Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

TIRED IS AS TIRED DOES

Posted on April 23, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

Rain, please.


Today, my son and I seeded (and put weed control) over our entire pasture. Everyplace in Georgia, including our land, is green and plush, except the pasture where our horses have trudged it all down. The area clearly requires some help to perk back up. We have no idea what we are doing, but a good college try can’t hurt. I’m told that one should seed the field this month with Fescue grass. So that’s what we did. A touch of rain would make me feel confident the effort might take… showers are on the agenda according to the weatherman, but who trusts him? It is lovely out tonight. Figures.


 


For two hours I pulled dead weeds out of the creek too. I ruined my shoes, then put on my muck boots, then ruined my work gloves, then tossed them aside and went bare handed. I looked so dirty you’d swear I’d been dragged behind a horse a mile or two. Dozens of huge piles of debris are lining the creek bed (but I was too tired to throw it over the fence today.) The water is running clear and unencumbered now. Love that sound.  I threw a load of sticks that have blown onto the pasture during storms over the fence then I went to bury the placenta and sac from our horse birth, and noticed it was gone. Guess scavengers had it for lunch this week. At least now, the pasture is clear – ready for the grass to grow, should our seeds decide to honor us by taking root.


 


Peppy, a horse far too intelligent for his own good, picked up a 50-pound bag of seed and swung it around in his mouth, trying to open it. He thought it might be something tasty and my yelling didn’t seem to discourage him from his mischief.  I’d planned to ride today, but the work was more involved than expected. I should have gone for a ride first. That’s what you get for attending to responsibilities before indulging your desires. Hate when I do that…. and I do that far too often to feel anything close to the free spirit I pretend to be.


 


I feel like a little house on the prairie work hand. Not complaining – but I’m tired. Really tired.  Am I old? Out of shape? Citified and unable to keep up with the country folks? This exhaustion is worse than any run, workout, teaching or other work that leaves your muscles and ligaments feeling abused beyond capacity. The outdoor tasks are nice for the spirit, but everywhere else I’m aching.  Even my fingers are tired, which shows my commitment to this blog, because typing takes more energy then I should be able to muster in this state. Yet, I’m here. 


 


Nevertheless, for all that the work was backbreaking, the company was nice. My son kept clowning around in the pasture, making jokes and demonstrating his profound, enduring happiness with our new life. The songs of birds and the movement of butterflies surrounded us. And Donkey kept checking in (llama is way too regal and aloof to care much about underlings like us). April raced around on her new steady legs playing tag with us. We are supposed to handle her lots, but she prefers staying a foot beyond our reach, never further, just enough to keep us coming at her but never making contact.  I continue to look over the field, past the trees, expecting our dog, Sammy, to come bounding through the underbrush wagging his tail sheepishly because he knows his walk-about worried us. I fear that is an image that may always be in my head, but will never materialize. Miss him dreadfully.


 


Last but not least, since planting was the theme of the day, I finally spread my 5 lb bag of wildflower mix along the drive towards the house. What was I saving it for? I’ve had it since fall and I am starting to feel like the woman in the story “Deep Seeded” that I wrote about a seed collector.  I am praying a colorful array of bountiful blooms will appear next month. If not, I can at least know I made an effort to give these seeds their moment in the sun, rather than remain horded away in a bag in my kitchen cupboard. Everybody deserves a chance to grow, to see what true potential lurks within the plain outer shell that the world takes at face value. I don’t know what kinds of flowers may spring up from those plain, dull seeds, but I’m guessing they’ll be diverse and unique, given their freedom to scatter with the wind and dig in where they feel inclined. That is far more exciting than a pre-planned, controlled flowerbed any day. 


 


I saw a lovely cup at the Apple Orchid today. A slogan on it read, “It is important to take time to stop and smell the flowers, but it is just as important you take the time to plant some as well.” 


Ha. No kidding. Well, today, I did my part.


 


And like the little red hen, today I felt like saying, “And who will help me plant the grass?”


“Not I,” said the donkey.


“Not I,” said the llama.


“Not I,” said the horse.


“I will,” said the son . . . and together they worked in the field.


And in the summer, she said, “Now who will help me enjoy the grass?”


“I will,” said the donkey.


“I will,” said the llama.


“I will,” said the horse.


“Only the son is allowed,” said the little red hen. “For he alone helped me develop the field.”  And together they rolled in the soft grass, enjoying the sweet, rich grass under their toes while the animals looked on from the muddy area behind the fence, ashamed at the fact that they did not contribute to the work required to make such a wonderful pasture.


 


(If you don’t get that, you are a dismal failure in the childhood fairytale department.)


 


I am mad at Ron. (www.wheresronnow.com) He’s a fellow walking the Appalachian Trail. He began in our area just a short while ago and I follow his progress. I sent 20.00 to his foundation, the Russell Home for Atypical Children. It is nice that this guy not only is taking the time to learn about nature and himself, but does it simultaneously drudging up funds for a cause.  He has a blog, but dang if he hasn’t written anything for a few days. The fact that it is hard to get internet in the wilderness is no excuse for silence when you have a following, I’m thinking.


 


I am all about hiking now. I found out there are five waterfalls in our area, and I have info on the hikes to see all of them. I’m planning to drag my college age daughter to every one when she gets here in ten days.( I shouldn’t write that. She is a devoted blog reader, and now, she has time to make up an excuse to get out of it. A stubbed toe at the airport, perhaps?) Mark and I planned to visit the biggest waterfall this week with the kids, but it rained on the afternoon we were going, so we put the adventure off. Played pool instead.
    The longest swinging wooden bridge this side of the Mississippi is also nearby. But you can only get to see it on foot, and it’s a thirteen-mile hike in and thirteen miles out. I need to do some trial runs to other areas first to determine if we can do thirteen miles in a day. Might be an overnight thing, but I’m game. I’ll play Davey Crocket and give it a try, just to say I did. The pictures of this bridge are amazing, natural, slightly dangerous looking, and reminiscent of a Tarzan movie. I’m guessing the real thing is even more impressive.


 


A bear ate a six year old this week out here. Really. It is only the second bear attack in about 30 years, so bear encounters are not considered a real danger in the area. Sad story though. I think, if I encountered a bear, I’d start dancing. For years I’ve been doing all these dances with three year olds to bear songs with little stuffed, plush bears in tutus. I associate bears with dancing. Doesn’t make sense, I just do. We have a terrific picture of dancing bears for the cabin too. So, if a bear decides to walk beside me when I go visit the swinging bridge, I’ll pirouette and invite him to join me. It just would seem natural.


It’s a plan.      


 


   I need to close this blog. I must write an annotation on the book Beloved. Wow – that was powerful. Affected me mightily, and I have no doubt it will influence my novel, Touched by Fate, when I get back to it. Love when I read something that sets my mind on fire. I’m reading a surreal book now (tired sigh) and then I will read my next mentor’s book, The Good Negress. Love reading books my teacher’s have written, because it helps me know them better which reinforces our relationship.


    I will have a short break between terms soon (in late May and June) and I plan to read On The Road by Jack Kerouac, a renown creative non-fiction, beatnik culture, travel book written in the 50’s, which I ordered today, and some down home, erotic smut which I ordered last month. Gotta keep in balance, don’t ya know.  Can’t have my brain overloaded with too much nourishing material requiring thought– need some junk to oil the wheels and dilute the friction in my head.


    I have completed my first year of school. Can you believe it? I’m in the home stretch now, an upper classman focused on her thesis. Smarter. Inspired. But too tired to do anything with the skills I’ve learned. Ha. That’s my life. Lots of running but never towards a finish line. 


 


Wish it would rain. I wouldn’t be so tired if it would only rain.


I wonder if my seeds are sinking into the earth, or in some bird’s belly. 
I need to stop thinking so much.  

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A LITERACY LEAP OF FAITH

Posted on April 22, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

     Went to jail today. Didn’t rob a bank or evade taxes. Didn’t pass go or collect a hundred dollars. I went to pay a visit to my friend, Kathy. It was long overdue.


    I’ve thought about her often the past two months, wondering what happened regarding her recent legal problem. Perhaps she was home and had put aside her interest in learning to read. Then again, she may still be incarcerated, in which case the idea of learning to read may be low on her priority list, trailing behind other more imperative survival quests.


    I’m not one to drop a project I care about. I’m like a badger, when I take a bite of something that tastes “right”, no one can unclench my jaws. I only let loose when personal reasons make me chose to do so. But contrary to this, I haven’t pursued Kathy and our reading project because I’ve been distracted by my father-in-law’s cancer. Nevertheless, I haven’t forgotten her. The call from the Toccoa Technical College soliciting my help to write articles about their student’s success stories triggered some measure of guilt inside. I started thinking about how my particular student, Kathy, was not a “success story”, but one of the failures. And that just didn’t sit well with me at all.


   So, I called Kathy’s husband to find out how she was doing. At first, he was evasive. He asked who I was and why I wanted to know about his wife. I re-introduced myself as her reading teacher and told him I’d been wondering about how things were going for her. Last time we talked, he told me she’d been arrested and she would call when she was released. Since I haven’t heard from her since, I wanted to check in. 


    I guess a reading teacher isn’t much of a threat because he softened immediately. He told me she was still in jail and they didn’t know how much longer she would be there. “Thursday, she might have a court date determining her fate”, he said, “We don’t know for sure. It’s a day by day thing.”


     I told him I’d been thinking about Kathy and wondered if she was still interested in learning to read. I was willing to help still, in jail or out. I asked if I could see her. He explained that visitation is on Saturday and Sunday, but I’d have to call to set up an appointment in advance. It was already six on a Friday, but I called the correctional facility anyway. They told me to call back at 7am the next morning to make an appointment. So I got up early and called on Saturday. Then, I was told I could only make appointments on Fridays. I would have to wait a week.


