Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

I hurt my hand this weekend. It was my own fault. I was horseback riding with Neva, and because she hasn’t been on a horse in a few months, (winter and FLEX issues got in the way of our riding time) we decided to stay in the horse ring. Neva is still somewhat nervous on the horses. She is a daredevil around animals, but ON them is another issue. I guess it is a long way down when you are only 4 feet tall, and she is vividly aware that they are stronger than her and posses a definite will of their own. She is nervous because she’s smart. She knows animals well enough to know that unlike machines or computerized toys, they have moods, attitudes, and fears, all of which can be the root of unpredictable behaviors.

It is very important to me that my daughter gains confidence and learns to control her mount well (for safety reasons and so nothing hinders her love of riding) so I watch her like a hawk, giving advice and encouragement and trying to teach her the basics of mastering a horse. I want her to feel connected and comfortable now, while she is young and impressionable. How a person is introduced to a subject often is paramount to their long-term appreciation. If you teach a person to love something from the get-go, let them experience the joy, they will embrace the frustrations and/or painful elements that are a part of the package later. A person is less likely to quit an activity the first time something hurts or they’re disappointed if a solid love for the subject has already been implanted. At least, this was my belief in regards to teaching dance, and I think the principal applies to everything. (Dance is, after all, my metaphor for life.) If you teach youngsters to love something first, the discipline required to excel will be embraced willingly when it’s time to get serious.

Suffice to say that while my eyes were on her, my horse spooked and lunged to the side, catching me off guard. Obviously, while in the ring (a controlled environment) I’m not expecting anything to happen, so I was in a relaxed, unaware state. I wasn’t unseated by the sudden bucking, but taking control meant the reigns jerked my hand in an odd way and this somehow pulled the tendons in my palm. (Do I have tendons in my palm? Well, something muscular in my hand was strained. Nothing broke, but man-o-man, did my hand hurt. ) It was a freak, painful, totally uneventful accident, which left me with a bum hand. My hand felt fine when straight, but I couldn’t grip anything or close my fingers. Moreover, typing was uncomfortable, so I had to keep that to a minimum, which always makes me feel isolated and out of sorts.

While a sore hand isn’t serious, the injury did have serious repercussions. For example, because of my injured hand, I had two bad hair days. Oh the trauma of it all….
I couldn’t hold my blow dryer, so I just let my hair go au natural, which means I didn’t have my usual Break-girl, luscious locks, swirling about my shoulders in soft curls. Nope. It was more a frizzy, haphazard do with that “just rolled out of bed” look. It was a hardship, I tell you. More for Mark than me. He’s the one that had to look at me.

Then, there was the cooking delimma. I couldn’t hold a knife to cut vegetables and such. I couldn’t bang on my chopper. When I made turkey soup, it was a bit more chunky than I wanted. My homemade stuffing lacked the fine detail of well-diced  celery and onion. My English Trifle came out perfect (no-brainer) but that didn’t appease my frustration, considering I had to serve sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes in a simple way. 
Not that anyone really cared but me. I had invited Denver and her boyfriend over for dinner. I said, “It won’t be anything special. My hand hurts so I’m just throwing a turkey in the oven.”
Later, Denver looked at my spread, nudged her boyfriend, and said, “See honey, nothing special. Just a Thanksgiving dinner in April. That’s my mom’s idea of nothing special.” (I have no idea where that girl got her sarcasm. Ahem.)

The next day, my hand was slightly better. It was pie day at the Hendrys. What is pie day, you might ask? Well, that is just one of those things that happens to someone like me. Call it a fluke thematic moment. Must be fallout from years of recital madness.

Because my hand hurt, I had planned to make spaghetti. However, I thought Kent was acting out of sorts, so I changed the menu to homemade potpie, his favorite.  I knew that would put a spring in his step. Always does.

Bravely facing the pain, stoically, I cut up the vegetables and sautéed the chicken, cooking everything in a thick, hearty sauce. It would be easier to make a few big pies that you just dish servings out of, but I like to make everyone an independent pie all their own because it is pretty and offers more flakey crust. I was expecting Denver and Eric (her boyfriend), Sonia (mother in law) Dianne (sister in law), and my still-at-home family for the meal. That made eight – LOTS of independent pies to assemble. I decorated the top of each with something to denote whom it was for. I used my fork to put a person’s initials, a heart, or a happy face on each pie. I am really queer that way. Presentation is half the fun of cooking.

