my chickens) know. Heck with the chickens. It’s my angoras I will worry about –Last summer a bear tore open my bunny hutch and ate all my rabbits. It was a devastating carnal explosion, with wood and wire ripped not at the seams, but broken apart like a tornado had come through, only it was massive bear hands doing the damage. There was blood and bunny fur everywhere. Pissed me off.
Yesterday, I moved the peacock and his chicken buddy down near the chicken house, as a transitional move while I build a formal, permanent pen. I thought the chickens free ranging might go up to the cage and say hello so Early can begin making friends. Now, I have visions of Early becoming bear fast-food. Do I need to mention how this will set off a war between me and Yogi?
The worst part is that I like bears and I think seeing one on my own porch would be about the coolest thing on earth. So I have mixed feelings about it all. I just don’t relish the idea of any creature thinking my animals are an all you can eat buffet. A bear also stole my horse mineral block. Twice. Those blocks weigh about thirty pounds and I can barely lift them, but the bears pick them up and walk away with them like they are Twinkies I set out for dessert. Damn bears.
Then, there is the issue of my bees. My beehive is set up only two hundred feet from my neighbor’s porch. Bears happen to be the number one enemy of bees because they tear apart the hives and eat every spec of honey inside. (This is why they tell you not to wear black when working with bees, because the insects automatically sting anything black as an instinctual move against bears.) It would take me another year to get a beehive started due to the seasonal nature of this project. As it is I have to wait a full year until I can harvest any honey because it takes a full season for them to build stores and create a home of honeycomb for themselves. I have a second hive ready to set up, but until I build up my bee population to divide them or order new bees in January before the suppliers are all sold out, growth in this project is on hold. If a bear comes along and wipes out my bee playground, I’ll not take it lightly.
As such, I am on bear alert now. I will have to have a discussion with my rabbits today and tell them to lay low and get ready to run if need be. I’ll tell my bees to keep quiet and stop buzzing so much and to get their stingers ready. I will tell my dog, Maxine (who happens to be a plot hound, a breed bred to chase and fight bears) to stop snoring on the porch and to start paroling the grounds. She will ignore me, or course, but still, I can try.
All I know is that we have plenty of succulent blackberries around. A polite bear could do fine with those. I’ll hope this is a polite bear.
When we got home from Pick’ in in the Park yesterday, it was still light out (love those long summer days) and Mark suggested we stop the car to check out the garden and how it was doing. I had spent the morning out there feeding the plants, weeding. I’d brought in a few squash, but that was all that was out there. I told him there wasn’t much to see. Nevertheless, he goes out with the kids.
He is out there about two seconds when he says, “Um….. why didn’t you pick the beans?”
“What beans? We don’t have any beans.”
He bent down and came up with a handful of wax and green beans. “Do you even know what a bean looks like on a plant?”
Obviously not.
With squeals of excitement, Kent and Neva started helping Mark pick beans. I joined in feeling rather like the bumbling garden idiot. We were all oohing and ahhing about how cool it is to pick beans right off a bush. Everyone was making fun of the fact that I would have ignored them until the wildlife ate them all or they shriveled up and died on the plant with my savvy gardening instinct. Yeah, well I didn’t see you out here this morning gently tending these plants, so give me a break. Besides which, I think they just “appeared” magically in the last few hours while we were out. I’m quite certain these beans were not here this morning.
In other words, who you calling a garden idiot?
I rest my point!
While we were expressing our excitement and picking furiously, Denver drove up (to retrieve some laundry she had left yesterday for the Mommy Laundry Fairy). We shouted for her to come out and see! We wanted her to share the fun. We said, “Come pick some beans! This is so cool!”
Her boyfriend blinked drolly and said, “I’ve picked beans before. Who hasn’t? What is wrong with your family? I think their enthusiasm is just a way of making fun of country people.”
Denver said, “No, they respect and admire country people. Tbhey are not making fun of anyone. They are genuinely thrilled with picking beans. You know how I know that? Because I want to pick some too!” And she ran out and we all picked beans together marveling at how bean plants produce, looking with furrowed brows at the beetle holes on leaves, checking out the other plants.
Her boyfriend stood by sighing, bored, thinking we city folk are too queer for words. Denver picked a squash with as much excitement and tentative concern as she displayed the first time she drove a car. We walked over to see the pumpkin vine all in bloom and talked about how exciting it will be if we can carve a jack-o-lantern from our very own garden pumpkin this year. My mind was swimming with pumpkin recipes (I happen to be the queen of pumpkin cooking – no joke.)
The laughter and excitement the family was sharing was truly refreshing. I thought of how only two years ago, living in a different environment, my kids were “too cool” for just about everything. Then, designer clothes and electronic devices ruled their existence. Now, they have fun in unabashed, down to earth ways and they care little about what is “cool”. (Well, we are not in school at this moment which, let’s face it, might make a difference.) Nevertheless, they see the wonder in life basics and suddenly have respect for the earth, our food sources, and family time. How I appreciate the opportunity to stand right beside them when they discover new things and react with unaffected delight. Between you and me, I was really more focused on that then the beans.
We came in and Kent took a picture of last night’s harvest to add to our other fine family memories, like vacation photos. (I included the berries we picked on a short four wheel drive too, just for the color contrast). At eleven last night (inspired by the bean discovery) I made two batches (19 jars) of blackberry jam. (Now, Chuck can rest assured he will have jam with his pickles when next I go to Florida, Patti.) I’m on top of the jam thing, so I’m going back to seeking ways to preserve beans – pickling, canning, freezing … hummmm what exciting things can I lean to do with beans other than cook them now – ‘cause at the rate they’re coming, no normal human consumption could keep up. I am going to buy a food dehydrator this week. I want to try drying bananas and apples to make my own health mixes. Speaking of which, when WILL those dang tomatoes start turning red?
I keep wondering if I should try a batch of fried green tomatoes. Made a pretty cool movie, but I can’t imagine eating them. My lifestyle may be “country” but my palate is still “city”. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Growth begins with keeping an open mind and not making judgments on things you do not have first hand experience with.
Anyway, that is the Hendry country update. Bears and beans. Boo-ya!
Tell tale nails
My fingernails (lovely tapered French manicured tips) are black around the edges and no matter of scrubbing seems to help. I was pulling weeds in the misty rain for two hours in the early morning. Two days ago my nails were stained blue due to blackberry picking and wine making. The day before, I banged one so hard on a horse bucket, it almost pulled off and my finger started bleeding underneath the nail. Cussed to high heaven. The horses barely blinked. Guess they are used to my temper.