   I’m not exactly a patient person. I didn’t want to wait. So, I pleaded my case, explaining that I was Kathy’s reading tutor assigned by the Georgia Literacy Commission (sounded official) and that the college suggested I make arrangements to visit with her to determine whether or not we should continue the program. This is not exactly true, but it was close enough that I could talk about the importance of the meeting with enough conviction to sound believable. The officer on the phone suggested I come at 9:30. Kathy was scheduled to see her husband and son at that time and I could “share” their time.


     I certainly wouldn’t presume to take any of the precious time allotted the family for myself, but I did decide to go at 9:30, just to evaluate the situation and see if I could figure out what was going on.  


    
    I have never had occasion to visit a jail before. I’ve never bailed out a friend who might have had one too many, causing them to dance naked in public, or baked a cake with a nail file in it for a bad boy I had a thing for. Convicts simply aren’t a part of my social circle, so to say I was out of my comfort zone is an understatement. I entered the lobby of the Blue Ridge correctional facility with feigned confidence, my steps forced forward to enter the cold, stark room with a single row of black leather chairs standing center for waiting guests. The atmosphere was harsh, the very aura of the space making me feel as if I was in trouble, like when a police officer is following your car. It doesn’t matter that his lights aren’t on or that you are going the speed limit. You still feel circumspect.


     No one was manning the reception window. I stood politely at the front desk for over ten minutes but didn’t see a soul.


    The visiting room was only a few feet away. Inside, I could see people talking on phones to orange jumpered inmates seated in small, square concrete booths behind a protective glass window. There were five stations. I figured Kathy must be in one of them. I looked for a nine-year-old boy, assuming her son would be present for visitation, but I couldn’t make out any youths. A small three year old was toddling around and I heard a woman urge her to say hello to her mother. It made me sad. A large, bold sign stated that only family members qualified as visitors. No others were allowed to speak to the inmates. This might deter another woman, but I didn’t budge. 


     No one was around to tell me about procedure or how to go about arranging a visit. There were no pamphlets or signs to explain the rules. I considered walking into the visitation area unannounced, just looking for Kathy and waving, but deemed it a mistake. No reason to do anything that might harm my chances of building a respectful report with the administration, considering I am not a family member and have no right to be here. So I stood around another five minutes feeling conspicuous.


     I was now getting annoyed. I figured the jail is manned by public servants whose salaries are paid for by my taxes. After years of supporting the system, today I wanted to cash in. I’m the public and I wanted to be served. Where was everyone?


    Finally, I decided to poke around to get help. I entered a small hallway with a sign that that said, “No entry”. I decided that if someone stopped me, I could play ignorant. (Well, I wouldn’t be playing) I found a man sitting in front of a slew of monitors, his feet propped up on the desk like the bored guards you see in every B movie that features a small town jail and it’s lazy sheriff. I asked him if anyone was expected at the front desk because I’d been waiting in the lobby for over fifteen minutes. The guard quickly straightened up and came out to help me.


    I explained who I was, turning on my authoritative air and acting as if my visit was condoned by the college, the literacy commission and God himself. He listened carefully to my diatribe about Kathy being illiterate and the importance of our work together. I explained that everyone involved (um. . .that would be me, but I didn’t point that out) was concerned about losing ground in the progress she’d made. I told him I could get permission to continue working with her in the facility, but I wanted to discuss it with her before making arrangements to determine whether or not she was still interested.


    He looked at me as if trying to figure me out, then said, “What is wrong with her that she can’t read?”


   “She just never learned.”


   “Didn’t she go to school?”


    “She went for nine years.”


     He shook his head. It was unclear to me whether this condemning gesture was for the school’s failure, Kathy’s, or for me, getting involved with something that he considered a lost cause. I just blinked at him innocently. Waiting.


     “I don’t suppose you can tell me what she did or how long she’ll be here?” I asked. “I’m not prying, but I don’t want to go to the trouble of arranging meetings here if she is going to be released soon. And if she’s likely to be sentenced for some kind of crime, it would help to know if she’ll be sent elsewhere, or will remain in this area so I can arrange on-going tutorial visits.”


     He told me to hold on, and went to look at her file. When he returned, he said, “You should count on her being here a long, long time.”


     Damn.


      I was disheartened and wondered if Kathy had any clue about the severity of her case. Then again, perhaps this man was cynical and thought the worst of people involved with drugs. Perhaps Kathy rotting in the community correctional facility was his idea of fair justice, but a judge with all the facts might be more lenient. Without knowing Kathy’s crime or history, I had no way of predicting her future.   


     “If you’re willing to wait fifteen minutes I’ll clear everyone out and you can have a few minutes alone with her,” he said, at least showing respect for my good intentions.


      I let him know I’d be deeply appreciative and sat down to wait. Fifteen minutes and he would bend the rules for me? I would have waited all day if necessary. 


      Right on cue, everyone filed out of the visitation room. Two men were in the crowd, one a clean cut, graying gentleman in a uniform holding the door for everyone else, and the other, your typical country renegade with unwashed hair hanging in unruly strands to his waist. This man had bad teeth, an untrimmed beard and wore a t-shirt with a rock band logo blazed across the chest.


     This is where it becomes obvious I’m guilty of a touch of prejudice towards those who skirt the law.  I turned to the long haired fellow and said, “You must be Mr. Smith, I’m Ginny. We talked on the phone.”


     “I’m not Smith,” the fellow said, looking me up and down with the kind of smile the wolf gives little red riding hood.


     “I’m Mr. Smith,” said the clean cut man in the uniform.     


      I was relieved. Surprised. Embarrassed. The logo on the pocket of his uniform was for a company that cleans septic tanks. Of course, this was Kathy’s husband. I then noticed a nine year old standing a few feet away, staring with shy curiosity.


     I introduced myself.


    “I told Kathy you called last night. She was tickled pink. I’ve been trying to keep her spirits up. This helps. Thanks for showing up,” he said.


      Over his shoulder, I could see Kathy’s beaming face behind the glare of the glass. She was motioning me into the visitor’s area. I entered tentatively, amazed that suddenly, I was afforded not only her audience, but privacy for our meeting.


     I slid into the plastic chair and picked up the phone. “Hi.”


     “Hi,” she said. She looked the same, silky hair pulled up in a neat ponytail, make-up carefully applied. She was right before me, but her voice sounded distant. I wondered how old the phones were. My cell phone gets better reception.


     “I’m sorry it took me so long to come see you. I thought you’d be home by now,” I said.


     “Me too.”


      “Do you want to tell me what happened?”


     “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I get out,” she said, waving her hand as if she was tired of recapping the details.      
      I didn’t think it appropriate to point out that my hearing the story might still be a long way off. But I could wait.


      “I’m guessing you just made a stupid mistake,” I said, wanting to assure her I was still a friend, and not here to pass judgment.


      She nodded. “One mistake in four years. Of course, I got caught. My luck.”


      “You know my opinion. It probably is lucky you got caught. Keeps you from sliding deeper into trouble.”


     She nodded, but didn’t look convinced.


    “How are things in there?”


    “Not bad. The food sucks. They have vending machines in here but I haven’t had any money . My husband is going to try to get me some today before he goes to work.”


    She did look thin. Pale.


    She went on to explain that the women inside are all nice. Her roommate has children too so, mostly, they talk about their families.


    Picking up this theme, I said, “I bet you miss your son.”


    Her eyes welled with tears, unable to control the knee jerk reaction to the question. Dabbing them with her sleeve, she rolled her eyes as if I must think her outburst silly. But all along, I’ve known Kathy is devoted to her son. He’s the reason she wants to change her life and learn to read. So, while it was sad to see her depressed, I was glad to see evidence of her guilt. I consider it the motivation she needs to stay on track.


     I asked her what she thought was going to happen now and she told me she would know more on Thursday. She’s hoping for a diminished sentence, probation with a curfew so she can go home and care for her family.  “I volunteered for rehabilitation,” she said. “It’s a year long program, which I think that would be good for me. At first, my parole officer thought it would be the best thing too, but it turns out I don’t qualify because I can’t read and write. I guess there’s some schoolwork involved. Obviously, I can’t do it.” She made a frustrated gesture, as if she was exhausted by the shadow of her problem tailing her relentlessly.


      “All the more reason we should continue teaching you to read, don’t you think?”


       She nodded solemnly. “I meant what I said before. I’m determined to do it this time and change my life. I thought after this you wouldn’t be around to help me, but here you are. It means a lot to me that you’re here. I’m thinking some of the girls inside could help me with the flash cards and stuff if we continue.”


       “Then that’s what we’ll do.”


        My mind raced over the new obstacles we’d face if we have to continuing our sessions in jail. My lofty ambitions to use recipes and cooking projects as lesson plans would have to give way to less creative methods. We’ll probably be limited to flashcards and pen and paper. For that matter, I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to leave Kathy study materials or books at all. My brother once had an acquaintance in jail and he said that if he wanted to send books, he had to order them through Amazon. Nothing deemed direct contact with others was allowed “inside”. Would they bend the rules in the interest of literacy? Should they?


     I told Kathy I’d wait until Thursday to find out what the future had in store for her, then I would make arrangements for us to start working together again.  I told her to keep her spirits up.


    “They have church services here and I’ve been going,” she said. “It helps.”


    “I thought you weren’t a church going gal,” I said, remembering our previous talk about religion.


    She leaned close to the glass, as if sharing a secret with me. “He lives here,” she said, holding her heart. “I’m not alone and he’s helping me with all this.”


      The fact that I was sitting in jail on a Saturday morning, forgoing my plans to join my family at a spring festival, was evidence enough for me to assume she might be correct. Who’s to say a higher order isn’t pulling the puppet strings that force me into action.         


     I left the visitation room and paused to talk to the guard again. I asked if I could leave Kathy money for the snack machines and he said, “Why?”


     “I want her to be comfortable,” I said.