Pot Pie is sort of an all-inclusive meal, considering the meat, veggies, crust and potatoes are wrapped into one pretty package. I thought a salad, some fruit, the leftover stuffing and voila! Instant dinner. However, I needed to make dessert. I ALWAYS make dessert. It is my experimental area and the meal would seem incomplete without a grand finale.

I saw a recipe for Banana  Meringue pie in a cooking magazine and it looked rather dynamic. I thought it would be fun to give it a go, and I had bananas, so I made the crust from crushed vanilla wafers, whipped up the sauce on the stove top,  and put the thing together. Actually, I’ve never made a pie with a meringue topping before, so I was looking forward to this part. I whipped up the egg whites piled it on top of my layered pie filling in a pretty way and popped the shebang into the oven. When it came out, I was flabbergasted.   It was so pretty. It was TOO pretty. Because I knew this was going to go over big, and with eight guests, I may not have enough pie to go around. This certainly wouldn’t do. But I hate to make two of the same thing, because that isn’t any fun. I like making new things. It’s simply more interesting.

I determined that I needed to make another dessert, but I couldn’t go with something too different, like Mocha brownies, because then people would suffer over making a choice. It was too much like offering apples and oranges. Easier to say, “Do you want a Macintosh or Granny Smith?” Then, the choice is easier. Beside which, my family might feel inclined to have both desserts if they are widely different, and then they’d yell at me for making them fat. No, it would be better if I made something similar, yet slightly different, so the options were not so varied. Since the Meringue was so pretty and I was feeling quite accomplished at it’s success, I made a lemon meringue pie too. This required a basic piecrust, not unlike the potpies, (and now I feared piecrust overkill) but I decided, heck, why not? It so happens, my recipe makes enough dough for two pies, and since this was a one-crust pie, I had extra. So, I cooked two crusts, thinking it would be wrong to waste a second pie shell after the work of blending it was done .

The lemon meringue pie was even prettier than the banana pie. I was dancing around the kitchen singing “Go Me, Go Me!  Martha Stewart, Julia Child, Rachael Ray – you are all amateurs compared to me!” (I am a humble cook, as you can see.)

But that third crust stood there, taunting me, challenging my creativity. I had lemon, I had banana. I had an empty piecrust calling my name. It was time for Chocolate! 

So, I made a chocolate Meringue pie. I could have, should have, varied the fare a bit, and made it a French silk pie or something, but I was on a meringue roll. Besides which, there are practically no calories in meringue and I knew this would keep me from getting in trouble for offering all these fine desserts to a family that is always complaining about their weight.

That night, everyone gathered for dinner. Mark took one look at my three perfect pies, chuckled and said, “We have to open that coffee shop. People will flip when they see desserts like this, and, um . .  how else can we unload this much cooking when you go off on a tangent.”  
“Shut up. It’s not a tangent. We are having a taste test tonight,” I explained, as if this was logic that shouldn’t have to be pointed out.
“What’s with all the pies.” Denver said. “Pot Pie, Dessert Pies? I sense a deeper purpose.”
“It is national pie day. How could you have forgotten such an important occasion? I’m only showing my patriotic commitment to pie consuming. I’m ashamed any daughter of mine hasn’t done something to recognize the day.”
“Oh yeah, national pie day. My bad.”

So, we gorged. My hand still hurt so I could barely hold my fork, but I rarely enjoy eating what I make, so that wasn’t a big deal. I think it has something to do with all the taste testing in the kitchen.  I sipped wine (holding the glass awkwardly) and tried to read meaning into every subtle facial expression, looking for validation as a cook in the taste bud reactions of those at the table. I do that. It’s stupid. Not like, they aren’t going to voice their opinions, for or against, any new dish I serve.

Today, I have a refrigerator filled with half eaten pies. I will no doubt throw them out tomorrow. That’s OK, because I have a hankering to try this Raspberry lemonade cake recipe I saw last night in another cooking magazine . I’m convinced I can make that puppy sugar free without anyone noticing. Love a challenge.

