Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

Seeing the forest for the trees

Winter is the time for hiking on our land. It’s often gray outside, but it isn’t too cold (mid 40’s). The underbrush has died out this time of year making it the best of circumstances to explore, thanks to the absence of nasty thickets and thorns. Mark and I have been on a quest to learn more about the other end of our forest. We didn’t walk this area when we were searching for a house site because we knew we wanted to put our home near the creek. Most of our early walks were along the back of the property where the water rolls along the wooded hills and through the small pasture portion of our land where I keep the animals.


 


Now, we are planning trails for walking, horseback riding and four wheeling through the forest, so we’re venturing into the opposite end – the unused portion of our acreage. We are trying to find reasonably clear potential paths that Mark can take a tractor through to make level, safe trails. This involves tearing out small trees and thorny bushes with the tractor, cutting away overhead branches by hand and then going over the area again with a scraper bucket to level it a bit. Mark would like to line the pathways with mulch someday, perhaps put a few rustic log benches along the way too. He is contemplating purchasing a wood chipper for this purpose, a good idea since we have this endless supply of trees and wood remnants from his projects to grind into mulch. However, pretty, mulched paths are a low priority when there is so much to do to get this property functional. For now, we just want to make a simple clear trail through the dense forest so we can use this area for recreational purposes.


 


The entire process of making trails is labor intensive. Finding the best path to make is difficult.  We must avoid huge trees that are too difficult to remove, avoid places where the hills are too steep, too rocky or too lopsided, because the tractor might get stuck. We also need to stay on our own land if we are planning to make changes in the terrain, and there isn’t a definite boundary along ½ of our 50 acres.  Thankfully, years ago a neighbor did run a single barbed wire along his property and this helps us to know where our land ends on one side.  As for the other side, well, we have a hard time trying to figure out just how far our land goes. Each of our neighbors has 100 plus acres. We also keep getting lost on walks. We were told there once was a county road that circled Kings Farm (our land) and this defined our property line. We discovered an overgrown path that probably was this road long ago at the very front of our land, but deep in the forest, it disappears. When we walk through the trees we get all turned around and confused, then all of a sudden Mark will say, “Hey, there is my workshop” and we will get our bearings again. It sure makes it understandable how people really do get lost in the woods. Apparently, it’s an easy thing to do when you are out there with endless trees and a hidden sky.


 


Slowly, we are learning this unexplored side of our land and beginning to plan future paths. Mark took a tractor in and carved out a good 50 feet where the former road lay, but now he is at a point where we have to tag trees in advance to guide him through the wilder areas safely. We’ve discovered some cool things, such as an old house site out in the forest. We found a pile of rocks that was a former hearth with an old tin chimney shoot. I found a big glass jar too. They used to make moonshine out here, (they called this area “hells hollow” because of it and I wonder if this “site” might have been a rustic cabin designed for that purpose. Fascinating! We stumbled upon a dried up man made well and we’ve discovered many deer paths.


 


Mark finds things he plans to come back for later, like a cherry tree, all gnarled and burled that he can harvest to make something remarkable. When nature is your art medium, originality is limited by those gifts you discover through sheer luck. Yesterday, he pulled a thin tree from the ground and it had this huge bulbous knot under the soil near the root, like a big, wood onion or something. It was a freak of nature. He was thrilled. Turned and polished, that will make a unique bowl, I’m told. For this reason, our walks are fun, but they do demand energy and involve some discomfort –everything from scratches to sore muscles. Mark is famous for pushing branches aside and letting them loose with perfect timing so they careen towards my face. Luckily, I have good ducking reflexes.


 


Sometimes I wonder if we are totally crazy. It would have been so easy to just buy a farm with a nice workshop intact, a barn, and perhaps some well-used paths. Life could have gone on uninterrupted- no wait for gratification. But leave it to us to find an expanse of land that didn’t bare the stamp of someone else’s vision. As such, our life is labor intensive from all angles. And it requires patience. Mark is still waiting for his workshop to be finished (waiting for final electrical work to get those big machines running). I don’t know when (or if) I will ever get a barn, and it will take years to correct the soil to get our currently weedy pasture lush and to create the big generous garden I want. Paths designed for pensive walks or rides will probably be a five-year project, at the very least. And then, there is the grove I want to plant. It takes a minimum of three years for apple or peach trees to produce – ten years for walnuts. As you can see, we have to have faith and long term vision to make this land self sustaining and ideal. 


 


But everything worth having is worth working for, so I’m not complaining. Our house was a huge, difficult project, but it was worth the sacrifices and the long wait. I trust, in the end, our homestead will be a paradise suitable to our specific tastes, and we will be able to take pride in every inch of it. Putting your stamp on a place makes it really your own. But, (sigh) it does make you want to take a nap or two along the way.


 


When the grader came to fix our decrepit gravel road (after cement trucks visiting the house site tore it up) he told us of a fellow who would take out pine trees for free. You allow the guy to sell the trees to a paper company and he will do the work to remove them. Since you are not paying him, he leaves a bit of a mess behind. Stumps and debris are left in the areas deforested, but if you want trees removed, at least the heavy work has been accomplished.


 


Our forest area is so dense that you can barely walk through it. Unfortunately, it isn’t thick with wonderful hardwoods, but quick growing pines. These trees grow straight up in short time, then they rot and fall. Downed trees are everywhere, rotting and making the land look a mess. Every time there is a heavy wind, a tree will fall to block the road, or one will crash into our pasture fence, or threaten to collapse our workshop or chicken house. We lost our huge metal garage that way. Several fences. When trees fall and obstruct the road, Mark removes them with the tractor, but it takes half a day. We’ve had most of the potential problem trees removed around the house, but still, these wicked trees are everywhere, threatening to land wherever they may. It is frustrating. In the evenings when I walk to feed the horses, the sound of these monster trees creaking, groaning and cracking like the bones of some old man getting out of bed, is ominous. I imagine them crashing down around me. Some are even at huge slanted angles, readying for that moment when they will slap the earth.  They are like weapons – bombs waiting for a trigger (a slight wind) to set them off.


 


The country boys here call these trees “nigger pines” (because they are good for noth’in) which, as you can imagine, offends me to no end. I told them they are not to use that term EVER around me. They argued that that is what the trees are called. I said, “Certainly they have another name. I don’t believe the word “nigger pine” is going to be found in any botanical dictionary in the world.”


 


They grinned and explained that the only other name for them is “Virginia pine”, and if I rather have these damn, good for noth’in trees named after ME, well, they can call ’em that. I told them I can live with the term, so now when we discuss the trees, they are referred to as “those trees” – at least when I am around.