    “There’s a procedure.”


    “Can you walk me through it, please,” I said. If I was going to start hanging around this dismal concrete hole, I wanted to learn how things worked. I filled out a form and left Kathy twenty-five dollars.


     As I escaped to the open space outdoors, I saw Kathy’s husband. He was waiting to speak to me. It was raining, so his son was in the car, but he stood leaning against the rail, shifting his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. He thanked me for coming. I told him I had left her money, so he didn’t have to worry about that right away.


     “That was kind of you. I’ll get that back to you soon as I can.”


    “It’s a gift, don’t worry about it, ” I said. I was actually worried about my hair being ruined by the rain, and then, I felt shallow for thinking wet hair is a problem when others have real concerns to deal with. The mind is funny, how it rambles.  


    I told him I was going to wait until Thursday, and once we knew where she would be, we’d work together on her reading again. “I would appreciate a call if you hear any news. I hope things turn out well for your family,” I said.


    “I appreciate that,” he said. Then he sighed. “It’s all my fault.”


     My prejudice flared again. I wondered just what that statement implied. Did he introduce his wife to drugs? Support her problem? Is he as guilty as she (of whatever she has done), but somehow he avoided being caught?


    “I work too damn much,” he explained. “I work between 100 and 120 hours a week. I do it so she doesn’t have to work. But it means she is alone too much and I’m not around to watch out for her. She’s lonely. Sad. That’s how she got into trouble again. I’m sure of it.”


     My heart went out to him, because he’s probably right, at least partially. But who can fault a man who spends a hundred hours a week in septic tanks trying to do right by his family? Or pass judgment on a woman who drowns her depression in illegal substance when life seems a endless hill of obstacles she can’t climb because she can’t read the signs along the way? And whose fault is it that she can’t read, or that he must work so hard at menial jobs because of his own limited education? Society’s fault? There own? Certainly, it’s not mine.


     It has occurred to me that I might be volunteering my time to someone who may not necessarily deserve it. I’m a busy person and there are many causes I could apply my personal effort towards. In light of Kathy’s recent legal trouble and my failure to learn the facts of her incarceration, I can’t be sure Kathy is earnest or deserving of my attention. But I’m choosing to assume she is. It feels right when I look into her eyes, and my gut tells me I can make a difference here.  I guess this is what you would call a literacy leap of faith.


    My aspirations to teach Kathy to read may fail, but if so, it’s fair to assume lessons will be learned in the process.


     Reading lessons.


     For Kathy, this will mean reading at least a few words and sentences better. For me, it will be a matter of learning to read people better.


    Hopefully, in the end, this project will prove we both have the ability to read well.  


 

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Newsy news

Posted on April 21, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

     The head of the Toccoa Technical College, home of the Georgia literacy foundation, called me yesterday. They are looking to promote their programs and have decided to put together some articles with success stories of some of their participants who’ve earned their GED and perhaps, gone on to find success.  They are hoping this will encourage more people to come forward to seek basic education. The local paper is enthusiastic to print whatever they send in, but since they are short staffed, they asked the college to send only fully prepared pieces.. Therefore, the college needs someone qualified to write the articles.


   Apparently, I am the first person that came to mind. I am a writer and I have shown a sincere interest in literacy. I’ve also volunteered time. I’m the perfect candidate.


   Of course, I said, “Yes. I’d be happy to help.” In the back of my mind, I’m thinking, “Bad idea. You can’t keep up with your homework as it is, Gin,” But I’m just a girl who can’t say no when someone asks for help – especially when it is something I believe will make a difference. So, I’ll squeeze in the time to write a few personal profiles stories – and who knows, I might meet some interesting, inspirational people that way. And when you have a huge list of “should do’s” what’s one more? And if I need to, I can just submit the stories to my non-fiction teacher as assignments. We are working together again next term, and he is very oppen to my trying new things or moving in directions that support my interests. A small jaunt into journalism would be acceptable. I can hit two birds with one writing stone if necessary.  


 


     Speaking of newspaper writing, I ran an ad in the paper offering a reward for my dog. Came out today.  His picture looks so lost and miserable. Ha. If that doesn’t stir up the emotions of any dog-napper, nothing will. I also went to the animal control facility to double check their stock. Sammy needs a haircut, so he doesn’t look like a qualified Schnauzer, and I just wasn’t comfortable taking their word on it that he wasn’t there. This was a BIG mistake. The place is lined with cages filled with sad, lonely dogs, all with the date they will be destroyed hanging over their heads on a small index card. They only keep the animals here 7 days. I looked into those desperate eyes and wanted to die. One dog, a very scraggly mutt in the center of the room, looked at me and I felt an instant bond. I felt I knew this dog. I bent down and pet her. She licked my hand and put up a soft paw to say hi. Boing goes my heartstrings.


  When my friend Jody visited, we were talking dogs and she said she saw a dog in a pet store she knew I would love. It was my “type.” I didn’t know I had a type and I asked her what she meant. She laughed and said, “You know, you always like dogs that are scraggly and bearded with hair sticking out all wrong. Funny looking mutts. You like dogs that look like they were born under a trash can.” Ha. She is right.


    They are going to put down that sweet dog I liked tomorrow – unless I weaken and go save her. The thing is, I just ran the ad for Sammy and I must wait a few days to see if I get a response. I am not willing to give up easily on a family member in trouble. And we can’t handle more than three dogs in our current living situation. But I keep thinking about that dog and how, perhaps, I’m meant to go save her. I would name her Karma – and deep down I’d feel that the fact that I went out of my way to provide a home for a lost dog might mean someone else would do the same. For Sammy. That would make it easier for me to accept his disappearance – this belief that I did all I could, even created good karma, to influence his fate.


 


   I got a letter from the United Christian Children’s Fund the other day. Got all worried. I’ve been corresponding with a child there for about 10 years, sending support and he is getting older. I think he is turning eighteen soon. I’ve been wondering what happens then, if they will bump him out of the system then and assign me a new child. I don’t know what the procedure is when a child in the system turns into an adult, but I hate the idea of just cutting him loose. So, since this letter was unlike others, I opened it with a small ping of anticipation. But it was just a letter of appreciation and a certificate. Apparently, over time, we have sent over $5,000, which means we’ve reached the first level of giving to merit special honor. Actually, when you think of all the time we’ve been sending 40 dollars a month support (and 100 for Christmas and birthday), that is hardly a drop in a bucket. Could anyone in America raise a child for nine years on five grand? Hardly. I felt both good and bad about that letter when I saw the actual number. Something to think about.


 


   I got the rest of my response from my mentor today – she was late with commentary on my annotations, so I’ve been anxious to see what she had to say. It was remarkably positive. She said the work was “excellent, as usual, and a pleasure to read.” She also said, “Your annotations have an overlying tone of authority in them, which is crucial to any kind of critical analysis”. Ha. She thinks I have a slightly pompous educated writer’s attitude. Big surprise. I do know how to inspire confidence in the fleeting subject of art. Made a career of it in dance.


   She added, “You are both a careful and thoughtful reader and writer . . and since I find them superior and enjoy them so well, I’ll focus on two parts that particularly stood out for me.”


    I could go one, but I think that is enough bragging. She even said that the annotations are terrific and should be included as examples for other students in the MFA handbook. O.K. NOW that is enough bragging.


     The point is, she makes me feel smart. It is nice to feel smart, especially when you’re the kind of person who often feels she had the memory of a potato and her constant interest in the world (and the questions that accompany this trait) is more an annoyance to others than evidence of a positive character. 


   For example, yesterday, I washed my keychain. That sounds stupid, but I have this keychain made of laces that I adore. It has particular significance to me because a special student gave it to me.  It is the only keychain I’ve ever had that I can find. I don’t lose my keys as often as normal. Look in my purse – bam, there they are.  If I throw them on the coffee table, later, when I am looking for my keys, they jump out at me as if that white string was a blinking neon sign. I love that keychain – but it is now black with dirt, and I’ve been feeling rather conspicuous carting around this dingy bunch of strings on my keys. A classy chick like me is more the type to carry a fancy gold key ring with handmade charms or something. 


    Yesterday, I decide to wash my keychain. I figure, if it disintegrates, well, that was meant to be. The keychain will live on in my heart, if not in my ignition. So I take it off my keys and try to bleach the thing. It comes out sort of light gray. So, I bleach it again (with a pair of grungy tennis shoes – I said I liked the thing, not that I respect it like some kind of valuable antique – I’m not that quirky). This time it comes out white. Lucky me. But the point is, this morning I get up and prepare to go out, and don’t ya know, I can’t find my keys. I look in my handbag and . . no bam… no keys. I look on my coffee table. .. no neon sign. I am getting annoyed, searching frantically. THEN, I remember they are on my washing machine. Duh.


   So that “feeling smart glow” from my teacher’s response only lasted about 9 hours, seven of which I spent sleeping. So much for keeping my big head big.  But if I read a book about a string keychain and wrote an annotation about it, you can bet it would probably be a good one.

     I have to do some homework. Maybe I’ll finish my book and write my annotation so I can muster up some more nice compliments next month. We can all use a pat on the back occasionally.

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Coffee, art and aspiration

Posted on April 20, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

I miss owning a business. Not a dance school. I cannot describe how much I DON’T miss that during this particular season. For the last eighteen years, spring has been a time of stress and overwork as we hustled to prepare a recital for 1000 performers. Moreover, our efforts went far beyond choreography and cleaning up dances (which – because we were the primary artistic contributors in the school meant a great sacrifice of time – total focus) but we also wrote the programs, sold ads, designed the light plan for the stage lighting, did picture displays, and did hundreds of hours of backstage preparation and organization. It took years to put our systems into effect. And no matter how good it got, we always believed we could do better, so it was always a matter of brainstorming – working out the glitches from year to year – adding a new element – which amounted to more effort. The last year, I actually wrote a recital-planning book, but it will never be used now. Ah well –I was committed to never ending constant improvement. No effort is ever wasted, so I am glad I put to words all I learned. I might use it someday.     


