Category Archives: Daily News

My daughter’s boyfriend left yesterday after a ten-day visit. I am guilty of not blogging when people visit, not out of choice or a lack of desire, but because of circumstance. On the one hand, there’s a lot to write about. We tend to do fun things with our guests and there is always much to reflect upon. But entertaining eats up a lot of time, (and lets not forget all the extra cooking I can’t resist doing) and I find myself squeezing in homework with late night reading in bed or creeping around in the wee hours of the morning with a book in hand. I sit in the tub at the end of the day reading my MFA material and composing letters in my head, wishing I could post them. However, the problem is, our cabin is set up as two separate structures joined by one covered walkway – sort of like a rustic compound. When guests are here, we like to give them the run of the bunkhouse where, unfortunately, my laundry and office reside. This means I fall behind on my laundry and it definitely limits my computer time. I am the kind of writer who wants to plunk out a few thoughts at very odd hours – middle of the night or pre-dawn. Even though everyone insists they don’t mind if I am upstairs (guests sleep in the downstairs bedroom) I feel it isn’t very fair invade their space at ungodly hours. Therefore, I stay away. But trust me, when friends are here, I go through blog withdrawal and my head is cogged up with thoughts I wish I could share.

Anyway, how does one catch up? It would take ten days of writing to cover the ten days I was MIA. So much happens in my life – some of it big and important, some of it silly and simple, yet those are the kinds of things that make others smile, so I wish I could write about them.

I could talk about the fact that Denver has returned home for the summer. In fact, she has left college for good. Most parents would report something like that with anguish, or disappointment or anger, but I understand her decision and she has my blessing. Not everyone needs to walk a traditional path – I certainly didn’t. I didn’t get my college degree until I was 40. I’ll get my masters at 48. The fact that I didn’t go to college out of high school didn’t mean I was destined to be uneducated or unskilled. Heck, I think I have more education and made more money than most of my friends – all those people that did the right social thing and went to school, got a job, got married and had 2.5 kids – then spent a lifetime living respectable, stable lives. That is nice and all, but I bet I have more work satisfaction and personal happiness than many of these solid citizens do.  I certainly can state that life has always excited me. That counts for something in my book.

College is terrific if it trains you for something you have a passion to do, but I think life offers many more options than that. The college path right out of high school is simply easier and less harrowing than other choices. Anyway, I do not fear that her leaving school at this time means she won’t be successful. It just means she is creative and brave and will have to approach life with some mental and creative muscle.  

She will live in Georgia with us this summer (I gave her my dance-teaching jobs) and she is considering living with her boyfriend in this area for a year come fall. They will save money, regroup and make a life plan – Denver is considering moving to NY to pursue theater as I did.( I have mixed feelings about this)  She even said she’s considered opening a studio here. (I have mixed feeling about this too.) It would be very successful – especially since she has some pretty awesome consultants and willing help living right here, but she is young to settle for that lifestyle as of yet. We’ve talked about her going to trade school to learn silversmithing and jewelry design – an artistic career to support herself while she continues theater.  But it is early yet. Time will reveal which path she will take. I have a lot to say about all this, (of course, I would) but not today

I could talk about the visit with her boyfriend, Steve. I like him. More than I expected. He is a perfect match for her – not that they are the same, but they compliment each other well. I think some of the best couples are two individuals that are uniquely different – like puzzle pieces that fit together well. These two make a sweet couple, and there were things I noticed about their relationship that I admire. Like the way they discovered a remote field filled with a million lightening bugs one night (parking, no doubt) and they were so fascinated by it, they had to bring us to see it. There were all these twinkling bugs in the grass and the trees, like it was Disney world or something. We made fun of how they found the place, but secretly, I was thrilled my daughter is with someone who will pause in the middle of making out to appreciate something so simple, yet so beautiful about the world– and even like it so much they are compelled to share it with others. They play games together too. They play this game with marbles and after the second day here, I noticed they had exchanged the marbles for lovely rocks they had collected here in the mountains. Cute. They have an easygoing relationship that seems to have depth.