When I went to have the nail repaired, my dear manicurist, Tracy, shook her head and said, “What you always do that nails so bad?’ (she is Vietnamese and struggles with English. Nevertheless, I ask her questions about her life and how she came to America and fell into the nail profession all the time. She has made an important appearance in my thesis novel due to these conversations.)
I shrugged and said, “Hobbies.”
At this, she lifted an eyebrow. I know she was thinking I should take up knitting. She’d be right if I really wanted to look polished all the time. Of course, another alternative is to simply stop trying to keep up with nail grooming and accept my inevitable farmer’s hands. I do trim my nails “active length” but nevertheless, every week I come into the shop looking like I tried to claw my way up a mountain.
If I was practical I’d stop primping and having my nails done every week – at least in the summer when my activities revolve so heavily on outdoor work. But I can’t seem to make that jump into “au natural”. I think I have some latent concern that the next thing you know I’ll be forgoing makeup and stop shaving my legs. I’ll never “go country” or organic in that way, even if I end up a hermit in the woods. The fact is, I don’t care if no one but my Donkey sees me, I want to look nice. After all, I’m still me, just in another place doing new things.
We went tubing the other day, and I apologized to Mark that I was going without taking a shower first or putting on make-up. He rolled his eyes and said, “Are you kidding. It’s tubing. I’d think you were weirdo if you came looking any different than this. No one is going to see you anyway.”
He often says things like this, making fun of me because I’ll be out in a pasture shoveling dung with pretty jewelry on, but I always think, YOU see me, you big boob. That counts. I was relieved when Diane showed up with her hair all frizzy sticking up out of a headband. In Georgia, every day is a good hair day for lucky me. That counts for something when all the other feminine elements have passed the “mystic” phase and gone on to “mysteriously missing”.
I have considered taking a few more pottery classes to refine my basic skills. I sometimes imagine getting a wheel and perhaps building an outdoor brick firing kiln. We certainly have the space and I adore hand thrown pots and the remarkable possibilities of clay. But honestly, the thing about learning pottery that was difficult for me was taking off my nails. My fingertips felt raw and they hurt with the constant pressure of spinning clay against the bare fingertips. My acrylic nails are not just for looks, they are a strong protectant (and they are good for prying stickers off of things or opening flip top cans). Besides which, I just don’t feel pretty without nice hands. Pretty is as pretty feels. I’ll conveniently avoid the question, How pretty are nails when they are rimmed in black, stained blue, or they have been broken by feed bags, saddles and cages?
Pretty enough for me, apparently.
I am on my way to teach Kathy this morning. We haven’t had a lesson in three weeks due to my graduation. I’m looking forward to seeing her and catching up. I bought her a Boston shirt and a few new workbooks. She was invited to lecture in the jail last week, and I can’t wait to hear how that went. Seeing her progress, watching her life improve, always gives me a jolt of joy. I’ll run my grubby little fingers along the pages of a book and listen to her faltering recitation of the lines with true pleasure.
It will be a symbolic reminder of a simple truth – You can’t wait for someone else to get a job done if it is important to you. Sometimes it is best to just dive in, get your hands dirty, and do what has to be done. That is how you make a difference in the world. For you and for others.
Happy birthday Sonia.
Mark sent me a message asking if I wanted to join him at the Daily Grind (our one semi-local wine and coffee shop that we like to visit for wine tastings and such) to hear a band play on Friday.
A night out? Like a date? Are you kidding? Do I get to get gussied up? Yippee.
The band is called the Hot Poker Dots (very classy) and here is their myspace site
http://www.myspace.com/theredhotpokerdots
I particularly like the song “Happy Fuck’in Birthday To You.” I’m just a girl who can’ t resist country sentiment.
Where, I wonder, was that song when I was scrounging the universe for Birthday Party songs for FLEX ballerina parties.
Today happens to be Mark’s mom’s birthday. The family is coming over for dinner – I’m making a spectacular Chocolate Marvel cake with raspberries. (I traditionally use Birthday’s as an excuse to make something fancy regardless of people’s diets or desires to keep things “simple” – yuck, simple is for sissies). I’ll serve it while playing the Hot poker Dots song…. well….. maybe I’ll just sing it in my head.
So, I’m off to make a fancy dinner. If it was six weeks from now, I’d be devising this meal all around the pickles. Principal, ya know. Instead I’m going to make it more in line with Sonia’s favorite things – strip steaks and all the trimmings. Fancy side dishes. Lots of chocolate.
For entertainment, I’ll drag everyone into the mud room to see my Pinot Noir percolate as the gaseous fumes eek out of the fermenting pot (makes an exciting bubble action in the release valve). That 5 gallon tank will be sitting there for months, so might as well introduce it to the clan. If everyone begs, I’ll even allow them to stir the blackberry wine, which is as dark as oil and kind of scary. Hummmm……….. we’ll see.
Gee – I hope I don’t poison anyone during my Renaissance of new discovery. Might almost put a damper on the creative kitchen fun. . . Almost.
La, la, la. Happy fuck’in birthday, Sonia.
Surf’s Up
You may ask, what do the Hendry kids do for fun now that they are living in a place without a mall or a beach?
You’d be amazed.
Yesterday, Kent and a friend were hanging out for “band practice”. They have a band now, and honestly, they are getting pretty good. Later, they asked if they could go four wheeling. I said “Sure, if you will stop and pick a few blackberries.” They didn’t mind devoting a half hour to “the cause” if I’d promise to give Jake a bottle of wine later (for his family, of course) so we came to a bargain. Then, the boys proved their manhood, by returning with a huge bowl of juicy blackberries and only one hornet sting. It allowed me to make my blackberry wine – VERY labor intensive with 30lbs of blackberries, 11 pounds of sugar, 1o pounds of boiled banannas and …. well, that is another story.
Then, Kent said, “Mom, we’re going surfing. Be back later.”
I was busy making wine AND pickles at the same time (country multitasking) , so I didn’t think anything of it. About ten minutes later, I thought ,”Surfing?”
Later, Kent made a video of his adventure to amuse us. I told him to find a way for me to share it with friends, so he put it on a site and this is how you can see it.