 


Anyway, the pines are a problem, not everywhere, but in areas where we want to function safely. So, we made arrangements with the pine removal man, and he has come to remove trees from the land surrounding the pasture. He comes in with huge equipment to cut down and load dozens of 30-foot pines into a flatbed truck. Each day, he carts a load away, but it hardly makes a dent in the woods. Amazing. He leaves around four, which is when I feed the horses. I’ve started walking back through the woods where he has deforested, checking out the new lay of the land. I look to see if there are any animals that might have suffered from the project, afraid I might find a baby squirrel dislodged from a  nest or a baby raccoon whose den has been unearthed. So far, I haven’t found any creature distressed, thank goodness. But is it odd to see the land changed. When you drive in now, you can see the road to the house where before you could only see trees. It takes some getting used to. It isn’t better or worse, just different.


 


I think about how difficult it must have been for early settlers to do this with nothing but an ax and a draft horse. Amazing what man has accomplished throughout history. It is a huge job even now, with chainsaws and huge grapple machinery and trucks. The massive pile of leftover branches is daunting. Mark will have to work hard to clean the area up. He will have to get out there on his tractor, move it all to a burn pit, and remove what stumps he can. Eventually, we will have a cleared area with only a few hardwoods left behind. We can plant shade plants here, or ride through the open spaces on the horses. We can position a picnic bench under the canapé of hardwood trees left, or remove them and turn this area into an apple grove. Whatever we do, it will offer us new possibilities for this section of the land, which is exciting.


 


We are waiting to see how we feel about the deforested area before deciding what to do with the rest of our land. If it is too much work to clean in the aftermath, or if it looks too “cultured” we will stop him. We figure we will probably be happy allowing the pine-guy all the area around the pasture, which is probably twelve acres, but we will leave the twenty acres of dense forest on the opposite side of the road wild. Trees may fall on our riding paths, but Mark can cut them up for firewood. I’d hate to lose all of our natural forest, even if it is full of creaky pines and dense underbrush.


    


So, with diligence and effort, we are making this little corner of the world evolve into something akin to our fondest (middle-aged) dreams. This project is not unlike our former accomplishments, building a business and/or designing a certain kind of life that involved a creative work environment, family and home. As a couple, we have always worked together well, probably because we think so much alike. When two like-minds focus together on a single target, wonderful things can be accomplished. At least, that has proven to be the case with us. What is important is that we continue to “see the forest for the trees.” And just to make sure we don’t lose sight of the big picture, we are even thinning out our trees a bit. 

And now, for a bit of pictorial illustration. . . 
This is what the forest looks like before we thin out the trees. See how they tumble? This is not one of the worst sections, but an area where the picture actually turned out.



This is a the pine-guy (I really should ask his name) at work taking wood for paper. Hey, wonder if any of that will find it’s way home and become a canvas for the manuscript I am writing. Even if not, it is a romantic thing to imagine….
   



This is the mess Mark is left to clean up. I don’t know if you can see how big the pile of branches is, but it is at least the size of a garage. I’ve also added a picture of one of Mark’s new trails (this one goes from the house to the workshop) so you can see what a raw path looks like.

   


Now, I must get my head out of the trees and off of paths I want to walk and return to the path of more resistance. Homework.  Sigh.

Oh, that beautiful Papaya Pill.

A few weeks ago, I decided to purchase papaya tablets for my angora bunnies. Since there isn’t a health food store around here, I went on-line to a discount vitamin company to place an order. I found what I was looking for at a great price, though shipping more or less ate away the savings. As long as I was paying postage, I decided to browse a bit to see if there was anything else I might want to include in the package. I ended up buying a bottle of joint supplement for my husband because he is constantly battling arthritis in his hips and knees.


 


When I got home from Boston, Mark mentioned that my package had come. He said, “I see you bought me some pills. Thanks.”


 


I said, “I thought they might help. Where are my rabbit vitamins, by the way?”


 


He hesitated a moment, then said, “What rabbit vitamins?”


 


“The papaya enzymes. You know, the ones I went on-line to get for my angoras. I told you about that. They help the rabbits pass the hair they digest.”  


 


“You told me that? I don’t remember. Well, now that you say it, maybe I do. I did wonder why you bought so much of the stuff.”


 


“Well, where’d ya put them?”


 


Mark shrugged guiltily. “I’ve been taking them. I thought they were for me. I saw the joint pills so I just assumed whatever else was in the box was something you wanted me to take.”


 


It turns out, he put the remaining three bottles in my office. A few days later, I noticed Mark taking his vitamins, and he was still popping papaya enzymes. This amused me.


 


“So, how’s the papaya working out for you, dear?”


 


He cast me a sideways glance. “Really good. I haven’t coughed up a hairball once since I began taking them.”


 


Made me grin, but what the heck. They can’t hurt him.


 


Later that day, we were eating lunch, and Mark looks at me thoughtfully and says, “You look amazing. Really gorgeous. You are going through a fantastic phase.” He has been saying this a lot lately. I’ll be knee deep in horseshit and he will pause and tell me I look fantastic. Always cracks me up.


 


“Thank you dear.”


 


“No really. Every since we sold FLEX you’ve looked ten times better than you use to look. Maybe it is your going to school too. You look different. As if you are at peace or something. I think it’s contentment. That can change your entire look, you know.”


 


“Could be. I certainly scowl less now that I am arguing with chickens rather than dance parents.”


 


He now starts waving his spoon at me, as if he is analyzing my face, pointing to all the parts that make the whole. “Your hair is glamorous. You look like someone going into a beauty contest, not like someone getting ready to go hike in the woods.”


 


“Thank you dear.” (I’m now thinking it is time for him to stop, and I was right, because the next thing he said was..)


 


“You’ve somehow even grown into your nose over the years. Your face is perfectly proportioned now. Amazing.”    


 


Well, for thirty seconds he was almost romantic.


 


It occurs to me that if I am just in a “good phase”, it implies I will move through the phase and come out at the other end as homely as I might have been before. And I don’t have the heart to tell him that my great hair is really just a result of the Georgia water and the lack of Florida humidity. Every day is a great hair day for me since we moved here. I’ve been extremely lucky in that way.


 


 I shrug and say, “I think it’s just that you love me, so I look pretty to you.”


 


“Oh, I’m sure that isn’t the case,” he says. (Now I’m thinking, “Are you a total fool? Do you realize that was your opportunity to gain major brownie points, and you blew it. You better shut up before you dig a hole so deep you wont be able to climb out, buddy.)


 


I point out that I am one of those women who tend to get better with age and he’d be wise to keep taking his vitamins, because by the time I’m eighty, he’s gonna have a wife that’s a knock out and I’d hate for him to miss it.


 


He spends a few more minutes talking about my face and body like I am a car and he is kicking the tires.


 


I occurs to me that he’s been pointing out how pretty he thinks I am a lot lately, at the oddest moments. Like when I am vacuuming the car, or scrubbing a toilet or stepping out of the shower all wet and cross-eyed because I’m so tired. I usually pat him on the head and say thanks, or I just ignore him. He has to think I’m pretty. It’s a husband’s job.


 


Then, yesterday, he starts complimenting me again as we were headed out for our daily walk in the woods. I put my hands on my hips and said, “Honey, I hate to tell you, but it isn’t me. I’m the same as I always have been. Perhaps, now that we don’t own FLEX you’ve gotten around to  noticing me for the first time. The truth is, I think it’s you. You are the one who has changed somehow, and this changes your perceptions. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. But it isn’t me. It’s you.”