And from the looks of it, Steven is a good kisser. That is important in the long haul in my book. But I don’t want to talk about them today either.

I could talk about how yesterday, I taught my first dance class in a year. What fun. Denver was taking Steven back to the airport so I offered to sub her class. I worked with seven 5-6 year olds and had a blast. I so miss the enthusiasm and wonder in a little child’s eyes when they are introduced to dance in a creative way. You can see them falling in love with movement right before your eyes. Every parent there asked if I was going to open a school. Ummm…. No. But it was delightful getting a taste of my past passion once again. Luckily, a taste goes a long way when the meal is something as very rich and filling as the all-consuming art of dance.

I could talk about how we sold our school one year ago and now, finally, we seem to be leveling out emotionally. We have rediscovered our sense of humor. Life is filled with laughter and playfulness – a wonderful adventure, once again. This week FLEX is having their recitals. We wake every morning filled with gratitude that we are not buried under the weight of that chore. I don’t recall ever having a June to savor – at least not in twenty years. In fact, I’ve never had a summer with my kids. I began FLEX when I first had kids. That means I never got to parent casually in the leisure months of summer.  Usually, when the kids get out of school it triggers a mound of anxiety and work, for that is when the real stress and work of the year-end performance hits. (In fact, just when school got out, Mark started having FLEX nightmares again. He said he thought it was because all the usual triggers were there because of the season, even though it isn’t our nightmare anymore.)  Traditionally, June is swallowed by recital, then there is a summer program – and in August, the work begins again with a new season. I’ve never had the soft, slow days of summer to enjoy with my children. Till now. We have done more in the two weeks since they got out of school than I’ve done entire summers before.  I am somewhat ashamed to have missed it all the summers past, and yet, I think I appreciate this time more now because I know what it is like to allow the simple, yet important things in life get buried under the weight of work. We offered to run the recital for the new owners. We would have set their lights, organized the backstage, cleaned up numbers etc… We are masters at all of that, and frankly, I believe they would have benefited from our expertise. Running a good show is harder than it looks. But they didn’t want us. Hurt our feelings at first. But rather than be worried about them and how they will fare on their own (which was my first instinct) I concentrate on how their not wanting us is a true gift – for it means the summer is ours for the first time ever. I am overwhelmed with appreciation for our new life this month.   But, I don’t want to talk about that today.

I could talk about my animals. Or our new house. Or my masters program. Or running. Or talk about how Mark is getting his real-estate license and is going back to work – he wants to sell our cabin and the lot on the creek himself, and has been asked to represent our builders future spec homes for starters. And a friend with a real-estate office wants him to head the sales department because they are more into building now.  Mark has a gift for seeing the potential in property and he is ready to go, excited to do something totally new. And we have money to invest, and with him immersed in the field, I bet he will find great opportunities. Bet he does wonders in the field. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up with a real-estate business ourselves if he likes it as much as I am guessing he will. It is funny – for all that we wanted freedom from work, we don’t feel ready to stop. Not at 40 and 47 respectively. Too much energy to lie down so soon, I guess. (Mark says that not working at this age makes him feel guilty, like some kind of life slacker. He is uncomfortable. Interesting.)

I could talk about how I found a building I want to buy to begin a new business. It is perfect. I have begun doing the research and working out a business plan in my head (nothing on paper and no numbers crunching yet) but I am moving closer and closer to that point when I just dive in.  I have good instincts on things like this, and I miss the challenge of having a business of my own. We are talking about the coffee shop and art gallery still, but also have interest in importing teak rustic furniture and adding handmade rustic furniture for a bigger, cabin-remodeling store too. Maybe we will do both!!!! Why not? Yet – I don’t’ want to talk about any of these things either today.

I am writing an awful lot for someone who is just saying she won’t write about this and that. I think I will talk about Kathy. Yeah. We meet two times a week for 1 ½-2 hours. Our lessons  are going fantastically and she is making steady progress. I absolutely love working with this woman. She has the honesty of a child (one reason I always adored working with children is because they are the most honest people in the world and they don’t put up pretenses). I have to keep on my toes to keep the lessons progressive, but I think I am doing a good job considering I am not a trained schoolteacher. She is reading sentences now comprised of simple words. The first time she actually comprehended an entire sentence (before that she just stumbled over random words) her face lit up and she squealed with excitement. She is delighted with the evidence that she is learning to read. So am I.