Check out the brilliant talent, natural grace, and inovation of young master Hendry. This is how my kids spend a Sunday in Georgia.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=rAR1gJEewM4
I bought this dumb seven dollar snow disk last November. My kids have used it endlessly, for snow, mud, and grass surfing. I used to buy things like 500 dollar wii’s. Now, it’s a generic plastic disk that gets grins. I’m telling ya, simplifying has more perks than you can imagine. Part of this video was shot at night, because they had so much fun, they went back for more later. The dogs are my son’s sidekicks. Go everywhere with him. You haven’t seen fun until you see Kent in a flat out snowfight with his dog. Perhaps with his new video camera, we’ll get a video of that too this winter! This is by the site for my future barn. The horses watch, blinking, and you know they are thinking, “Humans are weird. This one in particular…”
Today, we are all going tubing. We will sit in huge inner tubes and float down the occoee river watching the clouds go by and sharing stories. My son will amuse us with physical antics (he always does) and Neva will spend the day seeking out and pointing to every live creature she can spot. Fish, raccoons, lizards, you name it. I will write books in my brain. Mark will stare at trees and mentally plan his next house. Dianne will squeel when a rock hits her butt. This will cost us exactly the fifty cents worth of gas to get down the river which happens to be right by our house (we own the tubes – I’ll pack lunch). You see – we don’t have a mall, but we do have fun.
Who’d a thunk it was possible in a place so remote it doesn’t have even a single Starbucks to put it on the map? 
SRQ
You have GOT to see this:
www.srqdance.com
I am excited for Cory and Sharon as they gere up and get ready for his first season as the perfect “post flex” school.
Almost everyday, Cory talks to both Mark and I, bouncing off ideas and seeking advice and/or assurance that the concepts he wants to impliment will work. It is not that he doesn’t have a wealth of experience of his own, (and talent) but that he respects our years of experience, not only with dance and that particular facility, but also an understanding of most of the customers he will be catering to – their needs and desires.
Frankly, we are very proud of him, and it’s a wonderful feeling watching someone we trained, now so innovative and committed to art and education, taking over where we left off. He has the energy, enthusiasm and lofty ambition – all steeped in idealistic goals that we can’t help but admire. These are the elements our former studio needed as it charged into a new decade, one that presents difficult challenges regarding youth arts education. (One of the reasons we left was simply exhaustion – we knew what the studio needed to keep on the cutting edge, but we were no longer fueled to keep up. It was our awareness of exactly what a truly progressive school needed- and our understanding that we were no longer interested in making the sacrifices required, that we left. Our bailing was an act of love, in a way.)
As Mark and I read Cory’s e-mails, check out the website, and discuss with the Boyas’ their plans, we can’t help but grin and feel at peace. More than anything else, I am impressed by how Cory and Sharon are commited to NOT letting scandal, rumor and unproductive emotional sabotage be a part of dance. A great deal of non-admirable behavior has conspired in the Sarasota dance world, which makes stepping in and remaining removed from it all quite an undertaking. But they are commited to building a great dance school in the tradition of the one they loved as a youth, however long it takes. And they will do so with integrity, constraint, and respect for all dancers, teachers and parents. Now THAT is a former student to be proud of!
SRQ has gotten calls from former FLEX dancers, feeling out the waters and suggesting that a staggering migration (again) may be at hand. “Who else has contacted you?” they ask, as if they are one communal mind rather than individual artists seeking the best training venues.
Cory calls us and says, “Why are people asking me to share registration information? Feels like answering would be an invasion of privacy to the individual customer. Besides which, I don’t want all the problems of the recent past coming here. Sharon and I don’t want to be a part of that mess. We want people to come here happy and filled with positive attitudes. How do you think I should respond?”
I say, “You know us, our opinion is, people should think for themselves. It’s not like you are soliciting students from anyone or anywhere else, so you are not inviting or instigating a personal war. The heck with other people’s dancers. If you are truly a good school, you can make your own. And your own will have the discipline, attitude, and generosity of artistic spirit you choose to imprint. Great dancers are not made with steps or competition trophies. They are not to be coveted and wooed from where ever you can get them so you can take “credit” for training them. Great dancers are made by balancing training with the proper attitude. It begins and ends with respect. Respect for dance, for the school, for teachers, and for yourself. Having true grace means more than perfecting pretty dance steps. It’s a state of mind.
If former dancers come, consider it a privilege and a challenge, because it means they are seeking something they are not getting elsewhere. Can you give it to them?”
“Yes I can. And more.”
“So, make a great school. That is problem enough for one man to wrestle with. Let everything else unfold as it will without interference or influence.”
“Okey dokey.”
Ha. That’s the spirit!”
So, SRQ is soon going to be up and running. The “Master Series” begins with the Parson’s dance company visiting, and even if only a few dancers take advantage of this exciting opportunity, it is promising that Cory is already thinking about important and significant extra-curricular dance experiences.
Mark and I will be down there for the opening, as a friend, benefactor, and to revel in our new title: “Artistic consultant” (ha, not like we need or want a title – but that was sweet. . . and. . . ahem . . . I think he will make us work to earn it.) In fact, I believe we are teaching the first two master classes and helping judge the competition team auditions. Fun, considering we will be setting a dance for these groups later as well. We will help train incoming teachers, at least in the beginning. I’ve no doubt Cory will impliment a training program of his own soon enough, perfectly modeled for his personal studio vision. And Sharon has impressive plans for the preschool as well. In fact, it will be interesting to see which division of the school can boast of being the strongest by next season, because they are getting equal, intensive attention.
We are giving Cory and Sharon a huge step up as they enter the dance studio business by way of teaching materials, store stock, preschool fixtures and advice. But they are giving us the graceful exit we dreamed of when we first decided to let FLEX go. It’s lovely really. A positive, exciting energy blankets our exchanges. And we are all having fun without the damper of actions being misconstrued as some kind of threat. It is just a case of artistic personalities, the ones exiting and the ones entering, working together to build something wonderful out of the past, with no limits for the future. We even disagree sometimes, and that is fun too.
We said, “Cory, August 4th is pretty soon – what if you don’t have any dancers yet to audition? Who in Sarasota will know what you have to offer by then? “
“We have enough students already signed up – even without advertising – so we are bound to have some dancers wanting to participate in competition teams … and won’t they be the lucky ones. And if the audition takes only a half hour, we can go to Bennagins and toast to the future – unknowned as it may be.”