Speaking of a challenge . . ahem . . pies may not be the only thing I’m cooking here in Georgia. I just may be hard-boiling a bunch of peacock eggs as we speak. My damn incubator keeps inching up the temperature. If you let it go over 103 degrees, you can actually slow cook your eggs rather than incubate them, so every time I go down to turn them I’m screaming “eek” and turning the dang thing down. It has definitely soared a bit beyond the danger mark, I fear. I read that as the birds develop, their body heat can cause the temperature to rise. That is promising, considering it means they are growing, IF I haven’t cooked my goose (or in this case, my ducks and peacocks). Oh my, the weight of responsibility in this endeavor is daunting.
Neva doesn’t seem bothered. She says, “Well, if they die, we’ll just start over with more eggs.”
I guess that means we won’t be staging any dramatic funeral service for the unhatched fowl. That, at least, is a relief. Nevertheless, I go down to check more often than I should, concerned that I am not serving my roll as mother hen very well. What can I say,  I get motion sickness, ya know. The learning curve sometimes leaves me queasy.

My hand is aching again. I must stop typing.
Hope everyone had a wondering national pie day, and they are planning good things for national raspberry lemonade cake day tomorrow (to be served with lemonade and lemon chicken, of course).

Make life an event!

I want to write an official “thank you” to those who sponsored me for the 3 day, 60-mile breast cancer walk. I also need to voice an apology. I should write everyone a personal thank you, but as yet, I haven’t. The fact is, I’ve been feeling low over all the FLEX business (the new owners went bankrupt yesterday –I can say that because it is in the papers along with the eviction notification – so anyone who wants information can get it through public notices, it’s no secret). And when I am feeling low, I tend to distance myself and become non-interactive. I don’t feel social.

One ex-student and friend wrote me to say he was worried that I might be mad because I haven’t written. Not mad. Sad. Big difference. Every once in a while, I muster up some energy and write something for the blog, like my peacock entry, hoping to focus on the good things in my life and wanting to make my friends smile. I probably come across as flippant or as if I don’t care about what is going on back in Sarasota, but it is just that my dance interests and my backcountry adventures are unrelated issues. I work hard to keep it that way. And just because I am depressed doesn’t mean I want to moan about it in my blog. And then, there is the fact that I am considered a “hot-head” and Mark and my Dad say I “go off” in an instant over the dance school thing. Considering that, it is wiser not to air my thoughts without censorship. I don’t come to the keyboard when agitated. Ha. That explains all those weeks I don’t post.

While I’m on this subject, I want to mention that a few people have sent responses to my blog and I don’t post them. They think this is a sign that I am angry or disapproving. But it’s not. I simply won’t post responses that talk about FLEX or our ex-employee’s new school because I don’t want this blog to be a forum for dance debate. And I don’t want people to come here to grandstand or thinking they need to publicly validate their friendship to us or announce their feelings about others, negative or positive. I simply don’t want to invite these types of discussions here. But I do read your messages, and often, I am very touched. I like to think these comments are written to me, not to the world, and in that case, let me assure you friends, that I appreciate your responses even if I don’t post them.

Now, as for thank you’s – I have to tell everyone that when I moved, I thought I had made a hardcopy of my address list from my old e-mail account, but it was somehow misplaced. When I got my new e-mail account set up and running, I was stunned to see I lost all information formerly saved on the old one. A serious mishap considering my MFA contacts were on that list as well as a way to keep in touch with wonderful friends. Since December, I haven’t had a single friend’s address, unless they’ve written me and I was mindful enough to save the address. I only have about eight addresses in my address book now. Oops. I haven’t been writing anyone for the last 6 months(for various reasons from mood and MFA work overload, to wanting to keep business information private – it is awkward and unnatural for us to censor our conversations with friends.)

Anyway, now that I have an occasion to send a message to privately write and thank friends who gave support , I can’t. (So, George, my dear friend from middle school, who lives in a tree house and grows peppers and is a world winning barbeque king – well, I couldn’t write to thank you even if I wanted to.  So this is my official public thank you. Leave it to you to be the first to donate, and to be so generous it makes my eyebrows pop. Ha, you always had to be the best! If it makes you feel better, I do feel very guilty at this no-address discovery because it shows how lax a friend I’ve been and how long it’s been since I’ve sent a letter. My-bad.)  I am slowly gaining the addresses of past students and friends who occasionally write to keep in touch. If you are one of those friends who are offended that I never drop you a line, don’t take it personally. Just take the first step remembering how forgetful I can be– Vhendry@etcmail.com.

OK, that is my “thank you” and my friendship disclaimer.

Now, on to daily news.
Kathy and I were on TV on Friday night. She looked amazing. It was a lovely interview. I have a huge nose. I am convinced no one watching could possibly pay attention to what we were saying because they must have been focused on my snozzle thinking, “How does she keep her head up with something so big stuck in the middle of her face?” Mark say’s I’m an idiot. Well, that may be true, but then, I am an idiot with a huge nose.