Today, we wrote a letter to the girls in jail – a letter of inspiration to let them know her path is hard, but if she can do it so can they. Kathy has told me so much about her life and the people in it. She told me four of the ten people in her rehabilitation counseling sessions couldn’t read. Wow – how many poor illiterate individuals are out there? I went home contemplating how I could get them together in one room – so I could help more than one person at a time. But honestly, I think a huge part of Kathy’s progress is due to the one on one attention. I am both a teacher and a counselor (and a friend) to her. And she needs all of the above. So I have to limit my ambition to saving one non-reader at a time. For efficiency sake.

She told me she picks up driftwood at the lake and makes wall hangings and centerpieces. She hot glues silk flowers, moss, butterflies and such to make small scenes. Her husband makes walking sticks from twisted laurel that he sands and polishes. He burns designs on the handles. She is on house arrest, so she is now spending her days making things to pass the time. She brought a walking stick and one of her driftwood pieces in to show me. They were nice. Well, of course, this got my mind humming. I asked her how she might go about selling them, and she said her husband once set up a table on the side of the road and they sold quite a few. She just doesn’t know how people get these booths at fairs and such. So, I am doing research for her and I intend to help her start a small business of her own. I will help her find out how and where to buy her materials at discount and walk her through the process of setting up a booth at a craft fair. I even think I will enroll her as a member of the Blue Ridge Arts association so she can put a few pieces in their store/gallery. She doesn’t have the capability of learning the ins and outs of marketing handmade items at this time – but I do. And she can learn with me so later, she can do it on her own. Of course, reading will be required to figure out some of the forms. Talk about a perfect assignment. Motivation!!!!  It is a duel benefit exercise – my idea of a purposeful education. Anyway, working with Kathy fills me with a sense of purpose. If I had one wish for my friends, it would be that they could each find something just like this to do, something that fills their heart with joy. It makes you feel as if you are leaving an impression on the world, however small, and that you are doing your part to help humanity (even if it is only one person you help). I’ve written checks to organizations and done volunteer work before, but nothing compares to the intimacy of this, rolling up your sleeves and getting in the trenches to change a person’s lot in life one on one. Anyway, it makes me feel wonderful.

New subject –

Today I interviewed a cosmetologist for an article for the local newspaper – a student success story from the Appalachian Technical College. I guess you can say I am easing into professional writing. Who’d a’thunk it of this dumb dancer chick?  I could post the end result, but it might bore everyone – it’s just journalism. Yet, if I like it I might. You are a captive audience, in a way.  Anyway, let me say I am a natural at this. I am good with people – I LOVE asking questions and learning new things, and I can make a good story out of anything. I am having fun. My mind is filled with ambitious ideas for writing projects. Ha. It would be. Give me an inch of opportunity and I’ll make a mile of it. You’d think I had 40 hours in a day to work with. I act like it. In reality, I get far less done than I want.

Now – I have homework to do. A book to rewrite, a human-interest story to write, a dinner to make, and I still need to take my evening walk around the mountain to see what is in bloom. I have my priorities straight now, that’s for sure.

A big kiss to anyone out there who still reads my blog. You are a trooper.

P.S. Today I got an E-mail about my upcoming high school reunion in August. I think it is year 29 or 30!!!!! Gosh, I’m old. I don’t know whether to comment on it to Mark or not. I’d love to go, but maybe that’s a bad idea. I don’t know if he would be open to it, and I couldn’t go without him. But I’d love to see how old friends turned out. Why not? I can’t imagine I’d have anything to be embarrassed about. I’m well enough preserved that I won’t scare anyone or be unrecognizable, and I’m not ashamed about how I turned out career wise or family wise. But perhaps I should worry about everyone else – remembering people for how they were has a certain apeal I don’t know. But it would give me something fun to write about! Nevertheless, I’m thinking it’ll be a “no”.