Heck yeah – I’ll bring the wine. You bring the teachers so we can pick their brains and do a pep talk.
Things seem to be falling into place for lots of people now. I guess a dance studio is like raising a peacock. You can tend eggs and brag about how fantastic your birds will be, but some simply don’t hatch because they were never properly fertilized to begin with. The one that does hatch might be slow to grow, delicate, and will need love and care, but that doesn’t mean it wont be a spectacular bird in time.
Well, I must go. I have wine to make for this opening – and music to listen to if we will be teaching again. I need to get alone in that studio we have downstairs to begin some creative planning and to get in dancing shape. Don’t want to disappoint the big boss, ya know. He has high standards! No that I am complaining…. those of us who live in glass houses . . . .
Bad Girl = good wine
I live in a dry county, one of those darling “perks” that come with living in the Bible belt. For those of you who don’t know what that means, it means you can not buy liquor here – not in restaurants or stores – no bars, no cocktail hours, not even a simple glass of wine to accompany a fine dining experience (if you can call a night at Papa’s Pizza “fine dining” – not like we have many gourmet options in this quaint place.) Actually, you can buy beer and wine at the grocery store, but the check out girl usually lifts a “there’s one of them true sinners” eyebrow when you do so. And people wonder why I want to make my own!
I can (and do) drive 40 minutes to a town that has successfully lifted this ban. There, we can order a drink with dinner (as long as it isn’t Sunday) and can visit an honest to God, real live liquor store to buy brandy or vodka or what have you. We are not big drinkers, but I often need liquor for cooking, vodka to top off homemade wine or as a base for homemade cordials. On occation, I get a hanker’ in for a specialty drink to round out a meal. (I currently need Oriental Saki for a recipe for slow braised Chinese barbequed pork that I want to try.) When we entertain, we want a full bar available for guests, and on holidays or for parties I enjoy making a spiked punch. I guess years of being a bartender made me “drink of choice” conscious, even though I myself only like wine – preferably white. Mark rarely drinks at all.
The problem with living in a dry county and having too many non-drinking friends (because they were born in this world of serious eyebrow-lifters) is that it makes the used wine bottle a rare find. When you make wine at home, scrounging for wine bottles is the greatest challange. Most all home wine makers recycle. They collect wine bottles from friends (who often have a delightful “please fill one up for me” mentality) or from area restaurants. These bottles are soaked to remove labels, sterilized, and later, filed with homemade brew. You must buy new corks from a wine supply store because of bacteria issues, and you can actually buy the bottles too, but the shipping costs more than the bottles, and this drives up the cost of the hobby. Besides which, half the fun is the recycling part and having an eclectic arrangement of bottles holding your nectar of joy.
Every batch of wine makes 30 bottles, and I am making three batches this week. That means I’ll need 90 empty bottles by Christmas when I am done racking these big carboys and the liquid is ready to bottle so it can age another 8 months or so. I currently have 8 bottles. (I’m drinking as fast as I can – but it is a lonely pursuit around here.) I can’t even ask my drinking friends to save bottles for me, because they are all in Florida and I am here in dry county Georgia. It’s a dilemma, I tell ya.
I was complaining about this the other day, when Kent actually slipped downstairs to his room and came up with an empty wine bottle that he wanted to contribute to the cause. This time it was ME with the lifted “there’s one of them true sinner” eyebrows.
“Hummm…. Why do you have a wine bottle in your room, dear underage, innocent child?”
“It’s a souvenir from my last band field trip,” he said. “Fill ‘er up.”
Sometimes it is better not to ask, so I didn’t.
Mark and I went to a wine testing a month ago and we did cart home a box of empty bottles. The host of the program graciously told us to go ahead and take what we wanted, and as we were packing them up, a woman slipped up to us with a grin and said, “I bet you are a winemaker.”
“Actually, I’m just starting,” I said.
“Wish I’d known you sooner. My husband and I just threw out hundreds of bottles from our basement, and some were even great antiques. We always saved them for a friend who made wine, but she moved, so we finally decided it was time to get rid of them.”
I was jealous. Why can’t I find a friend like that!
Anyway, I am on a quest for wine bottles now, so if anyone comes to visit, pack up the trunk . . . . .
I have plenty of mason jars for pickles and such, but really, that won’t do for wine because presentation is everything, and they just don’t make corks 8 inches wide.
I think the only option I have to is force my husband to take me to more wine tastings and perhaps more trips into Atlanta to visit expensive restaurants with extensive wine lists, don’t you? It’s not that I’m indulgent. Just being practical.
I guess when your idea of a difficult life challenge is collecting wine bottles, you really have nothing to complain about. So I will stop whining about wine-ing. At the rate this area is growing and changing, it is only a matter of time until the ban is lifted. Who knows, I may even be sorry when that happens. There is something to be said about contrast, and being a wine maker in a liquor-free town can be fun – makes a surface “good” girl into a sexy “bad girl” in theory . . .and she doesn’t even have to pierce anything or dye her hair Goth black to get “the eyebrow” from Betty Jane at the Piggly Wiggly.
It is 7Am. Must go. The roar of the blackberries calling cannot be ignored. . .
The bounty at home
The day we got home from Boston, we didn’t pull into the driveway until 10PM. Too late to have a look see around the homestead. As I’ve mentioned before, every time I leave home, something dies, and in this case, Denver had already told me one of the ducks went mysteriously missing the second day we were away. I suppose a opossum got ’em. Denver was diligent about protecting the others however, and I was happy to see all five remaining ducks in the headlights of my car as I passed by coming home.
At 6am the next morning, while Mark was happily snoring, I popped out of bed to visit my much missed animals and to check out how things fared in our absence. It was a rather exciting walk. First, I went to say hello to the ducks and to determine which one was gone. They had completely feathered out now, and looked like entirely new creatures. They have black heads and a white ring around their neck. Their bodies are beautifully decorated, looking not unlike leopards. Their voices have all dropped and they have this raspy quack in place of the former peeping. Cool.