I bought my bee suit today. I didn’t know what size to get. I asked Mark his opinion, saying,” I just want it to be big enough for anyone who might want to use it.”
Mark looks at me as if I’m crazy and says, “Ginny, there isn’t a soul around who is going to be putting on that suit to go visit your bees without you. It doesn’t have to fit anyone but you, trust me. Buy your size and leave it at that.”
I tested that theory. I said, “Hey Neva, they have children sized suits. Would you like to get one so you can visit the bees with me? You’d be protected.”
She looked at me crossed eyed and said, “No way. I’ll NEVER want to go near the bees.”
“Aren’t you even interested to see what they look like up close?”
“No!”
OK, no takers. Not even my nature-loving partner in animal crime. So I bought the suit in my size. So much for sharing the fun. Ah, it is lonely being Eve when Adam is afraid of bugs.

Mark has been back and forth between Florida and here for almost a month now. He was home for a few days last week.  While planting, he got stung by a wasp. He shrieked and pulled his hand back and glared at me.
I threw up my hands and said, “I’m innocent. I haven’t brung home a single baby bumble bee, yet!”
“It was a wasp,” he said, as if I somehow conjured the creature up just by thinking about bees.
“Bad wasp!” I yelled. Gallantly, I killed it for him. Squashed it with my shoe like the daredevil I am. The fact is, wasps attack beehives. I will gladly join his I hate wasps club.

I now have a ten-hive beekeepers starter kit, a smoker, a bee suit, and all the trappings of bee rearing. No bees yet. Soon, I will seek out my queen and lots of boisterous boys to attend to her. Lucky queen.  I have a nifty honey grader to check the quality of my honey, a birthday gift from Mom. All I need now is a bear siren to scare off marauders. Unfortunately, we’ve determined that will be a necessity. Mark made arrangements to buy a gun from a friend. He is using the fact that I am placing beehive bear bait in the backyard as an excuse to arm the family. I better watch my step now, because if I annoy him too much he might shoot me accidentally on purpose. I’m told we will be going out together with Ronnie for a shooting lesson. I have no idea how I feel about that.

My peacock eggs arrive tomorrow. Fun.
Mark comes home from Florida tomorrow too. Relief.
I checked the post office today to see if my eggs arrived early. There was no slip in my PO box, so I went in just in case to ask if I had gotten a package. I told Vicki, the postmaster, that I was expecting eggs.
She said, “I have eggs here today, but they aren’t yours.”
I thought that fascinating. Someone else is the neighborhood is buying fertilized eggs for incubation? I told her I was expecting peacock eggs and asked what kind she was holding for the other person. She told me it was quail eggs.
Hey, quail was my other consideration! I’m so jealous.
The idea that a package of eggs was back there (not mine) made me grin. The fact is, I feel as if I am trying unusual and unique things nowadays, but to be perfectly frank, my interests are common – nothing I do is unique around this neck of the woods. The funny thing is, when a friend went downstairs into our workout room and saw all our dance pictures, he whistled under his breath and said, “Wow, I’ve never known anyone who could do that. It’s remarkable.”
And I thought, “Heck, Everyone I know can do that. . . but I haven’t a single friend that can milk a cow or trap a raccoon the way you can. Now, that is an interesting talent.”
Just goes to show that nothing we do is really original except when it sits in contrast to the world around us. “Normal” is a relative term. Anyway, what counts is that my interests, while mundane and common around here, are interesting to little former-dancer-New Yorker-suburban me. I am having fun seeing life from a new perspective. My only regret is that life is so short I’ll never have time to experience all the grand diversity that’s out there. But I’m determined to see and do what I can with my time from here on.

When I told my mother about my peacock eggs, she sighed on the phone and said, “You’ve always had to do everything firsthand.”
I don’t think that is true. I always enjoyed reading about lots of things, but I don’t think of myself as someone who jumps in to try everything. Some things. But not everything. For example, I’m 48 and I’ve never mowed a lawn. I’ve had lawns and a lawn mower but I never felt inclined to crank the machine up to try it myself. I don’t know how to use power tools or jump-start my car. There are lots of things I’ve never bothered to try.
But she said, “Even when you were a kid, you were always doing – wanting to learn for yourself what something was really like. I taught you to sew, but the next thing you know, you were learning to quilt, embroider, tat lace, knit, crochet and everything else connected. You dive headfirst into something that intrigues you.”
I was surprised to hear myself described that way, but maybe there is some truth to it.
I don’t know if this is a new element of my personality or a latent one I have unleashed in a midlife crisis explosion, but I am in a state of doing now.
After years of wanting – doing feels good.
Enough about that.