Sad, that.

Today, I thought I’d write a short update for any friend who actually follows the progression of things in my world. A blog is not unlike a soap opera (only, hopefully, less melodramatic) with all kinds of story threads that different episodes focus upon. There’s the “MFA school and writing” thread, the “let’s start a farm” thread, the “teaching Kathy to read” thread, the “life without dance” thread, and – well, you get the point. I’m all over the place in this blog, but hey, real life is all over the place too.

Here is an update on a few frayed threads:

     Kathy got out of jail this week and is home on probation. She called me, seriously intent upon getting back to our reading lessons. She is ready to make a fresh start in her life. We will start up again on Monday (9AM) at the college. I’ve decided to put the entire jail thing aside, categorizing it as an interesting episode of our odd little friendship. This way, I can dig in and concentrate on teaching her to read rather than stick my nose in an entire life overhaul for someone I barely know.

     Clearly, some kind of community service for a cause I feel strongly about is important to my feeling I’m deserving of a good life. I’m glad to get back to this project, for whatever deep seeded reason I’m compelled to do so.

   I got an E-mail from the director of my MFA program today, reminding everyone to review their writing and select the two pieces they want to workshop. These submissions are due MAY 22! Shoot me. I thought I had more time. Unlike most of the other students in the fiction program, I write original pieces for each semester, because workshoping sections of a novel (my thesis project) is simply a waste of time. Most everyone else is working on short stories. A novel is a different animal all together. You can’t discuss an elephant when you are looking at only the trunk.

    Most people have stories they have worked on with their mentors for months, and they send these in to workshop a second time. To me, this seems a waste of a very beneficial opportunity for input, so if I want fresh material, I have five days to write two new stories. That’s a tall order, considering the scrutiny this work will get. (Last term, my mentor and fellow students thought it amazing I plunked out two original pieces in a week. Apparently, it’s harder for some to come up with ideas for stories and to get them on paper, than for others. However, weaving a fresh story is simple for me. My problems are more about the BIG picture of how to unravel a promising novel in a poignant way or how to tweak those easy to write stories so they are actually dynamic.) Anyway, I started one short story today, and I’m fairly happy with it (I’ll post it later for the rare, special individual that might care to read it). 

     I am so excited about working with my new mentor next term. She’s such a dynamic teacher. However, I’m nervous too and I hope my work will have enough merit that she’ll take me seriously. Nothing like a little self-imposed pressure to cause you to lose sleep.

   I ordered the books I must read for this residency today. Stop Time by Frank Conroy (a memoir) Evidence of Things Unseen by Marianne Wiggins, A short story by Stuart Dybek called We Didn’t, and 24 pages of scene study notes from my professor along with other handouts. I have two weeks to read all this, then I will be reading and taking notes on the twelve student manuscripts we will be workshopping. So much for my squeezing in the “fun” novels I wanted to read on my non-existent break. Ah well. I love school, so I can just swallow my complaints and be happy. Tired but happy.

     I reached out to April yesterday and grabbed her halter without her so much as flinching. Wow. She started pulling away, but she didn’t drag me across the pasture. I linked a lead rope under her chinstrap and proceeded to walk her by myself. I had one hand on her rear and the other on the rope near her head. We walked this way for about ten minutes without mishap. Ha! That is terrific progress in the halter training quest. I’m feeling like quite the accomplished cowgirl now. Yee-haw for me.  

    Dhali Llama is much friendlier too, though he keeps exactly one arms length away. I found someone willing to sheer him in two weeks for the unable-to-turn-down fee of 30 bucks. It will be nice to see what he looks like under all that monstrous hair – nicer knowing I don’t have to do it myself (at least this, the first time).