I next went to visit the chickens. I didn’t think to tell Denver to look for eggs, because my one surviving egg-layer is sitting on some eggs now. But my other eleven chickens are expected to begin laying any day now. Every day I check with anticipation to see if anyone new is laying. I went into the chicken house, and don’t ya know, I find 8 eggs – and THEY ARE GREEN. They are super green, like in “green eggs and ham” green. I am beside myself with glee, both because it means that after months of raising these chickens my egg avalanche is now on it’s way, and because I am fascinated by the color of these eggs. When Easter comes, I won’t even have to dye this lot. They are gorgeous. I can figure out who is laying by the color of the prize in the nest- several of the chickens lay white eggs, others lay brown. The green egg layers are Ariel, Oreo and Casper. Finally, they are doing their job. Good girls!
The problem was, I didn’t know how long those eggs had been there, considering how busy I was the days before I left. So, I brought them back to the house and told Neva we could put them in the incubator if she wanted. That is where they are now, cooking for the next 21 days and then we will see what hatches. Once we get some birds, depending on if they are red or black or white, I’ll have a good idea of just who the mother is. The next day, I collected some fresh green eggs for breakfast. For the record, green eggs taste exactly like white ones, only I consider them even better because I have personal knowledge of a home grown egg’s higher health quality and I am partial to the shell color.
Next, I took a spin on the four wheeler through the garden. It is overrun by weeds. Eeek. But, there on the ground was something huge. I thought, “Gee, is that a zucchini or is that plant happy to see me?’ Sure enough, there was our first homegrown vegetable. It was 14 inches long (not that size counts – but hey, what girl isn’t impressed with something that prominent poking out at ya?) I also picked up a yellow squash, a more normal sized zucchini and some banana peppers and zipped home to show Mark. He wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was, insisting lots of zucchini come that big. Well, none I’ve seen in the market. I don’t care what he says, I think this big veg is special.
I know lots of people garden, but this is a first for me and gosh, but I was delighted to be outside picking the bounty of the earth in my own backyard. I couldn’t help but prance around doing the “I grew a veggie” dance. Then I sat down at my computer to visit epicurious.com and spent a half hour looking at the 271 zucchini recipes available. I ended up putting my first round of produce into a veggie chili that day – dieting, don’t ya know. But it felt as if that chili was rather special due to the origin of the contents. I suppose people who grow things all the time would laugh at my romanticism over this normal phenomenon, but honestly, it is remarkable to be intimately involved with the production of your food source. Makes you feel connected to the earth.
(The eggs don’t look nearly as green lying on the oversized red plate beside the green zucchini, but they are. Furthermore, my veggies don’t look nearly as big as they look in real life – but try to consider them in relation to the eggs. Whatever – trust me, this may not look spectacular, BUT IT IS.)
Next, I gave a carrot to the horses, patted donkey on the nose, said hello to the angoras, and went to visit the peacock. He is looking bigger – splendid actually – but I must say his chicken buddy is outgrowing him. For all that peacock eggs are bigger than other eggs, the actual bird that results is rather delicate. My ducks and chickens are all more robust and remain faster growing. Ah well, sometimes a masterpiece takes time to grow into itself. But Early does spread his tail, which looks somewhat like a hand spread out behind him, a hint of what’s to come. I can’t tell you how much I adore this bird.
All things were in order, so I stole off to pick some blackberries. I’ve discovered it takes 30 pounds of blackberries for one batch of wine. Eee-gad, that is a lot more than required for cobbler or jam. I laugh when I think of how people living in areas without wild blackberries must pay 3.00 for ¼ pound. I once did. That would be an expensive wine! Feeling gratitude for the massive free fruit available to me, I spent the day picking. First I went alone. Then I convinced Neva to join me, and in the afternoon I even talked Kent and Mark into offering a hand. You can bet my fingertips will be blue all month. I won’t stop until the berries are gone and the larder is full.
I am in cooking mode now, sort of as if I want to celebrate my liberty from school in the kitchen. I made pickles today for the first time from a bunch of cucumbers I bought at the farmer’s market. I’ve decided that I don’t have to wait until my garden is thriving – especially since I’m not sure everything we planted will grow. Why not just pick up the local produce from my neighbors and support small American farms and help fight global warming by cutting back on the fuel use required to ship produce from California just so we can get it out of season? (Soapbox from my current read, don’t ya know.) Pickles are so easy to make I can’t help but wonder why I’ve never tried it before. I got rather excited looking at various recipes.
I called out to Mark, “Hey honey, want to try picked watermelon rind? I can make that, ya know. This book explains how, and I have a watermelon in the fridge as we speak.”
“I don’t like watermelon rind,” he said.
“Even if it is pickled?”
“ESPECIALLY if it is pickled.”
“When have you tried it?”
“I haven’t tried it. But I know I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea of it. Don’t go there, please. Stick with pickles.”
“You can’t say you don’t like something if you never tried it.”
“I can. I just did. I won’t try it. But I do like pickles. Make lots of pickles. Go pickle crazy, I’ll keep up.”
Well, so much for counting on your spouse to be a palate guinea pig. Just goes to show that love has its limits.
After browsing my new preserving cook book, I’ve found about a dozen things I want to pickle – none of which I will probably like or have ever had a hankering to try. But I can’t resist the recipes, because they are all so unusual. Like garlic dill carrots. Or pickled beets. I hate beets. But that doesn’t mean I can’t play with them. I think I will pickle some beets when they go in season and force feed them on unsuspecting family members.
I am making several batches of wine this week and some jam. I’m producing gourmet (diet) dinners, and my kitchen counter is filled with whole grain baked bread and muffins. Someone slap me – I can’t stop cooking. I think it is the influence of this remarkable book I’m reading, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Makes me want to celebrate locally grown foods and the bounty of the season. Makes me proud to be a cook in a world where people are slowly moving towards convenience foods too. Great book. A real eye opener. Kind of unnerving, however, because you see yourself in all the unbecoming descriptions of how people unwittingly harm the earth today.
Anyway, I’m happy to be home. Happy to be in the kitchen. Happy to be experimenting with new cooking techniques, flavors and food concepts. If it’s something I’ve never made it before, all the better. Discovery is fun.
Amazing what great adventures can be had without having to leave your own kitchen.
Do I look smartor? Umm… I mean, smarter?
The greatest thing about education is that it makes you begin to see the world differently. ( We visited the Boston Museum of Science – here I was trying to figure out perspective in an exhibit.)
I’m home and feeling as if I have had a shot of B-12 or something, because I am full of energy and have this profound sense of relief that my two year stint in the academic world is over.
Would I do it again? Yes.
Am I glad I don’t have too? Double yes.