Some animal grabbed one of my chickens through the bars of the cage and ate it yesterday. I arrived to find an empty feathered carcass with one leg attached pulled halfway through the fence. I took a shovel and discarded it, racking my brain to consider what I should to do to protect the pen from more attacks.
I called Mark in Florida to tell him what had happened.
He said, “Wow, you have really gone country. Remember when you used to cover a dead mouse with an upside down bowl, waiting until I got home to get rid of it because you couldn’t face dealing with anything dead?”
Sure, I remember. Good times.

I walked 7 miles on the treadmill today. Gotta begin training.  I never believed I’d say it, but I love my treadmill. I watch movies while I walk – probably the only time I stay put long enough (and awake) to watch TV. Today I watched, “A very good year.” With Russell Crowe, my new best ever dream fella. Gosh, he’s cute. The movie is about a guy who inherits a wine vineyard. Made my heart go aflutter, I’ll tell you, and not just because of Russell Baby. I went to visit my own grape vines after the movie. They look downright dead. Probably are. Ah well, we can’t all inherit a dream. Some of us must work for years, overcome the learning curve, and wait to grow a dream from scratch. It’s a long haul from my five dead grape vines to a vineyard. But it is fun to imagine. . .

I’ve been reading a great deal. Like a flood when the reading-barrier-damn gives. You might wonder just what a girl will pick when she finally gets a chance to read something that isn’t mandatory for an MFA. Don’t ya know I ended up reading a collection of short stories called “Where Love is Found” -Literary stories – formerly published in America’s leading literary magazine, Glimmer Train.  Literary stories? What the heck!  They ruined me! Brainwashed, I tell ya.

Here I wanted to pick some smutty, casual romance novel with absolutely no merit, lots of sex, a few corny clichés and pages and pages of bad dialogue, but alas, I found myself unable to follow through. I’m reading what turns out to be the best writing ever about human connection, profound and beautiful, all the while thinking about how each story is  constructed. That isn’t brainless entertainment!  What’s happened to me? I’ve evolved as a reader against my will!

Since the concept of my becoming a sophisticated reader is so opposite to my self-definition, I also picked up a memoir written by a columnist who moved from New York to the country. It’s called “It Takes A Village Idiot” and it is filled with wry humor about both New York and rural USA. Since I can relate to both, it makes me laugh. That is better. However, this book makes me consider a memoir of my own and I start thinking about writing again.

I remember how, when I was young, I loved to watch dance. But when I was older, I was always watching it differently, analyzing, critiquing, studying. I guess that is to be expected after you study an art and become involved. You can never be just a spectator again.

I am also reading a book on beekeeping and a collection of thoughtful essays called “If I live to be 100.” These are more in tune with relaxing, but I only read them in small doses, like when I am killing time waiting for appointments or something. For quiet reading, like at night, I keep returning to that literary book. Sad but true.
Nevertheless, freedom of choice is a very inspirational thing. I am enjoying everything I read, grateful for the diverse material in the world and my ability to cross over between interests and genres.

Time to go. I’ve got animals to feed and a house to clean before I can turn to a book to enjoy.

Again, thanks to my friends and sponsors. I’ll think of you today when I walk.

Monday, I sent the first copy of my thesis out to my professor. She will respond in a few weeks, allowing me to make corrections before sending it to my official “reader”. Then I will get that professor’s response and make final adjustments before having it bound and formally turned in. I will plan my public readings from that final copy.

It was an amazing feeling, printing those 150 pages (they don’t want the entire novel, only this exact number of pages) and finally packaging it off. Relief. Concern. Thrill. I understand that the thesis is a formality- just a monstrous assignment designed to establish a certain level of writing proficiency required to graduate, but deep down, we all want to be proud of the material too.