    I saw a rooster I want to buy. He is three days old and fits in my palm. A tiny little chick that costs a whopping 3 bucks. I’m thinking of buying him, really. It’s the breed I want (an oriental, specialty rooster, with a long, dramatic tail). But I am worried I can’t keep little Joe Cocker alive. I will read about chicks and think a bit on this first. But I’m seriously tempted. He can stay in my small rabbit cage (obviously, the rabbits are no longer in it) until he is big enough to protect himself. We can get acquainted. Bond. I’ll handle him a lot. It’s spring. Gets me in the mood to watch a little cock grow.

    The house is drop down gorgeous and is proceeding nicely. I will not write an update about it, because I haven’t written any posts about it, but I plan to. It is a piece of heaven in construction. More on this later. With pictures.

  I sent my notes for teaching the dance seminar in Boston yesterday. Writing them was odd – it stirred up some strong, undefinable emotions. I am so good at that stuff, and the work has so much merit -(that is not me being pompous – it is just a fact – the work is good) that I almost feel guilty, as if I am turning my back on what is truly special about me – or like I am not doing what I was put on this earth to do. I felt horrible, as if I am doing something wrong by not keeping at it, not continuing to see what other great things I can do with dance. But I honestly feel I’ve been involved with that art all I can stand. It doesn’t excite me anymore, even though I respect, honor and love the art with all my heart and soul. Life is so interesting, that to walk only one path seems a mistake. But I felt sad yesterday. Guilty. Maybe it’s longing for old habits, or desiring the comfort that comes with what is familuar, wanting to stand where you know you will be appreciated, where you truly count.
    Anyway, it was a difficult day for me. But I sure did write some kick ass notes. They are a bit academic in nature. Ha. That will challenge the dancers, but challenging dancers has always been a particular passion for me. I am looking forward to teaching that seminar. I’m gonna charge in like gang busters and teach jazz on multilevels. Not just steps, but theory, and soul. I’m just sorry the students I’ve known and loved for years won’t be there to get a dose of my revived passion. Ah well, they have new teachers now. That is the way it goes.
   

    My husband’s father, Bill, is fading. He’s getting thin, and is sometimes disoriented, but nevertheless, there is a light about him. He’s suddenly appreciative of everything – extremely loving. We are doing our best to make his final months special.

    My husband’s mother is not such an easy case. She has a fractured back and Mark had to bully her into an operation so she can “be there” for her husband these last months. She had an operation today.

    Watching your parents handle death calls character into question (for everyone) and a life passage such as this dredges up some raw wounds from childhood and makes everyone involved question life and what is important. I guess all families experience this kind of epiphany when the generation above grows old, but it’s the first time we have had to contend with the drama and emotional fallout of death. It isn’t fun, but it is a part of life, so you deal with it.

   A writer from the local newspaper called this week. After I dropped off a résumé and materials about our dance careers to the Blue Ridge Arts Association (because I was going to teach there this summer) the office manager called the paper and said, “You won’t believe the people who have just moved in to our area. They’d make a great human-interest story.
  Now, they want to do a story on Mark, me and Dianne – the family with the artsy mostest. So I’m supposed to call back and arrange an interview. Mark scowled and said, “It’s too soon.” He wants to be more organized and directed in his new arts endeavors before a feature story is released. I feel sort of the same way, but it is lovely nevertheless, that they find us interesting.

   Mark has several of his antler baskets in the Art’s association gallery now, a place that sells local artist’s work. That’s a kick. I will put a few pictures of them with this blog so people can see the kind of work he is doing. He had to develop a basket company and make cards to professionally tag the items, and he was going to call it “Basketcase.” I liked it. But he ended up naming it “Blue Ridge Basketry” and designed a very classy logo and card to denote a significant artist. This, he figures, allows him to charge more for his original creations, because it appeals to certain sorts of individuals. His baskets are selling for 250.00 and up, (just because he is a “newbie” – they are worth more.). It is hard to let them go however. I’d keep them all if I could, but how many baskets can one house handle?

    Anyway, my husband is a talented guy – but that is nothing new.

There is more, but I have to get back to my homework. I have only five days to be brilliant. Ain’t enough time – but then – what would be?

It is beautiful out today. The weather is striking. I am thinking I might take a run and write some of that story in my head first. Yep, that’s what I’m gonna do.  Bye.