 


For a few minutes he contemplates this. “Maybe you’re right. It is me.” Then, he grins and adds, “I am, after all, taking rabbit vitamins.”     


 


Ha. Well, there you have it, Girls. Run out and purchase some papaya enzymes and you can be pretty 24-7 too.


 


So today, I started taking a few papaya enzymes with my vitamins as well. I figure, what the heck. Can’t hurt me. I won’t have to worry about hairballs . . .  and it just might help my husband grow into his big ole ears (which look a bit bigger since he began taking the rabbit pills.  Hummm…)

Whatever works, I always say.

Rooster madness

First impressions often are misleading. You can know someone for a long time, and you are confident you have them pegged, then something occurs to make you realize they are a totally different sort of person than what you originally believed. Shakes you to discover how wrong you were all along.   


 


But who’d a thought that would prove the case with chickens too?


 


Those of you who have been around a long time might remember how badly I coveted a rooster once I decided to try the country lifestyle on for size. I bought a half dozen chicks, hoping one or two might turn out male. As it turned out, only one small bannie turned out male and he had only a teeny crow – hardly satisfying for a girl who wants a boisterous crow for an alarm clock. Therefore, I went out and bought Joe, a big, strapping rooster. You can’t have more than one rooster unless they are free range and you should provide many, many females to keep them happy. Confined together, roosters will fight. It’s nature’s way (thus the basis for illegal cockfights.) However, I was lucky. My pint sized rooster and my big, bossy rooster seemed to get along fine in their pen. I plan to let my chickens out to free range in the spring anyway, so I just need them to remain happy for a few more months.


 


The other day, we heard crowing. Oddly, it wasn’t as loud as Joe’s usual song or as delicate as little Pot Pie’s. Mark and I started arguing about which bird was making the racket. We crept around the corner to prove which of us was right, and don’t ya know, but it was Phyllis (Ahem, now he’s a Phil, I guess.) Phil is one of the wild afro headed fancy chickens that I bought six months ago. He’s sprouted those red jowls under his chin and the feathers around his neck have grown long, covering his chest like a magnificent mane. I guess puberty’s finally caught up with him, revealing itself the week I was in Boston. 


 


I was shocked. Delighted. Amazed. It took six months for this maleness to reveal itself. But now that it’s come out of the closet, there is no turning back. Uh Oh.


 


The new Phil started crowing more than any of the other roosters. I thought he was just flexing his new male muscles, proving his manhood or something. I watched carefully, but the three roosters didn’t seem inclined to fight, so things looked amicable, at least for now.


 


Then, I discovered why I was hearing that new crowing so much. HE wasn’t the only one testing out his new crow. The other afro-head fancy chicken was crowing too. No physical changes in this one yet. In looks, he still appears to be a chicken, but obviously not.  I stared at this bird, checking time and again to confirm that that sound was really coming from him- surely I must be seeing things. Diller can’t also a rooster! But apparently, he is. Holly Cow.


 


Now, I have four confirmed boys- only three girls. And I keep staring at my two silkies imagining they are going to bust out in a big cock a doodle doo any time now too. Ee-gad. I am drowning in roosters! Mark keeps saying, “I think the black silkie is a boy too.” I don’t know if he really believes this, or he likes to torture me. He has a devious smile every time he mentions it. Only a shallow man could find my rooster delimma entertaining, and I told him just that.


 


In a way it all makes sense.  Here I was thinking my chickens are big egg-laying slackers. Umm….. considering boys don’t lay eggs, I guess it’s pretty clear why I haven’t stumbled upon any eggs yet. The question is, will I ever? Ee-gad. What if they are ALL roosters!


 


Next thing I knew, the two newly mature roosters started fighting – just small squabbles, but I was pretty sure it’d only be a matter of time until things would escalates. I’d have to get rid of a few roosters. Shit. I am now totally attached to these birds, ya know, and when someone around these parts is willing to take a fully grown rooster, it’s usually for the dinner table.


 


My best friend, Jody, was in town visiting the weekend I got home from my residency. Her son moved up here last year and his girlfriend just had a baby, making Jody a new grandmother. Anyway, when she visits she and her son (Kent’s dearest friend) stay with us.  I always look forward to and enjoy her time up here. We take walks, ride the horses and talk till we are hoarse. Anyway, she was with me when we discovered Diller was another boy.


 


She said, “I think he’s a cool looking bird. I’d take him home with me if I had a cage I could fit in the car.” Oddly enough, Jody already has a pet chicken at home that hangs out in her yard. And it just so happens I have an extra cage. Mark recently found it under the cabin, and because it was slightly rusty, he told Kent to throw it into the burn pit. I saw it and thought “no way are you gonna toss a perfectly good cage”. I rescued it, thinking with all the animals we have and will have, we can always use another cage, rusty or not. What do ya know? Seems like fate to me.


 


The next day, we loaded the bird in the rusty cage into the back of Jody’s car for the long drive back to Florida. It was crowing all morning, as if he wanted to assure me he was positively male and I had made the right decision letting him go to the land of sunshine.  He will have a girl all to himself now. Great luck for a slow-to-mature bird, don’t you agree?


 


So, I have three roosters now, which I admit, makes me a tad nervous. And I suddenly feel sadly chicken deprived. Next month, the first shipment of new spring chicks becomes available. I plan to bite the bullet and pay the big bucks for pre-sexed chicks – that way I KNOW I’m buying egg-layers. Non-sexed birds are about 3.00 each and you take your chances. To assure I get girls I’ll have to shell out a whopping 4.50 a head this year. Ah well, that is the kind of financial sacrifice I must be willing to make to get what I want. You see, other people don’t care what they get. The girls become egg provides and the boys become fryers.  Personally, I love boys too much to be the instrument of their demise. So, I’ll practice what is the equivalent of chicken birth control to keep my poultry morals intact.


 


Now you may ask, how many girls will I buy? LOTS! I figure with three boys (and who knows what to expect from those sneaky silkies) I need lots of tail to keep everyone crowing. We will be overrun with eggs by the time I’m done, but what’s a girl to do? That is the cost of Rooster over-compensation.


 


Ya just never know when life is gonna throw you a curve.

What I Learned at my Last Residency

I have finally returned from my residency. It was intense, and frankly, I wasn’t much in the mood for “intense” at this stage in the game. But now that it’s over, I am grateful for the entire MFA experience, despite the fact that, at times, it seemed as if I was needlessly submitting myself to heart wrenching and ego destroying torture.


 


I had a sort of epiphany during the week. Suddenly, everything fell into place. I understood the subtlety of literary writing, and had a better grasp of my own writing nature (both the good and the bad). This clarity put me into a deep, contented calm. For months, I’ve been very frustrated and my mind has been clogged up with questions. I was one of those difficult students that challenged the academic world and the literary approach to writing. I felt as if I was in the wrong place (for me). I hung in there, but with a small dash of skepticism to make the huge serving of humility easier to swallow. Then, the final days of my last residency . . . things changed. 