I’m happier with it than I expected. Three days before finishing, I had an epiphany about just what the book needed to make it work. I was so bothered by the fact that I had to kill all the commentary about dance (which I believed drove the action ) that I just couldn’t stop rolling it over in my mind. Then, it came to me. I could change the essays into blogs and write reader responses from other dancers! This would make the book more contemporary in regards to cultural influence and also allow me to keep what I love by introducing fair argument on the dance issues as other dancers put in their two cents in a response format!  And if that isn’t enough to make the idea fester– it ties in my senior seminar (the class I teach the other graduates) because I chose a topic centered on blogs as writer’s aids, and books born of blogs. Now, the entire MFA final project is connected.

Mark has been reading the different versions of my book, and with this last copy he said, “This really makes it all come together. It is more compelling this way. A far better book.” Just goes to show that it is right to follow your instincts, regardless of outside opinion. I had to stay up two days straight to get the entire manuscript rewritten. But I did it.

Dianne and Mark both read my final copy and agreed I have improved as a writer. They liked my early books – but mostly they thought the stories were fun. The writing was average. Now, they say the writing is remarkably professional – ten times better. (Ten times? Gee, I must have sucked before.) They aren’t as jazzed by this literary story as they were by my swashbuckling historical romances, because a literary story is sometimes obscure and moves more slowly. But that response is to be expected. Commercial fiction is entertainment. Literary writing is for quiet contemplation.

I’ve come to believe writing is like dance or any art. Talent is all well and good, but what really makes it come to fruition is training, training, training. I am proud I’ve done what I needed to do to grow and improve. Of course, I still have a long way to go, but you never want to come to the end of learning. It is just nice to know I’m meandering along.  Stumbling a bit, but at least moving forward.

Anyway, my thesis is done. I am happy. I am now going to read a book . . . any book that is NOT literary or a writing craft book. Do you know it has been two years since I read a book just for fun??? Considering for me reading is one of the great pleasures in life, you can imagine how delighted I am with the freedom to choose once again.

I guess everyone imagined I stopped blogging last week because I was neck deep in homework. I wish that had been the case. I had a heck of a time getting my thesis ready by the deadline, because I was called away to Florida the week before the due date. I had counted on this time at home, clearing the week to be immersed in writing. All of a sudden, I had to leave and even though I brought my computer with me, I was too distracted and agitated to work on homework. Needless to say, it had me stressed out on every level.

We were in Florida because my former business is on its last, final gasps as it clings to existence. (We were there for legal issues connected to eviction and possible foreclosure.) Needless to say, it is a messy, poignantly sad, complicated endeavor. Mark is still in Florida and must be there again next week as all this comes to a final conclusion. I could say a great deal about what happened and why, but I don’t think it’s important. As one good friend and former employee said, “It is what it is.” And who knows, there is always the long shot miracle that might reverse things.

I expected to be an emotional wreck, but strangely, I wasn’t. I’ve been grieving over the inevitable FLEX finale for two years now as I’ve watched things go askew from a distance, powerless because it was no longer ours to fix. And during that time, I’ve been through all the classic stages of dealing with death: denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and finally, acceptance. Coming to the final stage is, in a way, a great relief; however, that does not mean I am not deeply saddened by everything. Oddly, I’m not depressed about the school potentially closing, so much as I feel intense empathy for everyone involved. I feel for the students, the staff and even the couple who bought FLEX in hopes that they would make their dreams of being successful entrepreneurs come true. For all that we can make accusations or cast blame in anger, the fact is, everyone is losing here. And any “I told ya so’s” or “Ha, ha, that’s what you get” ‘s is  just ugliness- a residue of disappointment.

It has been an emotionally trying month as we wrestle with what to do in the face of the problems. We have tried to find creative solutions for the new owners. Then, when that wasn’t working, we discussed moving back, but that would not be in our family’s best interest and frankly, what seems like a simple solution is far more complicated than anyone would guess.

Besides which, we just don’t have the heart for it anymore.  So much has transpired to make us see just how volatile and ugly the dance business can be – we have witnessed such spiteful, ego-driven, disrespectful actions in e-mails and other forms of interaction between former students, parents, studio owners and staff. Some of this was targeted at us, some was slung at other people. Either way, my respect for everyone involved has steadily declined. Rather than focusing positive energy on their own aspirations, certain individuals are hell bent on actively hurting FLEX (and the people who, with good intentions, purchased it). These individuals are on some kind of vendetta, lying, spreading rumors, passing damaging information, and doing all kinds of things to stir up problems and cause more distress. They have this David and Goliath delusion-  an attitude that they are bringing the great FLEX down for the righteous cause of dance. Ha. The problems with our former school have nothing to do with a crop of disgruntled patrons leaving and one or two opportunists taking advantage of the school’s financial difficulties. That kind of thing is so common in the dance biz it doesn’t merit attention. It’s the lack of sensitivity, the pettiness, which shocks me. Why be hurtful to people who are obviously going thorough serious personal hardship? Dance is a noble pursuit, but heck, humanity (respect) comes first.