    Today, I woke up and declared the day, “Beautification day.” I am queen of my world, so if I want to make it a special day, why not?

     I began with my car. I spent 9 dollars on the wash cycle (which shows how muddy it was this time), crouching down to wash the muck from the underside and wheel carriage and using the scrub brush and special triple foam (what does that do, by the way?) to make the silver body gleam. I used tire cleaner on the wheels and rubber floor mats then power sprayed the carpet mats. Next, I used armorall on every surface inside (after spending another 4 bucks on the super duper power vac – man, beauty costs). After all this, my trusty carriage looked fairly presentable, which is good, all things considering. My car doesn’t age as gracefully as I do – but then, it lives a harder life as servant to the queen.

      Then, it was time to work on the other abused vehicle of my world – umm… that would be my physical vehicle. I went and had a full new set of pink and white nails put on. I have graceful hands (starting to wrinkle, but still they are feminine hands with a gift for touch, so they deserve to be groomed). While my nails give it a good, honest try, they can’t endure long in light of the horse grooming, creek mucking, clay molding, etc.. that I sentence them to do daily. My polished digits looked mighty fine glimmering under the sunroof against the backdrop of a now-gleaming black leather steering wheel.     

    Then, I drove from the nail salon to the day spa to have a facial and peel. I do this every month, a mid-evil torture technique to remove the outer epidermis of a person’s face to keep wrinkles, discoloration (freckles), and other non-perfections at bay. Peels sting. I spend the seven minutes of chemical burning silently cussing in my head, even though the soothing meditation music in the background is supposed to make this experience an indulgement. Hardly.

       Next, I had my hair done. I chopped off a few inches, because it’s getting too long (and after my last cut, I’ve been unhappy with all the layers. It looks too young for a sophisticated woman of my years. Ahem – humor me, please). I’ve decided I want a different sort of look – long still, so I can put it up in French braid or twist, but sleeker. I was very happy with the results. I’m not one to mess with my hair much, because it happens to be my one and only lucky gift from heaven – thick, full, and a color that suits me. But I do cover the gray now, so my low maintenance hair requires a maintenance check once in a while, like having your oil changed regularly, even though your car runs fine.

      I had a bit of time to kill before picking up my kids from school, so I stopped by a shop here that I love to peruse. Odd, because honestly, I hate shopping. However, this store has fantastic clothing for a song – the brands I used to buy at expensive department stores for six times more than they are here. It’s a little discount place that has the ambiance of an old K-mart – which is probably why I love it. It isn’t like hard-core shopping. I bought a few cute tops. I guess a couple thousand cute tops aren’t enough for one chick who lives in an isolated area where there is no place to go.

    Sue me. I like cute tops.

     I am now sitting at my computer in a cute top with perfect nails, nice hair, glowing skin and soon, I’ll be driving away in my spit and polished car. But first, I am waiting for my pear upside-down gingerbread cake to finish cooking. I’m taking it to my sister-in-law’s house. Our in-laws have moved in with her for the next few months, until my father in law is no longer with us.(Feels awful, saying that) Dianne has taken on most of the burden of caring for them, but needs a break occasionally. Therefore, on Thursdays, she takes my son to a cartooning class in Canton, and I make dinner and take it over and spend the evening there. Tonight, I’m making Shrimp Scampi, pasta and green beans. I’ll take a bottle of wine, even though I will be the only one who will drink any of it. It goes with the meal – and makes the evening pass a bit less stressfully.   

    I’ll take my yarn and crochet hook, and work on another scarf. I’ve been doing a lot of knitting and crochet since my Father in Law got sick, because it’s an easily transportable activity – something you can do in the hospital or hanging out in a living room that doesn’t demand undivided attention. Bt it’s nice to keep your hands busy when you are emotionally uncomfortable.