 


I don’t know if it was a matter of the right combination of lectures, or the fact that hearing the same truths over and over again in different ways finally allowed my mind to circle the concepts. Mayhap, my slow understanding can be attributed to forth quarter seasoning. I did wonder if every senior suddenly comes away with clarity at this pivotal climax in the program– but in talking to others, I’m guessing some do and some don’t.


 


Anyway, I went to school thinking I spent a great deal of time and money on an academic education which was nothing more than a needless hike off my path, (and a way to get a piece of paper to support a teaching job, should I ever want one) but I came home feeling as if getting my MFA was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. All the things my mentors have said from the very beginning suddenly rang true. I felt such a deep appreciation for their advice and encouragement. I also felt horrible, chagrined that I didn’t trust them, wasn’t more receptive, and didn’t immediately comprehend the abstract concepts they presented from the beginning. I think the professors, professional writers all (each already having struggled through these layers of understanding themselves) have a very difficult job transferring the knowledge to others. The failure rate must be very high. So many students leave with mediocre writing ability and shallow literary commitments. This isn’t the fault of the instructors, however. They say all the right things with admirable passion and an earnest desire to help beginner writers improve. They love literature, and sincerely want to introduce their students to the glory of writing from a “real place”. But writing students come with this hard to penetrate shield of ego that makes them thick as a rock. How those poor professors keep from bopping us on the head, I’ll never know.  


 


In my case, I came to realize that what they are trying to teach about writing is unteachable. Writing well is something that only time, reading, grasping, and trial and error can teach you. Developing literary sensibilities is a bit like faith, somewhat intangible, yet it exists in your soul. Exposure seems to be the only way to absorb the essence of what a person needs to know to write well.  


 


Like so many of the students I talked to, I came to the program expecting to be taught how to write. I thought that entailed learning sentence structure, character arcs, and plot development. I wanted to learn the nuts and bolts of writing. These basic skills are often clearly missing from much of the student’s work, which also shook my confidence in the program. “If the students can’t tell a decent story, who cares how beautiful their language sounds.” I thought. 


 


But now, I think an MFA program is based on the theory that every student comes with basic storytelling knowledge. If not, they’ll learn it later. Due to all the seminars and classes I took before this program, I was more knowledgeable than most in the storytelling nut and bolts. Odd, that. So many of the students already have a masters in English, or at least a BA in creative writing, poetry, or English. This doesn’t help them master storytelling per say, but it does provide them a strong foundation for higher concepts. I was a different sort of student, lots of real life application skills, but lacking in a strong academic foundation. For example, every student in the program has this vast repertoire of literary reading to draw from. They are all familiar with Carver, Wolfe, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Whitman, and Hemmingway. I’ve only ready a few of these remarkable authors, and that was back in high school or in my one Classical Literature Class in college. Made me feel inadequate in classroom discussions, I’ll tell you. (I now understand why I had trouble being accepted into such a program. I was not what they were looking for, by any means.)


 


But as is my way, I tried to compensate. I read everything I could these past two years, and bought every book mentioned in a class, even if it was only a brief statement such as, “Did you ever read (fill in the blank)? It was a great example of what we are discussing”. I kept a list of titles in the columns of my notes, then bought every book referred to on Amazon when I got home. Now, I have this huge pile of unread literary masterpieces that I intend to plow through now that my school reading is over. I may have started off behind in this academic race, but I will end up qualified to discuss the great examples of literature (at least my opinion of it) with the best of ’em.


 


I must now turn my attentions to my thesis manuscript. I’ve rewritten this bugger completely, three times now. It still sucks. But now, I understand why. I’ve written this book with an edgy voice, in a style that borders on chick lit. Commercial.  But the subject matter is very meaningful to me, and handling it in so trite a way makes the entire story ring false. I truly hate my book and my leading character, which happens to be bitter and unlikable, not to mention that she can’t stop saying all these stupid one-liners that make me cringe. I need to dump half the book and rewrite it to show the depth and the confusion of the main character. And I need to stop stereotyping the dancers in the book. I was trying to write a book about dance, but really, this has to be a story about one dancer. There is a huge difference. If this is a book about one dancer and her struggle with aging, it will be poignant and real. If I tell the story well, it will introduce my reader to those elements of dance I wanted to write about too.


 


So, (sigh) it is back to the drawing board, yet again. I only need 120-150 complete pages for my thesis, due on April 9th. They don’t really want a finished product, they prefer a writing sample as tangible evidence that you’ve developed as a writer. This will be shelved with a zillion other thesis manuscripts, all equally imperfect – they are, after all, only examples of student work. They say your “book” (the one you might sell someday, or share with the world) is something that comes later, long after you have graduated. Trusting that, I will not fret my book being incomplete. I will just do the best I can at this stage in my development. I’ll concentrate on those opening pages. Then, I think I will probably put this novel aside and turn to something else for a while. Sometimes I think this is a book I am not meant to write – or not meant to write now, at least.  But I must attend to it to complete my thesis, like it or not.  Anyway, my book has been an interesting tool of torture, but it’s brought me to a greater understanding of writing as an art.


 


Funny, what made me a good dance teacher was my understanding of dance as an art, rather than approaching it as an activity of entertainment or a physical mastery of steps and tricks. And the bane of my existence was fighting dancers and their parents to teach the vital element that gives dance artistic merit. My students, due to their youth and their endless exposure to commercial dance venues, saw only the surface design of dance, quickly becoming overconfident in their abilities when they mastered technique. They were always so sure they knew what they needed and wanted and they were forever looking for validation through foolish means. Meanwhile, I went crazy, because they were blind to the deeper understanding I was trying to convey. Very few of our students ever gained a true grasp of the art. Many of our most talented were thwarted in their progress because of ego and/or their parents trying to control the flow of their dance experiences – wanting instant gratification and worthless kudos in the hear and now. I was always thinking long term, wanting them to reach greater heights, which would not only allow them to develop into true artists, but make dance more richly rewarding on a personal level. That kind of gratification beats any ego stroking around. But this kind of seasoning takes time, and can only be achieved with sacrifice. (Sacrifice is not a popular thing with people today.)  It was frustrating. Sad. I wanted so much more for my students than I could teach due to all the obstacles – not the least of which is the spoiled mindset of our contemporary culture today. (For the record, Mark felt the same.)


 


The kicker is, as a student, I’ve been on the other end of this struggle. I’ve had the same dense mentality in writing that I used to consider ignorance in dance. Go figure. I guess all art forms are the same in central ways. Art is so close to the ego and psyche, we are resistant to growth. We must accept our limits first, and that is painful. Great art is so much more than surface design or skill building. It is not just that you can execute a piece. It is not enough to copy what you see others do. Being an artist is about personal expression, truth, and creation from the gut. It isn’t what you can do on the surface, but what you understand underneath it all, which shades and influences the work, that makes a difference.   