     This was also the time of year that all the planning for the next season had to be completed – class schedules, school season planners, defining our yearly goals. And we were hustling to plan our summer program. And I was always preparing my notes for master classes or seminars I was commissioned to teach out of state (Well, I still have that – and they are currently due – sigh). In other words, there was never time to smell the roses as they began blooming in spring.


    Now, without all this recital stuff demanding our attention, I am enjoying spring the way I haven’t for years – not since I was free and unencumbered by the dance school season’s schedule – not since New York, where spring made studying dance feel like a creative party.


    Now, I’m noticing flowers, trees in bloom, and feel the sultry wind blowing in across the pasture. I marvel at how fresh and new life feels. We have butterflies – hundreds. I watch my daughter running across the pasture, chasing the llama, giggling, while dozens of butterflies swirl about her head, thinking it is like watching an animated movie. Too perfect. (Like in the last Harry Potter Movie when participants from the girl’s school enter Hogwarts, butterflies are set free by their sighs.) My blueberry bush is 9 feet tall and 12 feet wide. You can actually walk through it to gather the berries from the interior (now that my husband carved a walkway through the monster). It is so covered with butterflies and bees pollinating the new blooms, that it looks alive, constantly in motion. Fascinating. This month, we are taking hikes, having long, lovely talks, and enjoying the changing season with such a deep appreciation for the leisure it is beyond inspiration. It is like personal nirvana.  


   No, I don’t miss owning a dance school this time of year.


 


     But I do miss having a business. I loved the challenges involved – the way it taxes so many skills. You must be good at accounting, finance, planning, design, marketing, and of course, endless creative thinking. That is the best part – tapping into your creativity to make your business different. I loved the resource a business provides too – I could contribute to the community through the vehicle, donate services, projects, space, whatever was needed to help others. This satisfied something within me too. 


    So, while I don’t need to start another business, and don’t need the income, I can’t help but think about businesses I would enjoy starting. (I am definitely an entrepreneurial sort – I would NEVER buy a business. I am all about laying a foundation and designing a new enterprise from scratch.)


     There is so much opportunity here, endless enterprises so bound for success, it drives me crazy. I am committed to slowing down my life, not taking on another huge project, yet I find the idea of starting something fresh and building a new empire hard to resist. (And frankly, I like hard work.) This area is growing so fast (happens to be the seventh fastest growing area in the country, and oddly enough Sarasota was the seventh fastest growing area when I began a business there – interesting) that it is no surprise they are starved for commerce.  And I keep thinking that this time around, we don’t need to make so much money – it isn’t vital that our business make enough to support a family of five and their future. It would be nice if it supplemented our income, gave us cash for indulgences like a trip to Africa or acquiring a racehorse – ha) but we don’t have to make so many sacrifices or compromises to secure our future (because it is already secure –thanks to some savvy real-estate investments we have made over the years. We are lucky in that way – made some great choices this year too, that made us as much as we would have made working the entire year. Apparently, we have good instincts. Who knew?)


   Mark has always said that if we put the same amount of energy, creative thinking and sheer labor into any other industry (besides dance) we would be shockingly successful. Dance is not a business that traditionally makes money. The arts isn’t prosperous that way – but we managed to commercialize dance education without losing artistic integrity in a way that is unlike any other studio I’ve ever known  That is something we will always be proud of. But, just imagine if we applied that kind of energy and innovation to a business with more earning potential – one that doesn’t demand so much actual hand-on creative effort that ravages your emotional stores. Wow.


   I keep circling an idea. I bounced it off my husband and he doesn’t seem turned off at all. Funny, because for years, whenever I had an idea, he would sigh and be so aggravated that I was forever feeling guilty and miserable, as if I was the cause of our never-ending stress. My idea’s symbolized work – but I’ve come to learn it was not innovation and work he despised – it was more about the atmosphere of the dance school world and how it stripped us of the time and privacy he wanted for other things in life. I kept pushing the envelope. He just wanted to mail the damn letter to someone else and find a new P.O. Box.


   But I wouldn’t start a business without him on board. It would have to be something we did together. I don’t want to take on a journey alone, and he is, after all, my partner in life travels.


   A dance school here would be so successful – people ask us to open one every other day. And with our experience, our connections, our resources, etc… we could be back where we were before within three years. Tempting. It would be like pulling up the roots of our business and relocating it to the area we have always wanted to live. And there are other great elements of the idea – such as the fact that kids here have discipline and a different mentality – and nothing to do. We both recognize that we could make amazing dancers here. But what then? Would we just want to sell and move again? No thanks. I love it here.    


   So, what is it I want to do? Well, there are many things, from opening a canoe rental company, open just six months a year, or running a summer dance camp for serious dancers (which includes whitewater rafting and other fun between serious study) – two ideas that only require half a year of work. We could remain semi-retired that way. Or cabin rentals on our own land and creating vacation avenues for our customers. (Horseback riding, pontoon boat – we could provide it all…)


   But what I am really stuck on right now is the idea of opening an Appalachian Arts Café.


    The town of McCaysville, right by our new homestead, is growing rapidly. The stores there are changing before our eyes, from dismal antique shops and rundown country stores to upscale shops featuring fare that is more specialized. The Blue Ridge Scenic railroad leaves Blue Ridge (where the shops are very upscale now) and goes to McCaysville everyday. Six years ago, when it opened, they had 6 thousand passengers. This year they had 60 thousand! They expect it to continue growing. Ummm. That’s a lot of customers looking for someplace to shop and view regional mountain fare in our little town. And there is no coffee shop. Drives us crazy – coffee drinkers that we are. (The nearest Starbucks is a 60-minute drive from us – no kidding. Our powerful community leaders keep franchises out.) You can’t buy a bagel or a donut anywhere within miles of our town.


    So, I am thinking we should open a coffee shop – the kind with a big roaring fireplace and leather chairs, specialty drinks and fantastic treats. (My mother says my muffins will put it on the map. Ha. I would love to make gourmet cakes each week and sell them by the slice – an excuse to cook without being accused of keeping my husband heavier than he should be). And I want it to be an art gallery too, featuring local Appalachian artists and their handcrafts. I did some research, and the galleries here take artists for a 60-40 cut, so the store doesn’t even have to purchase this art in advance – just provide great displays and move the merchandise. You can return what you don’t sell and if you have an eye for art (which we do) and travel in the artistic circles to meet the right people (which we do) a good store would have a wealth of artists to chose from. That means low investment for gallery merchandise. Not to mention that my husband’s wood art would have a home and we could move that too. And perhaps some of my jewelry…. And our other new interests in folk art  (My husband has made over 10 Antler baskets and is preparing to do festivals next fall – they sell for 125-200 up here and his are better than most.)


   If we had a coffee shop/art gallery, I would want to schedule folk musicians and storytellers to entertain on the weekends. I would have an open mic poetry night and get the local writers to gather there (I travel in those circles too). Might have a spare room designed for community meetings – writing groups or book clubs – a way of providing someplace special for the community to gather. I’d carry books too – only local writers and regional books to enhance our focus on regional art. Might include my own.


   Of course, we also have another option. When the train pulls out at 3:00 each day – WE CAN CLOSE – because we feel like it.  We don’t have to be a slave to a business anymore, and a coffee shop is something you can hire someone to work for you. In fact, the coffee shop in Blue Ridge that we regularly visit is owned by a woman who lives in Florida. She only spends the summer’s here.  So we could have leisurely hours to work the train crowd alone, on extended hours for community customers. But we would not be the one making the coffee drinks and running it on a daily basis, unless we wanted to.  


    Rents are low in our area, so the startup would be easily manageable for us with our current resources. But that is the problem – I don’t want to rent space. I will never rent for a business again. When you are a renter, you really are only setting up a glorified self-employed job for yourself. A business is never really yours till you own your building. We learned that the hard way. When you rent, you are limited by a landlord’s permission regarding what you can do in and to your business, or if/when you can expand. Rents add up to a lot more than mortgages. So you are working to build someone else’s capitol – in short, half of your work is spinning wheels to support their business gains. This is a financial drain on a new business too. But when you own your space, the business really feels like yours. You can change it, expand it, sell it, or close it, and the choices are all yours. No long-term responsibility with contracts or leases. Just your freedom to make choices and create a business as large or as unique as your imagination sails. Our entire fortunes changed – and our potential – the day we bought our first building.


    So, I’ve begun looking at buildings. There is a fantastic Japanese restaurant that is never open, resting in the perfect location. You could put bistro tables outside – it is quaint. Adorable. We’d buy that building, but it’s not for sale. But then, the operation there is not doing much business either, so who knows what is going on. We are looking into it. And there is a small house for sale in the town too. I am going to go see it and find out if it is commercially zoned. We could do wonders with that. Of course, we could buy a big ole building and rent the other storefronts out to others too. We could manage that. I just know I won’t open a business ever if I have to be a renter myself.


    So, my mind is spinning.


     I keep reminding myself that there is more to life than work, and I must take the time to slow down, watch the butterflies, pick blueberries and take long walks. Write.  But then, I also think life should be an adventure and we should continue to grow and learn from it. I imagine there is much to learn and accomplish in a new endeavor like an art/gallery coffee shop for us. It’s a business that circles art (which we love) and appeals to the gentle nature of people (which we also love).  When people stop to have a cup of coffee in a beautiful atmosphere, having just stepped off a scenic train because they are enjoying vacation, they are usually feeling fine.  I would like to surround myself with people like that – make conversation with people who approach you with a joyful smile, then share what I know about the area so they will enjoy it as I do. We could make the interior of this place all logs and rustic furniture, have amazing displays of folk crafts, a big showcase with desserts and every kind of coffee (served in hand made pottery mugs). Maybe smoothies in the summer (we don’t have those in this area either). A total indulgence in artistic mountain atmosphere.