I don’t know that I am cut out for the academic world, but I’d be lying if I said that pursuing a formal education hasn’t had a profound effect on me. Stretching my mind and being forced to consider things I would not necessarily consider on my own makes me see the world differently. It makes me see ME differently. Getting a masters makes me feel pride, but really, the emotion connected is more profound.
Perhaps I’m someone who values the input of philosophical thought and classic theory, as it is presented by professors who dig deep to unveil all the nuisances of intellectual debate. It certainly provides me opportunity to challenge what I believe on instinct. A broader view allows me to come to my own conclusions about what I truly think, believe, and care about in art, the world, and humanity. Also, a comprehensive view gives me the confidence to stand by my personal likes and dislikes, because when you have that underlying concern that you just are not sophisticated enough, or educated enough, or exposed to enough great theory, you start questioning your instincts, wondering if you are indeed missing some piece of the puzzle that misleads you so you read the world wrong. You worry that you just are not savvy enough to “get it” when you disagree with a more educated writer’s or reader’s view. (That makes me sound like an intellectual wimp, but it is true that I sometimes question my position when faced with someone with far more experience and/or education. I know I don’t agree with them, but it is hard to pinpoint why.) Getting a formal education for me is like gaining permission to have my own literary and world convictions. No one can dismiss me with a shrug and say, “Well, that is because you are just a common hack…” or some other negation of my contradictory view, simply because I have no concrete information to back up what I feel.
In the case of literature, I now have very strong feelings about what defines a “literary” novel and what exemplifies art. It is not unlike the conclusions I came to regarding dance and how I balanced a respect for classical work with embracing commercial venues. I think “commercial art” is actually a product of our society and reflective of real life issues (art reflects life, and we live in a world where cultural influences alter what we produce and how we express ourselves (this was subject of my blog seminar). In a nutshell, it’s true that great art can not usually be manifested by a formula, quick methods or by catering to mass taste in lieu of unique expression, but it isn’t as simple as determining that all commercial art is unworthy either. At least for me, a literary education was key to seeing the whole picture and putting all the pieces in perspective.
As such, this dumb MFA means more to me than I could describe. I’ve thought a lot about why I’ve had such a strong reaction to what is really “no big deal”- and I think it has something to do with the fact that I pursued a masters in a subject I deeply love. The first round of college at age 35 was for a business degree- but that was all about practicality and gaining some basic understanding of commerce and business. I went to school out of necessity (I was not surviving as a business owner with the mindset of an artist and something HAD to change or I would have had to leave dance altogether) My bachelor’s degree was not about following my heart – albeit it was life altering. This first foray into academia widened my world view, and changed my perceptions regarding art and its relationship to business in a serious way.
There is also the fact that I feel such personal joy over accomplishing this particular degree. When I was small, I proclaimed that I wanted to be a dancer and a writer. I did the dance thing and it brought me great happiness. Nevertheless, there is something very primal within me that takes pride in the fact that I didn’t let one dream go in lieu of another and that, even at my ripe middle-age, I am willing to start at the beginning to accomplish something I’ve wanted to do since I was a child. Being a “trained” writer means a great deal to me, because a million years ago, when I graduated from high school, I looked into colleges. I was looking at schools for writing, but chose to go to New York to dance instead. This second chapter of my life is a bit like being able to take the “other road” to see where it leads. How many of us get to take both roads in a fork in one lifetime – without having to backup to start over? I no longer feel that by making the choice to dance I was sentenced to a lifetime as an uneducated person or that I had to forgo writing all together and play the “Gee, I could have been . . ” game.
I approached life events in a different order. In the end, I followed my heart and lived a life that was authentically “me” and what do you know, I ended up well rounded and complete despite it all. (Which explains why I didn’t freak out when my daughter came home after her Sophomore year of college and told me she wanted to quit. I believe that we each know what we need and when, and I trust her instincts. I said, “I hope you go back someday, because I’ve come to believe that education plays a powerful role in our personal development.” She said, “Of course I will, but for now, I just don’t have an interest, and I am wasting my time in school, going through the motions just because everyone else my age from my socio-economic background is. I don’t feel compelled to do something else, so I’m taking classes. But I just want to figure out what I really want and pursue it, and i know that whatever that is, isn’t at school.”
How can you fight that logic? I trust she is right, and honestly, I was the same at her age. (She is going to a professional jewelery artesian school in September, by the way, to learn to work with silver. How can I be disappointed? Imagine the great, unique Christmas gifts I’ll be getting the rest of my life!)
Another element that makes my degree special hinges on something more personal – wrapped up in the basic human longing to secure a feeling of self worth. Although it shouldn’t be so, I think I need validation from respectable sources to convince me I am not stupid. This is something that drives Mark crazy, because he considers me anything but stupid and he feels that in my 48 years on earth, I’ve received enough proof of my mental aptitude, that is far past time I accept the reality that I’m smart and move on. But I battle with this question about whether or not I am intellectually inferior all the time.
I’ve guess I’ve been made to feel “intellectually insignificant” for years by people who probably have no clue they were doing it. It is one of those special family gifts we all seem to get saddled with – don’t we all have some war wounds from growing up? Well, for me this is it. Feeling dumb is the fall out from hundreds of little comments made all the time – like my Dad, who didn’t want me to move to New York to dance telling me that if I didn’t go to college I’d always be dumb. Or when I told him I wanted to go at 35, he said, “It’s too late. You missed your chance. You should have gone at 18, but it is a waste of time now. ” I’m sure he didn’t mean these things, and it was more about trying to influence me with the devil’s advocate technique, but they were said, and comments like this stick, undermining your confidence.
When my Dad disagrees on a business decision, he throws up his hands and says, “That proves you don’t know what the hell you are talking about. You certainly wasted money on that business degree because you obviously didn’t learn a damn thing .” What can you say to that? Yep. I’m just a dancer – to stupid to understand anything as complex as basic economics…. even though I graduated with honors. But heck, that was just a piece of paper. In real life, I’m stupid. Thanks for pointing that out….. again.
Of course, I could just blow a big raspberry in his face and tell him to go suck a lemon. I’m mature enough to know I have every right to my own opinion, and it may well be that I know more than he does in a given situation, but we have different perspectives due to a different inherent hierarchy of values. For example, in the dance business, I was always weighing choices with a sense of how important it was to keep artistic integrity intact, while my father was weighing choices according to business formulas. The things I cared deeply about could not be measured in monetary ways, and as such, my convictions seemed indulgent and/or stupid to him. But these choices made perfect sense to me in light of what I considered valuable and significant as an artist. There is no right or wrong in business or life. There is only right or wrong for each person. And success can not be measured entirely by what is printed a the balance sheet.