 


Mark says I’ll be teaching writing before I’m done, and no doubt he is right. I’ll publish a few things, gain the credentials I need to feel qualified , and then, filled with a passion for art, I’ll want to share it with others. That is my way. I’m a natural leader – or a blustering bossy boots, however you want to view it. Either way, when the time comes, I’ll return to the other end of the spectrum, a leader once again in a war against mediocrity. It will be a new battle, but a battle I am familiar with, even so.  Life truly is circular, I guess.


 


But for now, I am still a student. I am working hard to swallow my frustration and shed my need for ego stroking. I am facing my demons, which involves accepting the limits of my talent and committing myself to facing my weaknesses rather than hiding behind my strengths. It’s hard. Painful. And so many days I just want to quit. Of course, I won’t.


 


Our guest speaker this term was Andre Debois III. He wrote “The House of Sand and Fog”. You may have seen the movie. He was such an inspiration. Upbeat, funny, and very real. He talked about how difficult the journey of developing your craft can be. And he talked about what an MFA can and can’t do for you. His honesty was insightful. Inspirational. Depressing too, but in a good way.


 


One of my previous mentors, William Lychack, taught a wonderful seminar called the Fraud Police. He gave us poignant readings that demonstrate that even great authors feel inadequate, questioning their talent and their work. It is a very dark business, this learning to write. Ravages your confidence. Shakes you to the core. His lecture was riveting. I wanted to go shake his hand, thank him, and apologize for being such a tree stump when he was mentoring me. Instead, I simply thanked him for the class. I’m an idiot. Don’t need to explain that to him. Nothing he didn’t already know.  


 


In Andre’s lecture, he told us about why he became a writer. He described how he felt the first time he wrote a story. He was in college, and had just turned an assignment in to his English teacher. Then, walking home he noticed a single leaf on a tree branch. Every blade of grass. The way the sun glistened off a car roof. It was as if he had abruptly awakened to the world. Everything was in focus. Intense – his emotions, observations.  He felt so very alive. Writing did that for him.


 


It does that for me too.


 


I listened to this successful author, not thinking he was lucky or had some amazing gift I shouldn’t dare aspire to. In fact, he didn’t seem any different from me – just further along the difficult writer’s journey. When he talked about how painful writing can be, how alone and heart wrenching it made a person feel at times, I knew I was not alone. My experiences are no different from others who’ve written before me, or from those that will come along after. Pain is a part of progress – a part of developing any artistic gift to a greater potential.


 


So . . . I will continue to face the discomfort, trusting what my teachers have told me. Determined. Without fear. Without regret. Most importantly, without doubt.


I won’t settle for “adequate” or seek a quick commercial fix – even though my ego longs for some kind of validation. People who do not understand all this will say, “What have you published?” And when I say, “Nothing,” they will smile politely, assuming this is a sign of failure. I’ll know differently.


 


That is what getting an MFA has done for me.

Embracing Rejection

Today, I finished reading the material to prepare for my final MFA residency. Whew! I must say the material seems far better than what I was reading a year and a half ago when I began. The Lesley University MFA program was just beginning at the time, so I suppose the criteria is getting stronger for acceptance– and those of us who are currently participating are improving too. That is good news for Lesley. And good news for any graduate of the program too. I am grateful I was able to be a part of this fine learning experience, despite the work, ego shattering insights, and the personal stress that came with pursuing this degree. Hats off to the director, Steven Cramer. No one knows better than I that an arts program is only as good as its director.


 


Today, I got a rejection letter from a literary magazine. I haven’t sent material out to contests or publishers since beginning this MFA, except for a few rare cases. I took a sabbatical from attempts to become established, because I considered this my learning time. But when my non-fiction teacher commented that he thought my piece “Threads of Meaning” was ready for publication, I was inspired. Feeling confident that afternoon, I sent it out to a literary contest – for fun. I think I have two more contest entries floating out there, but I didn’t expect much from the attempt, so I didn’t keep track.


 


Anyway, today I receive a form rejection from Alligator Juniper, a fine literary magazine published at <ST1Prescott College. At the bottom of the form letter is a handwritten note from the editor. It says”


    “Although we won’t be publishing “Threads of Meaning” it made it into our top twelve. I particularly loved the details of the different dyes on pg 5, the washing of the wool on that same page, and the wonderful detail of spinning wool directly off the rabbit in her lap. Just lovely. Finally, our staff had trouble with certain clichés or puns in the essay. Examples: “. . . wools been pulled over our eyes “(11) and “sheepish”. Best of Luck and we encourage you to submit again next year.” Melanie Bishop, Nonfiction editor.


 


Now, rather than feel disheartened or disappointed by this rejection, I was thrilled. They receive hundreds of entries to a contest like this, from hundreds of MFA students and aspiring literary writers (published and unpublished). I made top twelve? Amazing. And the editor thought enough of my work to tell me why it didn’t win, and that they still thought it had merit. I have the opportunity now to revise the piece, following their advice, and try again. Or I can ignore their advice and still try again. All I know is my rejections are coming from much better publications, and they are personal. That is progress. I know firsthand that you don’t bother to correct people who have no talent. A teacher or anyone in a position of authority tends to direct energies towards developing artists that they believe show promise. I know this because so many of our dance students used to get offended by corrections, as if that was our way of telling them they didn’t measure up, when in truth, correction were a great compliment. Therefore, I consider today’s rejection a love letter of sorts. We put things in perspective dependant upon life experience, after all.


 


I did use a few puns in my essay, but I was fully aware of them. I slipped them in for fun – never wanting to take myself too seriously.  I suppose I should take them out, but I will be sorry to do so. Makes the piece less filled with my personality – more sophisticated. Frankly, I strive to make everything I write down to earth and smile inspiring, yet meaningful too. Guess by putting “myself” into the dialogue, it becomes a bit corney. Ah well.


 


I do not consider myself a literary writer nor do I aspire to be one. I have a good handle on literary writing now, thanks to school. I have great respect for this mode of literature, and my understanding of it will influence me and shade my writing forever. It is like dance. I studied classical ballet and modern with serious intent, but in the end, I remained a jazz dancer. I became a rather sophisticated jazz dancer with a great deal of classical dance knowledge to draw upon, but still, I chose the more commercial venue. And that was the right choice for me. I never felt I was selling out or lacking the serious overtones associated with great art. I do not see art as so neatly defined, and I’ve never been one to fall for the sudo-sophisticated attitude that “pure” artists cling to for authenticity.  


 


I believe I will do much the same thing with writing as I did with dance – circle the beast fully, then settle where my instinct tells me I belong.  I can’t describe how comfortable I am with that decision, having explored all avenues of literary fiction. It is one thing to be a commercial hack because you do not have literary sensibilities or a foundation in sophisticated technique – but another thing altogether to use this broad base of understanding to write commercial fiction well. This is all theoretical, of course. I don’t know if I will write any better having pursued a formal education or not, but logic tells me it was my path to full development.   Feels that way, at least.