   And now is the time. Opportunity is ripe. I feel it.


    I can’t stop thinking about it.


    I should, but I can’t.


    And if my husband continues to listen, holding back that exasperated sigh that I came to dread so much, I’m afraid my idea might become more than a passing thought.


    


Hey – I just got a call from Mark. My llama is out. Gotta go chase him.


Ha. Do I have time to run an art gallery and chase a llama too when the need arises? I better be sure to put that into the equation when developing a business plan.


 


 


        

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Blah Blah Blah

Posted on April 18, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

I am so frustrated about the new book I am working on, I can barely force myself to sit down to work on it. If I were not in a master’s program, with this my thesis project, I would have scrapped it long ago. I think, by nature, I’m good at weaving a fun story with fun characters. My dialogue works and I build tension and create plausible situations that are entertaining.


 


In this book, I am trying to accomplish something more than just telling a story. I’m trying to weave dance philosophy and insight into the damn thing in artistic ways, which keeps messing up the story. Yet, without this didactic garbage, I feel the book reads like cheap commercial fiction –which I swear, I’m cut out to do – and I believe I will be successful at – but doesn’t stretch my technical skill in a way necessary to grow.


 


I received my monthly response from my mentor today. She said my last submission included the most “successful and engaging chapters submitted so far.” She also added, “You’ve had my attentions from the get-go, and you kept it throughout. What really made the difference in these chapters is that you remained in scene almost exclusively. . . . a lot happens…”    


 


Well, of course a lot happens. A lot happens in all my books – EXCEPT this one. Clearly, my attempts at being “literary” are falling short – an affected imitation of obscure literature. Blah Blah Blah. I need to stop preaching and just write a story about dance. It is just so hard to unravel what I’ve woven into the story so far. Every scene was written to support the darn critical essays about dance – so removing them makes me feel the internal motivation of my character isn’t going to be real for the reader.


 


What a sticky wicket.


 


My first mentor liked the “voice” of those essays passages, but also questioned whether or not they belonged. Now, I am hearing, basically, the same advice again, just said in a different way. Gee – if you hear something more than once, you have to listen. So, I need to sit down, read the entire manuscript and start slashing. (Sigh) I need to let this book be what it is, and stop trying to force it to be what I want it to be.


 


I can’t wait to finish this project. I want go back to my second historical. I want to write a book that makes me laugh and sigh. I want to fall in love with my hero as I pull his puppet strings to make him an admirable man that is significant in the lives of others. I want to step out of my world, my life, and go somewhere new, back in time, where romance, innovation and courage touches the lives of those who need it. (Going back to the dance world is not a fun escape for me. Sad but true.)


 


I have lost enthusiasm for writing this month. That is not like me. I’ve been thinking it is because of spring, or because of other personal issues, but really, I think it’s just that this book doesn’t excite me. It actually makes me tired. Annoyed.


 


I’ve received lots of positive, encouraging commentary from my teachers that make me feel I have promise as a writer. I just have to channel my energy, my instinct and my creative juices to the subjects that inspire me. And brings me joy. The entire point of writing is not to accomplish something specifically – but to do what I love –  without fear or expectation.   


 


Thank God I am pursuing my MFA, however, because it keeps me at the grindstone, forcing me to maintain a degree of discipline that will mold the writer lurking inside of me – like it or not.


 


I guess, the book I am working on now is like eating my spinach. But man o man – what a bitter taste it has lately.

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A perfect Easter gift!

Posted on April 17, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock





Some people get a baby bunny or a little dyed chick for Easter, but I like to do things in a big way. Guess what I got? A BABY HORSE!


 


I won’t go into my profound disappointment that I missed the actual delivery. My own fault (but some of the blame certainly can be attributed to Dixie, because she didn’t show any of the warning signs). 


 


Saturday morning, I was signed up to run a 5K with my son – the first one that was close enough to us to bother to attend. I woke up at 5:00am feeling awful. I’ve had a killer cold all week. So I took some Dristan to feel better and wrote a bit on the computer. By six, I was drowsy, so I lay down. Didn’t get up until 10:00!!!! (long after the race was over). That is so opposed to my normal behavior.


 


Every morning Mark and I go feed the horses early, often stopping at this dingy diner we love for breakfast. However, since I had set a president for being lazy this morning, I decided to make a big family breakfast. I made German Apple Pancakes, biscuits, bacon and eggs. And we all sat around eating – relaxing – until almost noon. Then Mark and Kent headed out to the land to de-bark some logs and I went to run errands and wash my car. Little did we know that we were missing the excitement out at the land. Dixie isn’t due until May 1st, so frankly, I’ve not been too obsessive about sticking around. I was planning that next week.


 


The boys arrived just as Dixie was finishing the delivery. Our neighbor watched the entire thing. He said he thought about calling, but didn’t. Drat. Any other morning, we would have all been there.


 


Since we don’t have cell phone service out there, it’s difficult for Mark to call me. He has to drive up a hill to get a signal. By the time he reached me, it’d been an hour. He and Kent watched our new filly take her first steps and feed. By the time Neva and I arrived (with suds still on my car, because I left halfway through the wash process when I got the call) the baby horse was already trotting all over the pasture with her mom. So my first sight of her was at 3 hours old. I sure would have like to see the birth, but I did see the icky after birth and the sac the horse came in, and witness the first hours of her life. I guess that is enough to be grateful for, for a city slicker like me.


 


Our new baby horse is beautiful, an exact replica of her mother. We named her April. With her coloring and long thin legs, her slight and bony body, she looks like a deer with a big head. She was unsteady the first day, stumbling a bit when she was on a slant. She sleeps a lot as all newborns do, but it’s amazing that moments after they are born, horses can walk, trot, and even run. They are alert and start interacting with others in the herd too.  I could watch her forever.     


 


We handled the baby lots, which is advised, because it helps them bond with humans. Mostly, I wanted to pet Dixie. She kept closing her eyes – she was so tired. She is proving a good mother, attentive and gentle. They are together every moment, Dixie and her new little mini-me.


 


We’re told that within the week, April will get frisky and playful. We’ll be entertained by her jumping and bounding around the pasture, as her behavior gets mischievous and silly. Beats going to another movie any day!


 


So now, I have one more attraction to pull me away from homework and all the duties I should be attending to. I can’t seem to focus on with spring seducing me as it is. The llama is integrated into the fold now, though still a bit standoffish. I’ve learned a great deal about llamas the last few days –a remarkable animal. They are used as herd protectors, for wool and as pack animals. Up here, they are very popular with hikers. You can pack all your equipment on them and they can handle the roughest terrain. Their silent and steady and don’t shy the way a horse does. They have small feet that don’t put wear and tear on trails, so they are allowed places where horses aren’t. Cool. So, perhaps one day, I’ll consider some grand walkabout adventure with Dali in the Appalachian hills. Can’t imagine better company.


 


It is spring break for my kids this week. Mark is facing lots of work on the land because the builder is ready for the thirteen-foot logs and he can only complete about three in a day. I am behind in my homework, and really need to attend to it. Yet, we still want to do some fun things with the kids. They deserve some recreation. Mark wants to take them to Dollywood, I want to go Kayaking and to Atlanta to see the Chocolate exhibit at the museum (which sounds boring, but I’m told is interesting). Hopefully, we will do it all.


 


But not today. Today, I will work. I will go get some hay for the animals and stare with wonder at the April for an hour or two. I will clean my house and cook something even though I have too many leftovers from my gluttonous Easter spread to merit making dinner. I will plug away at the books “Beloved” and “Tell it Slant”, two things I’m reading for school. If I’m good, I will go take a run (actually, that is a walk around the mountain with a one mile run at the road that circles around to the other entrance) but don’t count on that. I haven’t exactly been disciplined lately.


 


And more than once today, I will stop and take a moment to be grateful. I’m convinced that is the key to happiness. Not just designing a life you love, but taking the time to appreciate it – never taking for granted the good things surrounding you, no matter how subtle. Sure, there are things I could complain about, stresses and annoyances – but frankly, I’d rather not focus there. Staring at April walking gingerly beside her mother, a beautiful sign of fresh life, it’s easier than ever to celebrate the small sweet things that skirt the edges of our harried world. When you take the time to consider it, we all have so many blessings. It is simply a matter of recognizing them.        

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Pull up a chair by me.

Posted on April 17, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock




    
Pictures don’t do justice to the projects featured above (if I say so myself). You can’t read the fine print to appreciate the details of the newspaper chair, or even see the glossy, yellowed finish that makes them look aged and like pop art at the same time. I tried to get a picture the best I could, but the finsh creates a glare and  I guess it’s something you need to view up close in person to truly appreciate. The little rocker and my footstool look good in person too. Ah well.
 
My chair caning class was a great choice, as discovering a new interest goes. I learned all about the art of repairing antique chairs, discovering techniques used to create beautiful caned seats for handmade furniture and learned a bit of the history behind chair caning. Most people in the class brought in chairs that required lace caning, the delicate woven cane you see in Victorian rockers or dining room chairs. I was more interested in rustic furniture seats, so I stuck with rush, sea grass and larger caning patterns. However, I wanted to learn it all, so I was forever sticking my nose in everyone else’s project, especially the lace caning, watching their hands work, trying to learn how to tie off ends, peg cane, and figure out the seven steps they had to follow to create a pattern. It took the lace caner’s all week to complete one chair seat – the work is delicate, monotonous, and time consuming. I was able to get a more immediate sense of gratification, as I completed two rush seats for my historical newspaper chairs, a herringbone patterned 5/8 cane seat for my antique children’s rocker, and a sea grass footstool. And I was finished with my projects by Thursday lunch so I went home early and took Friday off, due to some family responsibilities. Sometimes you just aren’t comfortable taking time for yourself when others are shouldering work.