I won’t go into details about the things that have transpired – now or ever. It would be focusing on the negative, and I am not willing to devote any more of my emotional energy on petty dance wars. I have learned there is nothing more precious than stepping back and going to a place where the aggressive edge slips away, because it helps you to see things clearly. What I’ve seen in the wake of our leaving is not admirable, but it sure makes me happy with my choices in life – both those I made as a studio owner and the choice to no longer be one.

As we were driving to Florida, Mark sighed and said, “Guess what today is?”  Then he reminded me that only two years ago to the day, we put our business up for sale. It took eighteen years to build, and about nine months for it to turn south. We were just exploring the possibility when we went into that broker’s office, and five days later the business sold. Our counsel was not wanted, and so we wound up moving to Georgia years before we had expected or planed. Everything happened so fast – we are only now getting our bearings.  “Can you believe so much can happen in such a short time?” Mark said, “Look where we are now. Look at how the people we cared about changed. Look at how different things can be in a snap. Who’d have thought life could take such unexpected twists?”

I keep thinking about that. It’s a good reminder to savor what is good while you have it, and to prepare at all times for potential change. Life can shift in an instant. Be flexible and at all times, remember what really counts.

That is all I want to say about the sad situation at FLEX.

Instead, let me talk for a moment about my current life, sans the emotional upheaval going on in Sarasota.

Today, when I met with Kathy (who is still learning so much, by the way, despite all the missed appointments due to my travel) the local TV station showed up to do interviews of students for a feature on the college. We were both interviewed and our clip will be in the program. Kathy was thrilled. I was thrilled too, (mostly I was thrilled because I put make-up on this morning and didn’t show up looking like a total shlump. E-gad, talk about luck!) I mentioned in the interview that I’d written a piece on my teaching experience for my MFA. Later, the director asked if she could put it in the newsletter. I explained that it was too long, and not really appropriate. Therefore, she asked me if I’d write a piece that would be good for the newsletter. I agreed.

Now that I have turned in my thesis, I hope to get more involved with the college and the literacy program. I hung around today watching the people being interviewed. Mostly, the students are simple country folk who quit school early and are now returning to get their GED (which is no easy process for a working adult). I was filled with respect for their commitment and aspirations to get an education. I suddenly felt compelled to be a motivating force – an activist for people who want to better their world. It is easy to write a check and tell yourself you are making a difference, but far more rewarding to roll up your sleeves and be an actual catalyst for change. Anyway, I believe I will soon be doing more for literacy in our quiet county. I recognize that subtle churning in my gut when an idea starts building in importance in my heart and mind.

Next subject: We got Neva an incubator for Easter. We’ve done the raising chicks thing – loved it – now it’s time to dig a bit deeper. She is gathering fertilized eggs from our chickens and plans to hatch them herself. The eggs are nestled in a square, foam incubator that she hovers over as if she is a brood hen herself. Twice a day she turns the eggs and checks the temperature and humidity. (It takes 21 days to hatch a chicken) She draws little faces on the eggs so each egg has a personality of its own –this allows her to know which side is up. When Mark is in Sarasota, I invite Neva to sleep with me, and we stayed up last night, lying in bed, reading all about the science of hatching chicks. It is educational fun, a science lesson but with the excitement of gaining a new pet too. I will share more on this later. I think hatching eggs with your kid deserves a blog all its own. We went on E-bay to purchase some different poultry eggs too. Amazing what you can find on E-bay. We have bids on exotic duck eggs, a goose egg, and some colorful rare pheasant eggs. You know us Hendry’s – give us an idea and we drive it over the top! It will be fun to share later.

Speaking of poultry, I hate our neighbor’s dog. He’s an ugly hound dog that the owners only feed once a week (up here, that is common. They say keeping dogs lean makes them better for hunting, but I just think its lazy and cruel ownership). The case of my occasional chicken disappearance has been solved. This dog is the culprit. He killed three for sport, then while I was in Sarasota, he tore open a small cage and killed seven Americana babies. Worst of all, he also got a hold of Joe and tore him up. My big ole rooster fought back so he wasn’t killed, but he is terribly injured. He has been sitting in the corner of the roost for a month, head down, trembling. He hobbles around with a limp because his leg was mangled. His tail was torn out. His back has open wounds that look like hamburger. He sure as shoot isn’t crowing.