 


Today I signed up for my first conference in two years. It is conveniently in Atlanta so I’ll just drive in each day. This one is a serious literary conference for people who direct writing programs and run literary magazines, and for writers in MFA programs. A far cry from the romance conventions I began with. It is the AWP Conference (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) They are offering a huge selection of artsy fartsy classes which will stretch my exposure to subject matter. Primarily, I am excited about a few classes that discuss subjects I may consider for my senior seminar class. I am planning to discuss the possibility of a course that focuses on blogs as a path to stream of consciousness writing and how material from blogs can develop into work that is more serious. This may not fly, because my particular thesis doesn’t use blog material at all, and our seminar should be a development of our thesis study. But there is a class at the conference that discusses this Blog/literary growth issue, which may serve as support for it’s literary merit (and a means of research should I decide to go with it).I printed out the 45 page seminar class offerings, highlighting this session to show my mentor.  I’d sure enjoy researching the subject, anyway.  


 


I am also eyeing classes at the seminar about running a literary magazine and developing writing programs and teaching writing at the community level to disadvantaged groups. This is of particular interest to me. I am a natural teacher, after all, and I have a soft spot for those who need guidance and a leg up. Writing is power. And I’ve thought a lot about how I am going to “give back” to the art I love. Did it in a multitude of ways with dance. Must do it now with writing, ya know. It is a part of my personal commitment to Artistic Karma- a way to show gratitude to the heavens for my opportunities and gifts.    


 


Anyway, I was a big fat looser in the Alligator Juniper contest, but I feel good about it. And today, I got an idea for the senior thesis seminar I will begin preparing this term. Yippee.


I’m always thankful for small gifts, especially those hidden underneath unattractive wrapping paper.


 

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!


Over the years, I’ve watched many things drop in celebration of the calendar turning over. I’ve seen the ball (or the big apple) drop in New York. In Atlanta, they drop a huge glittering Peach that looks like it belongs in Vegas. A few lucky years, I’ve even seen a pair of pants drop, in anticipation of fireworks, if ya know what I mean.


 


How do we celebrate here in the Mountains of Northwest Georgia? Why, we drop a possum, of course. I kid you not. In Murphy, right by the <st1laceName w:st=”on”>Campbell</st1laceName> <st1laceName w:st=”on”>Folk</st1laceName> <st1laceType w:st=”on”>School</st1laceType>, they lower a possum in a cage as the countdown for the New Year. Hundreds of people go to watch this exciting event. They cover the hillside with coolers and blankets. A stage is erected and live bands play. Big fun! And right next door, the folk school has a square dance, live music and a New Year’s Eve party for people who rather laugh and dance in a down to earth way, than wear sequins and get sloshed. We thought the country version of ringing in the New Year sounded like a novel experience. Never a mistake to try something new.


 


Apparently, a year or two ago, the Possum dropping was featured in the Times and received national attention (news must have been slow that day) and now animal rights groups are fighting to stop the tradition. The fellow who began this event pointed out that he catches the possum a month prior and feeds and cares for it well. It’s not as if he throws it from the window, for Pete sake. After lowering the possum to the cheers of droves, he said he then lets it go, but as a side note, he added “and it’s perfectly healthy until someone hits it with a car going home.” He was kidding, of course, but this set off another bout of fury regarding animal rights.


 


 Now, everyone knows I am an animal enthusiast. Heck, I even send money to organizations for pig rights – but for all we know, the possum loves the attention. I don’t see this as unacceptable furry friend abuse myself.


 


Yesterday, it rained all day. Not good possum dropping weather, I fear. And my youngest has been sick. Sure as shoot, at 5:00 she had a raging fever. I wasn’t going to leave her home like that, nor would I drag her out, so we ended up missing all the excitement and opted to stay home. Kent had a friend staying over. I did some impromptu cooking. Made chicken wings, meatball subs, homemade mac and cheese, salad and blackberry cobbler from some of the blackberries I picked this summer. (That was my idea of a tribute to my first year on this land.) The evening was casual. Nice. Dianne and I shared a bottle of wine. We watched movies and reminisced about past New Years. We’ve had years of feast and famine, and oddly enough, it’s the years of famine that are most memorable. Being broke forces creativity. There is good in everything.  


 


When I was young, I always worked on New Years. I was a bartender in New York right around the corner from Times Square, so as you can imagine, it was a big night. Then, when I was performing, they always scheduled a show on New Years, and again, I worked, but the cast would go out dancing or something afterwards. In Florida, the winter break was always the time we would buckle down and work to get the dance season caught up. We were forever remodeling, taking inventory, ordering costumes – working to organize the school to improve it. Plenty of New Years found us in the studio working, my begging Mark to take us home at 11:30 so we could at least celebrate at home with the kids. (Not that I’m complaining, for those years of endless struggle and work did pay off.) He always gave an apologetic sigh and we would rush home minutes before midnight. Funny, I remember those New Year’s fondly.  There is something celebratory in working for a future. One year, when Denver was little and I was single, I hosted a kid party so at least my friends could go out. I spent the night going wild with people under six. Let me tell you, they do the holiday right. We were drunk on chocolate frosting – pots and pans singing out into the night. Good times.


 


When Mark and I prospered, we started doing the things we assumed normal people were doing. A few times, we had a lovely dinner party and friends came over to celebrate. We played games, took a hot tub, opened champagne. That was nice. One year we went to a Broadway show and attended the New Year’s Party with the cast afterwards. We were rather bored. All those overdressed people paying too much for an organized event was not our style. One year we were invited to a neighborhood New Year’s Party. That was weird. All these conservative neighbors gathered and got loaded and started dancing on the tables and making out. It made us snicker knowingly every time we drove down the street and saw them watering their lawns for months afterwards. Ha. They were smart enough not to do that one again.


 


The year we bought our dilapidated  cabin up here, we happened to be hauling trash to the dump, preparing for the remodeling project. The kids were home with Denver. That year, we took a bottle of wine to the drive-in – the first drive in I’d visited since high school. We celbrated by watched movies through a thin sheen of snow, wrapped in blankets in the front seat, going through our cold bottle of wine and then the thermos of coffee we also brought. Good year. I remember Mark saying, “Could you imagine living here?” I think I said something like, “Fat chance for us.” Ha.


 


I guess I’ve never been one to want to go wild on New Years. I don’t like the crowds or the people who drink too much and turn from fun to obnoxious. Driving is dangerous. Restaurants and events are overpriced as they offer New Year’s specials  -really just a ticket to get in the door on a day everyone feels they must go somewhere. I feel as if people try too hard make the evening memorable. Everyone behaves in exaggerated ways, and their expectations are too high to be met. Forced joy ends up seeming contrived. I guess I just prefer watching everyone do their thing from afar. I am all for watching balls, peaches, (and pants) drop at home.


 


But I sure would have liked to share the evening with friends on a hillside watching a possum drop – just once. That’s not something you want to try at home. Ah well. I will shoot for that particular thrill next year.


 


In the meantime, I hope everyone’s evening was memorable, safe and loads of fun. I hope you don’t have a hangover today, and if you do, well, I hope it was worth it.  