     Chair caning is really just another version of basketry. I look at chairs in antique shops now, and can recognize what techniques are demonstrated, whether or not the artisanship is good, and in cases when a chair is worn or broken, I know what must be done to repair it. Most importantly, when my husband begins making his rustic log furniture with logs and/or laurel, I can now make becoming seats to complete them. I am looking forward to working together to make some interesting places to sit for our new home.


     But what I loved most about taking this class was spending the week with such wonderful people. It was a small class but every student was interesting, warm and friendly. Lovely. I worked next to a woman named Nancy from a small community in Kansas, and she had great stories to tell about her life. Her husband was in the Cherokee storytelling class – he is a librarian – and we talked about storytelling and how it relates to reading. Mary sat behind me. She brought in a huge Victorian rocker that needed detailed lacework and she was having a hard time getting such a large project done, primarily because she is recovering from chemotherapy. Her husband was in the Windsor chair class, a 7-day course where participants make the detailed chair from scratch. Ralph was from Florida, also working on lace caning. He is an avid bird watcher and he entertained us with amazing birdcalls throughout the day. He often came late, because he was hanging out with the teacher of the Nature Studies class, talking birds.


       But the person I enjoyed the most was Cliff. Cliff is a professional caner. He was the teacher of this class for years and years, but he retired this fall, turning the class over to two of his former students, Don and Gwen. Cliff returned as their “assistant” simply because he loves the Campbell school. He worked on chairs he was commissioned to do by customers, but spent as much time teaching and helping us with our projects as our teachers did.   


    Cliff is 83, but as sharp as anyone I know. He was an endless source of jokes and history, unfailingly amusing with a down to earth perspective. He has energy, enthusiasm, and intelligence. Unlike many older people, he also is very aware of the trends in our new society. For example, when someone brought up American Idol, he talked about the contestants and the judges like any well informed fan. When we talked about the internet, he shared funny stories about his discovery of Google. He said he gets a kick out of searching for his name, because he can find information on every craft show he’s ever done, class he taught, how many dogs he has, and what he had for dinner last night. He makes lots of age jokes. Someone would ask how old his son is, and he’d say, “Oh, about 105. I had him later in life.” Or if they asked when he last did a daisy pattern lace cane, he’d say, “Oh that was a long time ago. I was only 123 then.”  Then he’d grin sheepishly and laugh. (I only found out how old he really is by asking my teacher Don, one of his dearest friends.)


       Cliff was in the navy, worked in the corporate world in early years, has been involved in theater, is an antique aficionado, a respected craftsmen, has traveled all over and . . . well, this man has had an interesting and creative life. The kind you can’t help but admire. And even at 83, he lives fully, vivaciously. He’s a model of living to your highest potential, savoring life, and making great connections with others.


      Cliff adored my newspaper chairs, liked that I created something original and novel. He was encouraging and engaging to talk with. I simply loved his company.


     I think staying young is a matter of being interested in the world, communicating with others, and living an authentic life. Cliff has mastered all of these things better than anyone of his age. I admired him (and his companion, a woman who is an established lace caner as well) so much.


       I thought I might not enjoy this week as much as the others I’ve spent at the Campbell school, because this was the first time I’ve gone alone. In the past, I’ve taken classes with my husband, and even this session, I was signed up with my sister in law (but the health issues with her father made it impossible for her to attend.) But there is something calming and lovely about the grounds, the flowering paths, the historical center and craft shop, the spacious studios peppered around the many acres – it is like a walking meditation zone– the very atmosphere of this wholesome, natural environment is so welcoming I couldn’t help but feel comfortable.


    Each day, students gather in a large dining hall for lunch. Wonderful gourmet dishes are served family style. I sat at a different table each afternoon to meet and talk with new faces. The first day, I sat with a table of all blacksmiths. Boy, can those guys eat. (Good choice, I was trying to diet.) I heard all about their hammering and working with metal – they are a rowdy lot.


   The next day, I sat with members of the Banjo class. I told them I was once married to a banjo player. They wouldn’t pass the rolls to me (also OK since I was on a diet) because they said they could never trust a girl who divorced a banjo player. I explained that it wasn’t the music I had issues with – but perhaps the music that wasn’t being made between us. They did pass the rolls eventually. I knew enough about banjo’s to be able to carry on a conversation –a surprise to me.


   The next day, I sat next to the teacher of the Cherokee Storytelling Class. He was fascinating. We talked about his Indian culture, my historical books, and storytelling in general. He got me all excited about the national storytelling festival. Gotta go. Fun.


   I also sat the teacher from the spinning and Dying class, but damn if I didn’t have the llama yet, so I didn’t take advantage of it to pick her brain. Next time.


     There were others, from all kinds of classes – the glass fusing class, faux finishing, nature studies, and best of all, the outdoor cooking over an open fire class (gotta take that one someday). I love the conversations at lunch. We talk about our classes and this leads to talk about other interests and experiences. Inevitably, we talk about how we discovered the Campbell school. Most students have been coming for years and years – taking at least one week out of their lives to really relax in this old world environment. As such, it seems everyone is fascinating – the kind of people who have avid interests, pursue alternate experiences from mainstream culture, and who have a generous graciousness regarding art, history, and nature.


     Many of the people are older, 50’s and 60’s, retired yet learning to be craftsmen to supplement their income and reinvent their lives to something creative– or they are celebrating leisure for the first time in years, using it to pursue latent interests. But some students are younger and many families come together (sorry, no children). I’ve sat with generations of women from a single family who come for a “girl’s week”. The grandmother is in a quilting class, the daughter in silk screening, and the young adult granddaughter in jewelry making.


    I’m always amazed so many couples come year after year, the husband taking one class, the wife in another – it is a part of their journey as a couple growing together. I hear them describe the ten years they have been coming, jealous. How it is Mark and I never got around to visiting? We knew about this school. – But then, our lives were consumed with a different art and we never took time for anything else. Sad, that.


      I will be returning in May with my daughter for a weekend silver jewelry class. We will learn to melt silver to make charms and chains. (Talk about a hefty materials fee…. eesh ) But it’s her birthday present. I will look forward to learning something new, but mostly, I look forward to sharing this wonderful place with my daughter. This kind of memory beats another trip to Disney world or a tangible present any day. For us both.


     My week is over but I now have chairs for my writing room which not only emote two things I love, history and art, with their unusual design – but they are also proof that dance isn’t the only thing I can do well – and to top it off, they remind me of a place I love too.


     Amazing how much joy can be associated to a simple chair. if you go about it right.


        


 


 


  


 


     

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The Dali Llama lives in Georgia?

Posted on April 14, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock




I know everyone is waiting anxiously to find out how my birthday was. (My internet was down, so the suspense has been dragged out due to technical difficulties – not as a ploy for effect.)


     It was great.


    And, yes. I’m a llama mamma.


    One black male llama. Five years old. Still has his balls, (helpful should I ever acquire a female llama and want to start a booming llama business.) Name. . .  Well, you don’t want to know what his former name was . . . (“Nigger”, she whispers with shocked indignation). The llama is NOW named Dali. This means, the Dali llama lives at the Hendry homestead. How cute is that?


   He doesn’t spit. You can ride him. And he hasn’t been shaved for five years, so he looks like an Antarctica, prehistoric llama. His hair is long and thick, like dreadlocks. He has beautiful, soulful eyes, a regal carriage, and he thinks he owns the pasture.


    The horses and donkey can’t figure out what kind of creature he is, so they are nervous and stay clear of him. Dali, however, comes from a pasture with twenty horses, so he thinks he is not just with horses – now he is with chickens.


    He keeps circling the pasture, step by step, the horses keeping as far away as they can, staring, snorting, and pawing the ground. Dali is learning his new territory and I’m told he’ll keep to himself for three days, then suddenly adjust and start herding with the others. He’ll come in for food then and start bonding with us. I hope someone bothers to tell the horses this bit of news because I don’t see them anywhere near ready to make friends yet.


    Dali is an odd-looking creature – exotic. He looks almost like a bird, a rare ostrich or something. His long neck, curved ears and thick, feather-looking fur, combined with unusually thin legs and two-toed hooves (that look like bird feet) make him seem otherworldly.


     I adore him!


     For the record, I did give Mark an “out”. About a week ago, he asked for the Ferrier’s number, “Because”, he commented, “One of the horses lost a shoe.”


      The thing is, I’m the one who takes care of the daily animal maintenance stuff (which is why I had the number), so I could only assume he wanted the number to chase down the llama for sale. I had an option. I could play dumb and act as if I didn’t notice this request was out of character (to get what I want) or to use that opportunity to tell my husband not to feel obligated to purchase me this llama to prove his undying love.


    I was quiet.. . . well, for about an hour.


    Then, we went out to breakfast, and when he brought it up again, I felt, in all fairness, he deserved an “out”. I told him I could only assume he wanted the number of the Ferrier because he was thinking of buying me the llama I coveted, but I knew we were not in a position to get one now, so I could wait. I appreciate the thought, – I knows he does what he can to give me my heart’s desire. But I don’t want to be asking for impractical things.


    He actually got angry and said he was in no way considering buying me a damn llama. Don’t get my hopes up. And he went on and on about Goliath’s lost shoe and my presumptuousness to think I deserved a llama.    


    So, I let it go.


    Then, no one mentioned my birthday again. Not a peep. Not a single question about what I wanted or where I wanted to celebrate. Nothing. They acted as if I wasn’t having a birthday at all. Now, some women might fall for the “Gee I forgot,” routine – but not me. My husband has never forgotten an anniversary or a birthday – ever.


     Then – the day before my birthday, Mark said the Ferrier was coming out to shoe the horse on Wednesday – it was the only day he could get the appointment. He also said he would be working on the land the entire day.