    I used to make lots of textile-associated crafts when I was younger. Quilting, embroidery, sewing, tatting, needlepoint, and anything with yarn. Loved it all.  I was no fool. In high school, I made every one of my boyfriend’s mother’s a hand crocheted afghan. Ha. I knew how to be the favorite girlfriend. Boys were afraid to break up with me, because their mother would ground them. When I moved to New York, I sewed all my own clothes out of necessity (that is the only way I could afford the fashion I wanted to sport). All the dancers hung out in the lobby of the studios knitting legwarmers. It was like a dancer’s right of passage. Until you were in the crochet click, you weren’t really a bonifide New York dancer. I remember teaching a few of the dancers who didn’t have the basics how to crochet, thinking the intricate finger dexterity required for knitting was not unlike tap dancing. Gee – life has always been a dance to me.

    It’s fun when you live in a place that is cold enough to merit wearable handmade art. In Florida, I just stopped doing anything with yarn. FLEX demanded all my attention, so I didn’t have time for that kind of thing, and even if I did, there isn’t much call for scarves or handmade sweaters in a place where it is summer 24 -7.

     This winter, when I started feeling the brisk winds move in, I bought some yarn to dabble with. I couldn’t believe how terrific the products available now are, all kinds of tweeds and textured fibers. Didn’t have that 20 years ago. Excited with the selection, I bought yarn with rugged knots, furry textures and wispy filaments of ribbon woven in. I get such a kick out of seeing how it all turns out, so I’ve been making lots of scarves, just to experiment. I have hairy scarves, bubbly coarse scarves and some that look like fabric is woven into the yarn.

   My husband claimed the first scarf, a thick tweedy dark green thing that was soft, but solidly put together. I told him it was my “practice” scarf, and since it was the first one after a long hiatus, he should wait. I’ll get more creative when I get back into it. But he insisted I give him that first scarf. He has been with me eighteen years and never seen me crochet or knit, and I think he’s fascinated to see my hands quickly pulling the yarn, weave the wool, and dip the needle in and out, creating something that looks professionally done. Guess he thought there was nothing new to learn about me. Ha. That will be the day. I will make him something in blacks and grays – a manly scarf before the winter comes. Then, hey, if he doesn’t please me, I’ll have it at the ready to grab and pull – a sharp wringing of the neck comes in handy when a man gets out of line.  Yes, I think many scarves are in order.

       Anyway, one of the things I love about living in a place with a change in seasons is that inspires me to revisit activities from my past. And working with yarn is one. Tonight, I’m working with a hairy, orange and red tone yarn that looks like fur. I’ll make a thin scarf to wear with a turtleneck I have. Fun.

      When I come home, I’ll finish the day with a final project to round out my beautification themed day. I’ll clean up my manuscript, because I have another huge packet due my professor in a week and I’m nowhere near ready. This reveals that I did not have the time, or the excuse, for playing hooky today to pamper myself. I’m a big fat MFA slacker.

     Beautification day is all an illusion, anyway. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the land and my car will be filled with dust and mud as the dogs leap in and out  -they are on a quest to bring the outside in – in the house, the car, you name it. And I will groom the horses and my nails will get grubby underneath. I’ll tuck my hair into a ponytail so it looks unkempt and  the sun will beat down on my brow and let the ultraviolet rays make my wrinkles reappear. Yes – for all that I like to pretend I pamper myself – I sure don’t embrace a pampered lifestyle. That’s not me.

    Nevertheless, today, at this very minute, I look, and feel, beautified.  

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.  

     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.

A few weeks ago, friends came to visit from Florida; Mike and Patty, and their kids Little Mike and Taylor. They’d had a very unpleasant experience at our old business, and Mike was hurt, angry and confused. The awkward thing was, even though we had nothing to do with the offense and even though we couldn’t control the behaviors of those involved, we felt badly, because it was clear he’d been singled out and attacked because he is one of the few friends from our past who refuses to cease any and all communication with us. It’s a situation that is all sort of surreal, like a bad B-movie where the actions of all the characters come across as overblown and false because there is no realistic motivation or explanation for it. Anyway, we invited the Chesleys to visit, hoping to get their mind off the entire episode and to remind them to laugh. We had one rule. No talking about the event, or our former school. Life is too short, ya know.