 


I also hope you took time to take stock of what was good about last year, and consider what will bring you true happiness this year. When that ball drops, it’s a chance to drop your sorrow over things left unsaid, undone, or untried. It’s a new beginning, an opportunity to bravely step towards what is important to you individually.  


 


I guess the calendar turning over is nothing more than a simple date in reality. But in our minds, we associate so much potential and promise to a New Year.


May all the promise in your heart take shape.


 


Now – go start your diet. I know you made that resolution. Ha. Who didn’t.


And don’t feel bad if you can’t make sense of the last year. You’re not alone. Somewhere out there, a wet possum is scurrying along thinking, “What the hell just happened to me?”


He doesn’t understand how or why, but he was a significant part of something special. Trust me. You are too.

One woman’s treasures

Today, I went on a treasure hunt – for my own treasures oddly enough. One of the dogs carried my big rubber muck boot off into the woods, as if it were a chew toy. Damn dog. Dixie lost her halter somewhere in the pasture, and a few weeks ago, Dalai lost his halter too. I think they scratch their faces up against a tree or something and it unbuckles and falls off. This is a drag – unless you’ve ever caught and put a halter onto a head-skittish llama, you can’t appreciate the trouble involved.  I keep my livestock in halters because it makes tyeing them up at feeding time easy. I wouldn’t have to do this if I had a barn, but I don’t.

If I don’t tie the animals when feeding them, they get all greedy and pushy and take advantage of my docile donkey, pushing him aside to swallow his portion. Everyone deserves their share of grain. Fair is fair. I don’t tie the llama, and he often becomes a bully that closes in on donkey and begins spitting. He doesn’t spit at me, but he is always covering my poor donkey with seeded llama regurgitation. It is pitiful. I tend to position myself right by donkey as he eats, stroking his ears, my presence enough to keep the aggressor away. I am, above all else, the grand protector of the underdog – or underdonkey as the case may be. 

Anyway, I broke down and bought a second pair of muck boots, because I really couldnt’ survive without, and I figured even if I found my wayward boot, this would allow me to keep one pair out to be hosed down and still have one reasonably clean pair to wear when needed. I put the backup pair on and began my hunt. I walked every inch of our pastures, sinking into the mud without problem, thanks to the boots. No halters anywhere. Perhaps they are buried in the muck by now, only to be discovered in the spring  . . . rotting. Sigh. I did find my missing boot, however, up on the hill by my deer block (the one that no deer will ever get near, thanks to my protective dogs. Damn dogs.) This was good fortune.

You may be wondering about my lack of barn. Actually, a barn is not a necessity in this mild climate. Barns are more for the humans than the animals that are housed there. It gives us a place to feed and groom the animals while remaining out of the elements, a secure, dry place to work and store feed and tack. It provides containment for animals you may want to control, such as when you want to keep a horse clean or separated from others, or if you don’t want to trudge out looking for them (mine come when I call – lucky me) It makes it easy to care for them.  It gives you a warm, dry place to house the animals in times of foul weather or particular need, such as when a horse is soon to foal, or if it is injured. Really, the animals are happiest in their natural state, roaming free in a pasture. That is how nature intended them to live, after all. Even if you have a barn, the goal is to allow them as much time as possible getting exercise and grazing peacefully outside.

Nevertheless, I want a barn. Real Bad! I’ve been lusting for one since we got our first horse – for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is to have space to shelter wayward cats or dogs that need a foster home. When our horse was injured, I pined for a barn so he would heal faster. When it is cold and wet and I sink into the mud knee deep, I also long for a barn. And on those days when my horses are big fat dirty pigs that won’t stop rolling in the red Georgia clay and I’m thinking it sure would be nice to keep them clean before people visit , I covet a barn. When I think of how much more I would ride if I had an easy set up for saddling them, I crave a barn. (We don’t ride much because the tack is stored up at the workshop and it’s a huge ordeal to retrieve and return it, so it deters us from taking a quick ride.  Has to be a big todo to go to the trouble now.&nbsp When I saw Charolette’s Web, I again, wanted a barn. I also wanted a pig, but that is another story. 

Unfortunately, we just haven’t been able to afford a barn – other things have taken greater priority, such as having a house to live in and a workshop so Mark can begin his new career in wood arts. And those other damn luxuries, like food or paying the electric bill. We finally made some arrangements to shuffle some money around and refinance something with sincere plans to erect a barn – but we hit some unexpected financial problems, so again, the project was put on hold. I decided I could live with a simple metal shelter, but we decided even that would cost too much at this time. Next, I decided all I really needed was a small shed for a tack room to store the equipment. Ummm… almost got it, but that had to be put on hold too. Drat. It seems the only barn I’ll see for some time will be those on other people’s land – you know, the ones on the roadsides with a big “see rock city” painted on the roof. (Interesting story – that was an innovative marketing plan by Rock City before the billboard was invented. Fascinating bit of American folklore trivia).

Finally, when they were fixing our roads, Mark said we can at least get an area cleared and leveled for the future barn. I was so excited! We determined we could spend a certain amount on this project, even though it was a stretch, to put up something barn-ish, even if it was just temporary.

The fellows with the huge equipment arrived and began cutting trees out by the pasture near the chicken house. They leveled . . . . and leveled . . . and leveled . . . They were out there for days. Mark started getting worried. He said, “What did you tell them to do? This is going to cost a fortune!”
As if I had demanded some high end barn site or something. I stay out of the construction stuff – I didn’t say anything except to say hello one day when I was feeding the horses. I mentioned that I wouldn’t be putting a barn there right away…. but heck, I didn’t start ordering the men in the big machinery around. Who are you kidding?

I shrugged innocently, swearing that they weren’t working there all week because of me. All I knew was they were leveling a space for a future barn in the place Mark determined it should be. I had recommended a different spot that had less trees – closer to the road. Mark told them where to work so this was, in my opinion, his brainchild. He thought the project would take a day, like when they cleared the area for his workshop. Guess again.

Turns out, the grader assumed we would want a big, flat area for a big barn, and we would want proper drainage and the ability to drive up to the building with a horse trailer and such, so we ended up with a beautiful , professionally cleared area, the kind you would have done to put up a house. The trees were far thicker than anticipated in this spot, and it was a major project to level the rocky red soil. Then, they had to lay seed and straw to hold the earth in place. The time and effort all this required drove up the bill ten times what we expected. In fact, it ate up every cent we allocated for the barn project and then some. Damn. There goes my coveted barn again. And my grocery budget….

What can I say? It’s like the gift of the magi. I can have a barn, but no place to put it, or I can have a place to put it, but no barn. The cost of one prohibits the other. Whatchagonnado? So, I do not have a barn. I do have a barn site, however, which is a step in the right direction. All dreams begin with small efforts which lay the foundation for the future, so I am grateful.  Instead of nagging about my lack of a barn, I remind myself the glass is definitely half full – I have a site. A terrific site. That is more than I had to begin with. Some days, I go out there
and stand in that big flat spot, and because it is empty, like a plain canvas, it is easy to imagine my future barn. It will have a nice view of the pasture and be conveniently close to the chickens and rabbits too.  The sky is blue when I look up, and this flat, peaceful area is surrounded by trees, a space nestled in nature’s camouflage awaiting my someday-maybe- with luck- barn. Perfect.