     Yea, right. I’ll believe that. It’s my birthday, and you have plans to work the entire day, into the night, and you made appointments for the pets that I have to supervise (so I have assigned tasks too) and we aren’t going to acknowledge the day in any way.  Sure – that makes sense…


     So, I pretty much guessed there would be a surprise at the land and this was a ruse to get me there.


     I drove up to two excited kids and a llama picking his way gingerly through the field. He stopped to stare at my car. It was love at first sight. (For me, at least) but he is playing hard to get.  I would have seduced him with treats, but damn if I don’t know what a llama likes for snacks. He turned his nose up at carrots, apples, and sugar. I was out of weapons. I will do some research and return prepared tomorrow – ready to win him over.


     Dali was from Mark and the kids, and I do love this gift. I was, an am, thrilled. How many people can say their husband will buy them a llama? Reminds me of the movie Phenonoma. A man is sarcastically making fun of John Travolta for buying all these chairs he didn’t need from the woman who made them. He kept acquiring the chairs because he loved her and he wanted to show her support, make her feel sucessful, and it gave him a chance to see her and make her smile.
    The fellow sitting with the guy said, “John was smart. Your wife left you, right? I bet it is because you never bother to buy her chairs.  Did you ever bother to learn what her chairs were so you could buy them to show your love? every woman has chairs, but only good men know enough to buy them.” It was a wonderful description of love. – This llama is a chair for me – a hairy, funky chair. It is nice to know my husband is willing to buy my chairs even now, after 18 years together.
     Mark said that when the fellow delivered it and they set it lose in the field, they watched it for a while, and the guy asked, “So why does your wife want a llama?”


     Mark said, “I have absolutely no idea.”


     Then Mark said, “Why did you have a llama?”


     The fellow smiled and said, “No reason.”


    Well – that is my point exactly.


     Mark said, “My wife will love him. She’ll change the name of course.”
      The fellow said, “This llama knows his name. Been called ‘Nigger’ for five years. Might be best to keep it.”   
     Mark laughed. “Trust me. She’ll change the name. In fact, I don’t know if I should tell her what it’s name formerly was. Might influence her opinion of this llama.”
     It did. Makes me love him more. I figure it is an act of mercy to adopt this llama and give him a appropriate name. Yes – it was fate that this particular llama, (who clearly wasn’t appreciated considering the derogitive name assigned – nor should a llama be walking around giving people a reason to chuckle over a racism joke name) found a new home with me. Sets things right, ya know. I guess one could question how respectful the name Dali is too – only, considering I am a sorta semi-practicing buddhist, I think it isn’t a slander – more a play on words. 
 
Back to my birthday….


     My sister-in-law gave me the next best present in the world. A big blackberry bush to plant out near my blueberry bush. Yippee. I’ve been talking about wanting blackberries. Now, I’ll have ’em.


   My chair caning class has been wonderful, and I met some delightful people, whom I’ll discuss later. It was a wonderful way to spend my birthday week – productive, creative, easygoing and inspirational – with loads of wonderful conversation to tweak the mind. And I made some fantastic chairs and learned so much. Mark showed up on Wednesday with an apple pound cake to share with the group (and flowers.) It always makes a gal look good to have an attentive spouse – makes her seem like quite the catch to have a fellow hustling to please. He earned brownie points coming and going for that brilliant move. I  complained that I couldn’t eat the cake, however, considering I was on a diet, but he told me it was a “lose a pound-cake”. Well then, I had to eat a big piece! What the heck – it was my birthday. He wouldn’t stay for lunch. Said he had to get back to the land to work. Yea, right.


     When the kids asked me what I wanted for my birthday (after the fact) I sang them a song. I wanted:


Sammy and a pile of hay.


Sammy and a pile of hay.


Sammy and a pile of hay.


And Maxine to be O…..K.   


(You have to imagine a rousing gospel flavor to appreciate the tune.)


 


Even though there is no hay to be had anywhere in town (due to the heavy rain this year) Mark managed to find a few bales this week. Maxine is worm-free and fine.


But Sammy is still MIA


Almost a perfect birthday . . . but I miss my dog.


I am still holding out hope.


    Finally yet importantly – I talked to some people at the Campbell school who know llamas. I commented that his hair was so long and he looked so hot. They said you should sheer them this time of year – just like sheep. This would get rid of all that matted hair and make him cool for summer, and the hair is valuable. Go figure. Mark and I discussed where we would have to go to find someone willing to come sheer the llama, and I finally said, “Let’s figure out how and do it ourselves. It will be fun, and since we will have him for years, we might as well learn how.” I’m told they are hard to hold down. Well – there are two of us and only one of him. Mark sighed and said, “Why not.” Gee, I’m glad he is willing to embrace the unknown. (I need his muscles, I’m thinking – and he is a good size to hide behind if Dali starts spitting.)


    Ha. This will be an adventure.   I’ve never sheered a llama before – bet it is memorable. So, tonight, I’m going on E-bay to find a llama sheerer (a sheep sheering device, I figure) and perhaps a book or article to explain how to go about the task. Maybe we can get creative and try a few hairstyles in the process – a llama pompadour or a llama mohock.


    See – having a llama will expand our experiences and allow us to learn new things. I knew this was a good gift.


All I have to think about now, is what I will make out of all that llama wool!  


 What I’d like to make, is a litle black sweater for a little black dog – one with a space for a tail to tuck between his legs because he is feeling guilty for running away. Yep – that is what I wish I had a need for now.

P.S. My daughter told her boyfriend about what was going on at home. He said, “First you tell me your mom made a “Negros for sale” chair, then you tell me your dad bought your mom a pet called “Nigger” for her birthday. Do I really want to meet these people?” Very funny. 
Circumstantial evidence – don’t ya hate when that happens.   

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Aliens took my dog

Posted on April 14, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

Aliens have abducted my dog. It better be aliens, cause if I find out a person took him, I’m gonna kick their arse from here to kingdom-come.


 


Last Sunday, Mark went to the land to de-bark and sand some huge logs, columns needed to support his loft office, which overlooks a huge great room with 25-foot ceilings (very cool). He took the kids with him so I could attend to some pressing homework. Kent works with him now, turning the logs and learning a bit about woodwork, and Neva likes to play with the animals, so they love joining him out at our house site. Our family dog, Sammy, went with them too.


 


They couldn’t take Maxine, our new puppy, because she threw up what looked like spaghetti, but it turned out to be worms. We worm all the animals regularly, but she joined our family mid cycle, so somehow we missed this. After grossing us out big time, she was home, sleeping off the medicine we gave her to rectify the problem. Our big, boisterous 6-month-old Shepard puppy stayed home too because he just takes too much room up in the car and he is still a bit wild to pt in the back of the pickup. So, just Sammy joined the family for a day in the fresh outdoors. Sammy  adores the land. Thinks he’s a rough and tough mountain dog now. He barks at the horses, chases squirrels, stomps through the creek, looks for possums and skunks, and best of all, he pigs out on horse maneuver. He likes it best steaming from the oven, if you get my drift.


 


 At about two Mark called and asked if I would like to meet them at Subway for a lunch break, and I did. We were only out about 30 minutes. Mark put Sammy in the enclosed horse pasture – a fenced area he shouldn’t be able to get out of. The horses and the donkey (who like to stomp little dogs) were grazing outside, so Mark figured Sammy  was safer in than out . When they returned, he was missing. I guess the dog could have gotten out, yet we also thought it might be possible some kids that were four wheeling on our land let him out. They like to come down and pet our animals, so who knows.


 


Discovering him gone didn’t concern anyone at first. They called and called, but Sammy was nowhere to be found. When they called me, I joined them for the search, but had no luck either. It was getting dark, so we finally had to leave. We assumed Sammy would be there in the morning. He’s been to the area dozens of times and knows it fairly well. He wasn’t.


 


We talked to all the neighbors, then put up two dozen signs with a sad little picture of Sammy looking lost. We put notices up at the two-area vet’s offices, called animal rescue and the animal search and rescue lady that announces on the local radio. No luck. We got a lead from the neighbor Tuesday. She said she saw a small black dog like the one in the picture running across her field. So we went out there and called and called, but in the end, we only saw crows. I have serious doubts he was ever there.


 


Now, each day, we drive all around the area, calling up and down the streets and talking to people we see. No one has seen a small black dog. Actually, most dogs up here are big, so a schnauzer would stand out. They say people steal pedigreed dogs around here, and I guess that is a possibility, but our land is tucked away, far removed from others, so I find it hard to believe a dog thief would happen to ramble by at the very moment we were gone. And Sammy is neutered and nine. Who really would want him? He is actually a very badly behaved little bratty dog, and if someone did take him, I wouldn’t be surprised if they threw him back over the fence a week or so later. Only the original family would love this dog. We do, and we want him home where he belongs.


 


This week on the news, they featured a story about a found dog. A couple lost a small Sitsu – it wandered away from their backyard- and they went through all the motions to find him, but he never turned up. Sadly, life went on. Now, suddenly the dog shows up. They got a call from Animal rescue informing them their dog is in their possession.


The couple said, “We don’t have a dog.”


Animal rescue said, “Don’t you have a sitsu named Mimi? We have it here. It is wearing a collar with your name and address.”


The woman on the phone said, “We lost that dog 5 years ago!!!”


Well. Now, they’ve found it. And it made the news.  No one knows where the dog has been. It’s wearing the same collar it had on five years ago when it wandered off. The dog is healthy. It isn’t dirty or behaving differently. How odd is that? If it found another home, certainly the new owners would change the collar after 5 years. The original owners said the dog doesn’t even look older. Hummm………….


 


So, I’m thinking aliens took that dog. They are done studying it, and have now returned it to Georgia (where aliens would naturally go to find signs of intelligent life.) Upon returning to earth, the dog naturally sought out his family.