I said to Mark, “OK, I’m ready to get a gun.”
Mark lifted his eyebrows and said, “Really. I never thought I’d see the day.”
I said, “Yea, I was thinking along the lines of a super soaker.”
“A water gun! Heck, that won’t do anything but take the smell off that dog, and he’ll still eat your chickens. We have to really shoot him. I’ll dig a hole with my tractor and cover him up and no one will know what happened to him. You know, once a chicken killer, always a chicken killer.” (He is always full of these country sayings nowadays. I can’t take him seriously.)

I should point out here that in Georgia, there is a law that allows you to shoot any animal on your property doing mischief. It’s designed to control nuisance dogs that bother livestock. Nevertheless, I would never do harm to an animal, even if it is a total annoyance. For all that the dog (Lady) is a pest and I’m hating her right now, I also know she is just following instincts. It is not her fault she’s grown up untrained, left to wander where she doesn’t belong. (I am all in favor of shooting her owners, however, if that can be arranged.) Our friend Ronnie offered to come shoot her, as if that loophole would make me feel less guilty. Um… no. Then, he advised me to call animal control to pick her up. The problem is, I know they would put her to sleep within seven days, which would be just serving her the death penalty too. I think that is a harsh end for an innocent (albeit monstrous) dog that doesn’t know better.

In the end, Mark and I agreed to a compromise. We are going to buy a rubber pellet gun. They sting like the dickens. That will deter any dog that dares mess with my flock. Mark plans to get lots of target practice because Lady is always on our land, chasing his truck, eating my chickens and attacking our dogs. Shooting rubber pellets is a rough way to train a dog, but what else can we do without hurting her more? I wish they would tie her up.

Meanwhile, Joe is convalescing. I am a good chicken nurse, if I say so myself. Day by day he is getting stronger, but I wonder if he will ever be the robust crowing wonder he once was. Ah well. Love is accepting that the object of our affection won’t always be perfect. I still love him, flaws and all. In fact, maybe I love him more now that he isn’t so cocky.

Another subject: Today, I see Mark bought me a bee starter kit. The company sent me an e-mail that it is on the way. Most be a birthday present. Ten hives, the works.  I’m so excited. I am ordering a bee-suit myself, a birthday gift from my Mother-in-law and Dianne, but they don’t know it yet. They said, “Pick something”. Therefore, I did. It’s a crack-up. It looks like a space suit. Very sexy in a potato sack kind of way. But if you are turned on by girls that spit in the face of pea sized danger and wear head to toe canvas, gloves and a veil, well, I’m your fantasy, Babe. The bee thing is unique – I believe it deserves a blog of its own, so I will speak more on my bee interests later. When I saw the bee suit, I thought, you gotta be kidding. All those years I was putting little three year olds in bee costumes and I was making flower or bear suits for the assistant dancing with them, and I could have gone the bee suit route for only 65.00???? If I’d only known (Not only would that have been a cute and trouble free costume, but I’d have a free bee suit in my closet today. Ah – the opportunities we miss in life.)

Last subject for now:
Beware! Denver and I have signed up to participate in a three day, 60-mile walk for breast cancer in Atlanta in October. I’m excited because we will train together and have a unique camping experience (they erect huge tents and have campfire and such to house the thousands of walkers and provide food, housing, evening entertainment, camaraderie, etc.) and we’ll have lots of miles for down to earth talks.  Mostly, I want to participate because my mother is a breast cancer survivor. Denver and I will walk in her name. But  we must each fundraise 2200 bucks for the charity to participate, so I’ll be hitting you all up for a sponsorship donation later. Heck, I don’t know many people here, so who else can I annoy with a plea to support the cause? Denver works at the coffee shop, so she has access to potential donations. I will have to get more creative. If you sponsor me, I promise to make it worth your while with future commentary that describes the torture, the glory and the blisters. But I’ll address this another day too. Tonight I am tired.

I must go to bed. First, I’ll pick out my book. I’ve been having nightmares all week, so maybe that will allow me sweet dreams for a change. For all that I can control my attitude when I’m awake, I fear I’m less positive in my sleep. The anxiety can’t last forever, can it? I’m ready to feel something else for a change.