I know those kinds of comments were (are) really just angry squawlering; however, they stick with a child, and enough unkind comments make a person question their worth. It is a matter of people planting the seed of doubt, I guess. Anyway, even if it isn’t malicious or intentional, telling someone they are stupid is an unkind way to make a point. And while I am mature enough to know these comments are not indicative of my self worth, still, it leaves a negative resonance that lingers and infiltrates your confidence. Not to mention that it pisses you off.
There is another game my family plays with me. Lots of fun – (for them – certainly not for me). When I was young and absolutely obsessed by dance, they liked to point out how imbalanced I was in regards to my interests. We would be having a nice time, talking and laughing, and suddenly, my Dad would turn to me and say, “Who is the vice president of the united states?” Considering my mind was not on politics at the moment, and I was always out of tune with current events, and I have a seriously weak memory, I wouldn’t have the answer (no comments from the peanut gallery please.) This would greatly amuse the family and they would start shooting questions at me to point out how “uninformed” I was. I’d be grilled on past presidents, the dates of wars or significant world events, and asked to define the major accomplishments of famous individuals. The questions were usually about politics and sports, the two subjects I did not have a passing interest in and as result, in most cases, I would not have the answers. I’d sit there, trapped, looking stupid, as question after question was aimed at me to point out just how much I didn’t know.
Now, you can say that as a citizen I was in the wrong, and I should have cared more about our government. I agree. Perhaps I should have known more, but heck, I was working with the education my family provided me with. I got good grades in school. So if I didn’t know the basics, am I really to blame, or should we have had an intellectual debate on our educational system? And in most cases, it was information I did know at one time, but had slipped away.
I think what my family was trying to point out was that I should make more of an effort to be self educated – maybe they thought embarrassing me was a way to force me to change and start paying attention to current events, read some history and care about something other than art so I “fit in” as the average American with a list of pertinent facts stuffed into my head for a moment just like this. But there are kinder ways of expressing your concern over a family member’s narrow interests and instead, I just always felt as if they considered me stupid and I resented that they found it very amusing to point it out. Besides which, like I said, t was always information I did know, but somehow it slipped from my mind. I have a wicked bad memory. Remarkably so. It took me years to understand that problem.
Last month, my family was visiting. We were all gathering to celebrate my nephew’s graduation from college. Unlike my graduation (where I didn’t even get a card or phone call of congratulations from a single family member) I made the mistake of exclaiming my excitement and pride that I was graduating with a masters! I can’t hide how very delighted I am over this milestone in my life, nor did I think I should have too, so I made a joke about my being smart. Big mistake. I should have known better. My sister looked right at me and said, ” A degree doesn’t mean you are smart. Who is the secretary of state?”
I didn’t know (of course – my lack of interest in politics has not changed . .. When will I learn to study up before spending any time with my family since it is inevitable they will test me with politics and sports questions? If I was really smart, I’d print out a cheat sheet before every family gathering so I pass muster.)
I looked at my sister, challenging me, knowing she was compelled to take me down a peg because I dared claim I was intelligent. She wanted to make it very clear that a dumb piece of paper that says I have a master’s degree really means nothing and I am a fool to think differently.
But, all I could think was, “This is learned behavior.”
She learned this from my dad, knows how these questions disable me and as such, she can’t resist joining in the game. I wondered why she perpetuates the behavior, considering she has her own painful issues with the family dynamics. Then, I wondered what this comment does for her. Does pointing out that I don’t know something, that is to her is basic knowledge, make her feel smarter by comparison, or does she think it’s vitally important that I know just how much I don’t know? Does she think she is doing me a favor by pointing out my inadequacies? Does it amuse her really to test the extent of my accumulated facts? It is interesting, in a sad sort of way. Because what if they were right and I really was stupid as a box of rocks? Would pointing it out be of service to me somehow? Seems to me that love and family commitment should rally members to be more supportive and/or protective of the individuals in the clan. If nothing else, shouldn’t we try to build up the self esteem of those we love rather than constantly break it down? And does anyone question why I don’t have the answers, considering I have gone to college, I read incessantly, I am active in the world, etc…. Perhaps something other than my being a mental mushroom is at hand?
I thought of the zillion of questions I could shoot at her about art and literature and other things that are of interest to me and that she probably has no clue about. She is a well read individual, and very intelligent, but that does not mean she knows everything. And frankly, surface knowledge doesn’t impress me nearly as much as original thought – and I rarely hear much of that from her. It appears as if she believes what she is told and has read, she is a virtual dictionary of facts, but I don’t often hear her discuss the underlying issues of social conflict or hear her discuss unpopular world views. Not that she doesn’t have depth or a deeper understanding of the world- only that she doesn’t share such thinking with me and she seems quick to pass judgment on others. So how would I know there is more to her intellect than a surface recitation of facts?
I considered how my family is convinced I don’t know what I am talking about when I take a stand that is very different than theirs regarding business or life decisions. I think the way I do, not because I am stupid or uninformed, but because I have a different set of values and I am motivated by different things, pulled towards different elements of a subject – in most cases I am intrigued by the emotional or artistic factors of an issue while they are more interested in obvious measurable factors such as economics or more widely accepted social attitudes. I don’t see anything wrong with their views or mine. Individualism is what makes the world an interesting place, at least to me. But man oh man, how my looking at the world differently is viewed as my being “stupid” to them.
In this case, I excused myself to go to the kitchen (always finding solace in cooking). But as I left, Mark caught my eyes, and we exchanged a look that told of just how much he understood how frustrated and sad that comment made me. The thing is, I don’t feel stupid anymore. I know enough about life to feel very knowledgeable and I have a good understanding of what makes the world tick. I also feel I contribute to the world, to conversations, to many things. But it makes me sad to think people I love want me to feel inadequate. Or maybe they really believe I am stupid and they want to make sure I know it. That is even sadder still.