Till then, I will battle mud and the elements without complaint, glad I have two pairs of muck boots to handle it. I will consider hauling that tack in and out of my car a useful workout. I will give thanks that none of my animals need to be confined because of injury or behavior problems, and I will accept the fact that they have incessant dirty coats as the price of owning horses in times when you don’t have perfect, rolling fields of spring green grass. I will remember that a barn is not a necessity, but a luxury, and remember that I have a bountiful life regardless. It is almost a bit much to dare want for more than I already have. (But I still want the barn. Shoot me.). And I will rejoice that I have a barn site, which isn’t a barn, but is the canvas to paint a dream barn onto. It takes time to erect a new world. I have learned that you must trust fate. If you are meant to have something, in time you will have it. If not, you were never meant to have it at all. Live true.

It is raining today, so I will stand outside, cold and shivering, as I feed my horses. My feet will sink into the mud as I stroke the grossly dirty coats of my bedraggled horse friends. I will sigh, but quietly. But it won’t be forever. It is only for now. 

I trust fate.

 

A few special request pictures.

I keep getting requests from friends to see more of the house. I’d love to comply, but I doubt you’d find it ever so attractive when there are unpacked boxes and mayhem everywhere. Nevertheless, I slid some junk aside and took a few pictures all the same.  


This is my kitchen, or at least the view from the living room. I wanted to share the pix of where we eat, because it shows you the wonderful windows that look out onto the pasture on one side, and the creek on the other. This is where I have coffee and watch my llama everyday. Mark has talked about adding curtains, but I sort of hope he never gets around to it. I love the big open space looking out on the world.

The other picture is of the bar that Mark designed which wraps around the sink and kitchen area. All these logs were formerly young trees on the land. They’ve been debarked and sanded, then pieced together to make this design. The young workers that were helping Mark in this project said it was “weird” and that they thought all the logs should just be nailed on up and down (like a tiki bar). Mark assured them he knew what he wanted. He pointed out that this is a traditional Appalachian design, historically speaking. They said they’ve lived here all their lives and been building, and they “ain’t never seen noth’in like this. Lots of trouble for no purpose.” Satisfying the boss had to be purpose enough.

The top of the bar is a thick slab of raw wood that Mark had cut at the local sawmill from a huge tree. The counter opposite this is another huge, heavy wood slab. We had to mix this murky, thick liquid and pour it on top, then blow out all the bubbles to create a Lucite-like finish that gives it a look like glass. Tools days to dry. It is resistant to damage now. I love how it fills in all the cracks and natural indentations in the wood, so I can work with flour or sugar or whatever and it wipes off as if I was working on a granite counter top. Cool. We do have some granite in the kitchen too. But this wood slab was very cost effective, which was necessary, and it added a unique twist to the kitchen. As you can see, I have under the counter lights, and light up cabinets on top for my “pretty” stuff. Lighting does make a thing seem more dramatic. Works on dances on stage, why not in a house too?

In the end, Mark added the naturally shed deer antlers as supports and for artistic detail. Right away, they started jabbing us when we walked by – partially because we don’t have stools yet (waiting for Mark to make them). You just don’t want to complain about something like that when you know the “artist” is standing by, and he has put so much work into the project, but after the third shirt was torn, the issue had to come out. He moved the offending antler on the corner, and we learned to watch ourselves around that area. I believe Mark will change these antlers out eventually to something like a wood support, but first we will see if stools will keep us from brushing so close to the counter. Ha, the lengths one will go to make a place interesting.
   


As I mentioned before, my cat finds the entire house one big playground. I guess I do too.
Here is a view of our new rug and the wall behind it. Mark nailed up big roughsawn wood slabs, then covered all the joints with more of those thin natural debarked tree trunks. This adds texture and is a very original look. People come into the house and marvel at this treatment because no one has ever seen it before. It’s a Mark original. I wanted to show you this, because it ties in the bar and the mantel treatment. We have a theme going on here in case you didn’t notice. My brother said, “Hey, what is up with the star thing? Is that some kind of cowboy decor?” 
“Um, no, you big nincompoop. It’s a Christmas decoration.” 
My brother says, “With you two, one never knows.”
Since others may think the same, I thought I might mention here that the big tin stars are just a holiday thing. We will go back to art or plain walls after the holidays. Trust me, after owning a dance school for a million years, we wouldn’t be so queer as to use stars as our primary decorating theme. Eesh. 

 Now for the best room in the house. My bathroom!



Unfortunately, I can’t get it all in a shot, but it is very pretty. The cabinets have been made by friends of Mark who actually have been trying to get him to buy their business. They want to retire. We are not interested. If we open a business, we will do so from scratch. We are from the ground up sort of people. Mark may work with them to learn how to make their style of furniture, but then he wants to do his own thing. The pretty glass sinks, you may see, are above the counter, sort of reminiscent of the old washbowls. Love that. By the way, the antler basket holding hand towels was also made by Mark. He made it before we picked colors, and it just happened to be perfect. Life works out that way sometimes.

The shower, as you can see, is totally clear. It stands across from big windows to the outside. I felt quite conspicuous showering (on display) for the first month before he got around to putting up blinds. Granted, there is no one for 50 acres to see you, except birds and squirrels and the occasional deer, but nevertheless, it was hard to get use to.  The slate and stone in this shower was left to sit in the elements for months because it took so long to build the house, and it got discolored and there are imprints of plants like fossils that can not be removed now. The tile guy said, “Hey, you want to toss this stuff and get replacements?” We were like, “No way! We love the designs in the stone now.” You couldn’t buy that. It was another of those rare, cool strokes of luck.

The tub is stone with huge windows around so I can sit and soak and look out onto the world.  This is a jacuzzi tub, which is necessary for an old fart like me after shoveling horse droppings all day. Yep, my life is glamorous on one hand, but full of shit on the other. I guess it all balances out in the end.

I would show you our offices, but they are drowning in junk. Our dining room is just an empty room filled with tools. No fun to show you that. The downstairs is nice, but still unpacked and sans furniture too.  I found a way to stop losing my glasses however. I place them all over the house in the bowls I made of clay last spring or on this fancy-dancy deer head. Ha. The fact that I like this stupid thing means I actually use it.  
Amazing how easy it is to amuse me.


That is it for the pictorial of our world today. Mark taught me to download pictures from the camera to the computer yesterday. You are all in trouble now!
Have a good day.

An even better Thought for the day

“If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.”
                              – Charlie Parker-

Thought for the day

People travel to wonder
at the height of the mountains,
at the huge waves of the seas,
at the long course of the rivers,
at the vast compass of the ocean,
at the circular motion of the stars,
and yet they pass by themselves without wondering.


~ St. Augustine