 


So, perhaps Sammy is in outer space, pooping in a big ole spaceship instead of on my bedroom floor for a change. He is barking at space mailmen and making a general nuisance of himself, pawing to be petted when ET just wants to read.


 


I miss him.  I can’t sleep at night thinking about where he is and what he is doing. Mark says he might be curled up on someone’s couch, but I have visions of him hungry and dirty, alone and lonely. I can’t stand it.


 


I will keep looking – praying coyotes and cruel people haven’t encountered him and that he will wander home soon. Even if he comes home with antennas and beeping. I want him back.


 


I love my dog. Flaws and all. In fact, I love him because of his flaws.


Sammy, wherever you are, I’m with you.

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Pull up a chair, friend

Posted on April 9, 2006 by Ginny East Shaddock

This week I’ll be taking a chair caning class at the Campbell Folk School. I called to cancel the course because I felt uncomfortable pursuing my own interests in light of the stress my husband is going through. I didn’t feel it was fair to expect him to have to arrange his day around school pick-up and plan dinner etc… But when I called, I was told I would lose my deposit, so I decided to make a compromise so it wouldn’t be a total loss. I’ll go, but leave early each day so my participation doesn’t interfere with my husband’s schedule. It’s also my birthday week, so this gives me something to do, which alleviates my family having to plan something to entertain me for the day.


 


So – the class is on. And that means I need to ready my chairs. Each student is supposed to bring several projects, refinished, repaired and ready to cane.  Because I knew I would be painting layers of gloss on my chairs, I had to get cracking.  I bought my two chairs for 10.00 each at a flea market. I had to cut off all the old dry, racked caning and unscrew the seat top. I then had to spray-painting the base coat with an off white. My husband insisted I do this away from the house and it was nighttime before I was free to work on it, so I trudged down the mountain to spray in the dark. Needless to say, in the morning, I had to laugh at the splotchy chairs, with a bug or two painted on. Ah well, it lends character and the surface of the chairs will all be covered up anyway.


 


Next, I had to go to storage to get my Penny Romance Papers published in 1873. Our storage unit is like hell – if hell is a two-foot space where you are locked in by everything you ever owned. Like Ebenezer Scrooge who collected chains throughout life, everything we’ve collected in our vast eclectic living is piled in this unit until our home is built. (And frankly, the fact that we are living without all this stuff for a year does make you question if you really need it – but that is fodder for another blog). Our furniture, books, clothes, kitchen wares, Flex paraphernalia, tools, hobbies, toys, bikes and you name it are all stacked twelve feet high in this 30-foot unit. I begin rooting through, but there is only so much I can find within reach, and eventually, I have to admit I’m never going to find these papers. At least, not until summer when we move.


 


That means I have to come up with another idea for my chair. I stood there among the tangible evidence of my life and began considering just what other theme would be meaningful to me and a good contribution to my writing room.  A chair decoupaged with hundreds of dance pictures? Family pictures? The articles I’ve had published in magazines? Pages from the classics I’m reading for school? Do I really want a Faulkner chair? I had wanted the chairs to be indicative of my love for history and writing, so in the end, I decide to try to stick with that. I went shopping. Back to the antique stores I go in search of more penny romance papers. But they are no longer available. It was a rare find.


 


So I begin looking for vintage newspapers. I find lots of Civil War period New York Times, but little else. Finally, I stumble on two wonderful papers, Gleason’s Pictorials, published on January 28th, 1854 and Harper’s Weekly Journal of Civilization, November 22, 1862. I also couldn’t resist a two-page newspaper flyer called the Daily Courier, April 3rd, 1853, which are all classified ads. I’m thrilled with these finds, but evidently aware that these papers, at around $50 each, mean I am making a rather expensive chair. But I justify that, because these chairs will be with me a long time, I can afford to spend a bit. I want everything in my first and only private space to have meaning, and frankly, if I bought an antique, I would spend a great deal more.


 


Now, I must begin adhering the papers to my chairs, which are just standard rung chairs with a slatted back. First, I read the papers, dwelling in the amazing history of the time. I should read more of these things. It really takes you to a different time, place and cultural thought. Makes me want to write.  I read about the death sentence of a woman who murdered her husband, written with such melodrama and sensationalism, it made me laugh. We don’t slant news like that today. The papers include poetry and stories, because people didn’t have TV or radio and reading (for those that could read) was their primary entertainment. But what fascinated me most, was the advertisements.


 


I glued the front-page title and headlines of the paper to the top rung of my chair so the date showed, and wrapped pages around the legs and body of the chair. Then, I cut out specific ads and placed them in strategic places. I was most interested in all these ads of “Negros for sale”.


 


I need to explain that my current historical novel (which is on hold until I finish my literary dance book at school – on hold because academia doesn’t focus on commercial fiction, which my historical love stories are) is about a lawyer who is on a quest to free slaves. He works with the Underground Railroad. He’s discovered, and as result, he, my heroine, and two slaves are on the run. They go to Florida and interact with the Seminole Indians (who consisted of many runaway black slaves) and eventually make their way to a boat that takes them to California. The slave characters in my book include a woman 23 years old, and the book takes place in 1853 – the very year of this paper.  Let me point out that this book is all about freedom and equality and I’m told my best characters in the book happen the black characters. In other words, this is not a racist book. The book is about justice really and a sensitivity to the plight of black Americans. The hero and heroine fall in love because they recognize their joint moral convictions.


 


As you can imagine, I look at these papers, and realize I’m reading ads that could be the real life evidence of my story – one ad is an offer for an award for a young 23 year old black woman runaway (50$ reward – what a sad price on a life, huh?) and other ads are solicitation for selling negros. Because I want this chair in my writing room, and because I am thinking of my book, I cut out these ads and place them in a prominent place on this piece of art people can sit on. This chair is like research now, a part of my book for the room where I will finish writing it.


 


I am thrilled with the look of the chair, so I begin the many layers of glue and water to seal it. But as the first coat dries, I’m looking with pride at the chair, and I start to think about how others will see it. And it occurs to me, I have a chair that has “Negro’s for sale” plastered on it. Holly crap! Now, I understand why I’ve created this, but will other people? For all I know, others will look at it and think I support the notion of selling Negros, or at the very least, it makes me look insensitive regarding this sad period of history. Now, I’m feeling really, really self-conscious about my beloved chair. I can’t undo my choice without wrecking it. I spend an hour totally uncomfortable and feeling inappropriate, until I break down and cover one of the ads up with an ad for Ladies selling skin products. (Ha- a funny add that says if you want to be beautiful, you must use their cream because it will remove freckles. Guess you can’t be beautiful and have freckles.)


 


Now, I still have a chair with a few questionable ads, but none are actually front and center. By the time I put 5 layers of glue and water on the chair and three layers of honey colored polyurethane to give it a glossed, sepia look, the print is subtle anyway. But I know my husband is going to kid me about this chair big time.


 


Now, I stand back and admire my chair again. I love it . . . but . . . . Suddenly I start to question the integrity of my work. Perhaps it is wrong to have cut up these wonderful historical artifacts. Now, you can’t read most of the print. I’m starting to consider the journey of these papers and how they survived. I suppose they were in a file of a publishing office somewhere as originals for years and years. Then, when the paper collapsed, they were sold or given away. Or maybe this particular paper was saved because the person who ran an ad wanted a copy for prosperity. Or it could have just been used to line a trunk filled with a wedding dress or something. And it laid in someone’s attic for years. Then, 75 to a hundred years later, someone realizes old papers are worth something, so they take them out and keep them awhile to show friends or family members. But they never really display the papers, so eventually, they’re sold. And the papers fall into an antique dealer’s hands where they sit in a stack of old papers and magazines for a long time. People come along and view them, marveling at the contents, but really, what can you do with an old newspaper? You can frame the first page, but you can’t very well frame all 8 pages – it would take up a room. So the best you can do is keep it folded up in the protective sleeve.


 


But I come along and buy it to put it on a chair.


 


Now, a part of me thinks this is a good end for a paper that survived so long. For one thing, the paper was disintegrating (which made it really hard to brush on glue without destroying it altogether. Who knows how much longer it would have held out? Soon, you wouldn’t be able to remove it to turn the pages to read it anyway. ) Now, it’s been cut and arranged, but still, it’s preserved forever. And another thing, the paper isn’t hidden away for the rare occurrence when someone looks at it – now people will enjoy it all the time. It will be a conversation piece – and something I will cherish and appreciate. So, I justify my act by thinking the ultimate fate of this paper, the reason it was saved all this time, was simply for me. For this specific project. And I start thinking, “Wouldn’t the person who originally read this daily paper be amazed to think that over 150 years later a woman will use it to decorate her home.” Life is remarkable, ya know.  


 


I collect old books and I have my penny romance newspapers. I’m thinking I might start collecting some of these papers too and I’ll preserve those particular items for all time. This will prove I don’t think historical artifacts are disposable items for my own end.  I need to make a table to go with these chairs – I’m imagining a small bistro set for my room, and I’m thinking I’ll refinish the table in another way. I will look for the kind with a glass top over a hollow center that allows you to put items inside to view. I can start collecting money from the 1850’s and other artifacts and make it a mini museum.


 


So, my “Negro’s for sale” chairs are on the porch drying with their last coat of polyurethane.(wince) I will meet my instructors tonight at the welcome dinner, and tomorrow I’ll begin learning to cane the seats. I don’t know what to chose for this last portion of the remodeling– there are so many kinds of textiles and patterns employed in the craft of caning. I’ll wait and see what is recommended. I also bought an old child’s rocking chair without a seat at an antique shop for $8.00. I can start with that to practice. I know my kids have outgrown a tiny seat, but I’ll have grandkids someday and it is a great accent piece if nothing else.      


 


I will put a picture of my finished chair on this blog at the end of the week. You won’t be able to read the fine print, so no cracks from the peanut gallery. But trust me; my husband is having a field day with this one.


 

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