Ah well, the dynamics of family is very complicated, and I’d need to get a PhD in psychology to get even an inkling of what and why we communicate as we do in such unloving ways. But that would fall in a priority line after I go get a masters in political science so I can one-up the relatives at Thanksgiving when they want to hit me with the current event test. since I don’t’ see that one happening, well….. why wrestle with the subtleties of technique regarding how to hurt your loved ones? It would be easier to just start reading the paper and trying to remember what the hell is inside whenever they visit.
Anyway, I thought about these things a lot as I listened to our keynote speaker and I walked up to get that degree. It was a very special moment for me, definitely up there with “most important life moments” along with getting married and the birth of my children. This was simply the biggest thing I’ve ever done. Because getting my MFA wasn’t about ego (hell no, because it bashed my ego to kingdom come), or work, or making a living, or setting myself up for monetary returns, or meeting other’s expectations or doing something practical. It was a hundred percent about following my heart, facing my deepest fears, and exploring what I love with candor and no small amount of wonder.
I know that getting a degree does not make a person smart. I know that there is a difference between logic and emotion and book smarts and street smarts and a formal education and life experience. I like to think I have a smattering of each of these life lessons and combined, they make me a fairly well rounded person. I accept that there is always room for growth, and that I have much to learn still. Nevertheless, I feel as if I am constantly gaining a deeper perspective on the world, so, I am pleased with my ongoing life education, even if it isn’t complete and even if I can’t answer some pretty simple questions about our working government that the average American probably can.
I do read the paper, by the way. I am greatly moved by issues and events, but for the life of me, I don’t remember details, and ten minutes after reading an article about major world events, I’ve forgotten the name of every politician at the party. Mark says it is because of the way my brain is wired. He explains that this is why I can’t spell. He has watched me closely for many years and has come to the conclusion that it isn’t that I have a bad memory, but that I apparently “skip” information that I do not consider prevalent in the moment. My mind latches on to things beneath the surface and I don’t much care for the obvious. For example, I am very interested in what a word means and how it affects a sentence, but how it is spelled is not relevant in the bigger scheme, so I don’t bother to anchor it into my mind. I can spell it for a while, then I conveniently forget. And frankly, I don’t care about spelling it correctly.
I also tend to remember things that have an emotional impact on me. I’ll remember what I feel about an issue strongly and often these moments will have a huge impact on me, but I’ll forget the particulars about other, more obvious facts. I can remember every detail about experiences in my life that were important emotionally, (both negative and positive) yet don’t ask me to remember the phone number I had for eighteen years in Florida. I forgot it ten minutes after I moved, because it wasn’t important anymore. I have a selective memory in that way. It sucks, but that is how my mind works. I can tell you what the doctor’s glasses looked like when he was delivering my baby, but don’t ask me what hospital we were in.
It is as if I don’t have room for all that information in my little brain computer, so I delete as I go to make room for more files. I read a hundred books in the last year, but in every case, when talking about them, I can’t pull the author’s name up from my memory banks. It doesn’t mean I didn’t digest these books or understand them, or that I wasn’t impacted by them. I just know I can look up the author when and if I ever need too, and so I don’t keep that kind of data at the forefront of my mind.
Nevertheless, I accept that I don’t know enough about current events and I have some mighty disturbing holes in my basic awareness of the world. Even things I’ve known well and fully, I let slip away – like who is serving as the secretary of state this term. But I rather approach life from the standpoint that we are all incomplete and must always keep learning, rather than walk around feeling like I know it all, and pointing out to others that they don’t. And I certainly don’t presume to think that what I know is more important or worthy then the things others know. There are things I wish I could forget, and even useless information I don’t need that I’ll never be able to unload – tons of it dance oriented. Anyway, I’ve learned that the people who think they know everything are really the ones that are quite clueless anyway.
The point is, I am thrilled to have graduated. I am a woman of arts and letters now.
I will share a few pictures – they don’t look like much, but in every one I am smiling. I think that says it all.
Neva has the degree in hand, I have flowers, and Kent has the wine. It was all we needed to celebrate at the graduation dinner hosted after the ceremony.
Mark says I read too fast at the reading. Well, what do you expect. I was nervous. He said, “I don’t get it. You’ve been on stage a million times, so why on earth be nervous now? I wanted to go up there and just slap you and say, stop it.” Well, thank you for your empathy, dear. What can I say… when I dance I am confident. Reading my thesis in front of an audience made me feel exposed. Like dancing naked only after gaining a hundred pounds… 
This is one of my teacher’s, AJ Verdale. She said some very kind things to me regarding my writing the next morning. Heartfelt, positive comments stick too, ya know, and I was very grateful she took the time to talk to me about my potential and give me such encouragement. 
This is the cake they made for the graduation dinner. it looks like I am pointing to the wrong name. That isn’t because I had finished off my bottle of wine (yet). It is mearly the angle of the camera. Nevertheless, this cake is proof that I did indeed graduate. La ti da!
No, I didn’t do any dancing at graduation. This is a hug. I had to hug someone and our program director was directly in the line of fire. 
My best friends from school. Next to me is Sue, my roommate, a fine poet with a wicked sense of humor. she made the experience bearable in the best of ways. Beside her is Alice, a wonderful fiction writer who is also ran a garden business for years and who recently sold a book on gardening. She writes wonderful prose about country life and the beauty of nature. She also sees life much as Sue and I do. We were the three musketeers (not to be confused with the three stoogies.)
I loved that my family was there to celebrate with me and help make the moment fun. Um… in this picture you can see how I handed down my deep intelligence to my daughter. Oh, and Mark wanted me to point out here that it was “snowing in July” – which explains his white hair. He also suggested I mention the explosion at the powdered sugar factory next door. But who are we kidding, I know you see through the ruse. You are all thinking, “We get it . . . .no man can be married to a girl like that and NOT end up with white hair.” 
Anyway – a big toast to me.
I’m loathe to share these pictures because I’ve gained ten pounds in the last two years with all the FLEX stress and school stress, and no-running stress, and stress stress. I’m gross. But, I am ready to rectify that ten times over. Began the diet yesterday….. can barely move thanks to the pump class we gave ourselves. I know I can’t do anything about the wrinkles, but I sure as hell can keep a pretty bod if I’ve a mind to, and I am determined to do just that. Now, I have presonal time that doesn’t have to be designated for school, my life has finally evened out so I can get back into a routine. FLEX and that nightmare is over. School is over. Building the house is over. Time to write. To run. To make wine and drink it. Yippee.
Heart of Ginny 