When they pulled up, Mike got their luggage out of the car and then reached in and pulled out his nifty cowboy hat. Ha The boy was ready to go country. We were not about to let him down. We had a wonderful four days. We went four wheeling (his son could do this 24-7-365) and horse back riding. We made marshmallows on a big bonfire and the girls explored the creek. Mike is a ruff and ready outdoor type, and he is most at home getting grubby. He is a paintball king; an ex-hunter (which allowed us to enjoy a campfire without me having to preach) has two four-wheelers of his own, etc….

While we were out taking care of the horses, I was busy picking mud out of hooves, when he turned to me and said, “I’m so shocked to see you like this.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Getting so dirty.”

Ha. That was too good an opening. I said, “Come on Mike, you know I’m about the dirtiest girl of your acquaintance.” And I winked. Love making Mike blush, don’t ya know.

He said, ‘You know what I mean. Getting all muddy. Mucking with horses and all.”

Now, I do understand that people who know me from my dance world often think that is all there is. I have a certain persona there; I am always running around in sporty clothes, doing the cosmopolitan dance thing, sequins and makeup never more than a reach away. I have that New York image from my past hanging on which makes people tag you a certain way.

But Mike is the friend I zeroed in on to be a partner in the great adventure race in Blue Ridge – a 9 hour race that includes running, biking, canoeing, and surprise “adventures” like tree climbing or wading through a mid pit.  At the last recital, we spent days making jokes about it backstage. (I didn’t pursue it this year due to all the upheaval of moving and construction – and I’m not in good enough shape – and … the sun is in my eyes ……. Ummm… please fill in the blanks with any more excuses that might work……) the point is, he knows I am more than a dance teacher.

Mike said, “I know you are sporty, but I thought that meant running and tennis and Nike shoes and stuff. Not THIS.”

Well, welcome to the real me, Mike. A girl can get dirty in lots of ways, and the older I get the more I’m thinking this is the only “dirty” that anyone cares to witness.

The next day, we took them square dancing. What a hoot. I got a chance to see the boy’s real talent (he was a natural) I danced with Mike, Little Mike and Kent. Only danced with Mark once (guess we’ve danced enough together for one lifetime so the urgency to gather his wife in his arms for a spin isn’t there). Patty danced with Mike, Little Mike, Kent and Mark. The two little girls danced together (and with some adults, who thought they were fun – even though a bit short for a dos-se-do). It was a novel experience – one they won’t forget anytime soon, I’m guessing. And Mike kept looking at his wife and saying, “Isn’t this fantastic. Don’t you think it would be great to live here?” Ah – that is how it begins. Watch out…

We took them to the art galleries and shops, to papa’s pizza buffet (where we play this dumb word game with total intensity like it is the word Olympics or something) Mike ate an entire blueberry pizza himself. Amazing.  The next day we went to Sue’s Best Burger in Town, where I humiliated Mike in a rousing game of air hockey. I happen to be undefeated (which is totally a lie, and I’m just writing this to annoy any opponents who might read this….. but I’m fierce, win or lose.)  We even went to Helen, an old Bavarian style town to shop and look around. They were out of corndogs (the nerve), but had an art festival going on, so we forgave them. Mike was amazed by the wood turning some artists displayed and later, went with Mark to the studio to met his teacher and see Mark’s work. Now, naturally, HE wants to learn to turn too. It is a man thing, this fascination with wood.

It was all a fun adventure.

They went home, feeling better, so the visit was a success. They were supposed to come visit again this week for Spring break, but the entire family caught the flue. Gee, the lengths people will go to avoid getting beat in air hockey.

This week, my best friend Jody Smith has come to visit with her son Kyle (Kent’s best friend) and her grandson Sebbie (who is a perfect companion for Neva). It is so fun “showing off” my new life. Yesterday, we went four wheeling and had a weenie roast at the land, tromped through our house construction site (the entire house is now framed – it is getting so exciting.)

The funny thing is, Jody wasn’t at all surprised to see me mucky. This time it was ME who was surprised. Jody grabbed a horse and started talking to him, and I asked if she ever rode, and she laughed and said, “I grew up on a farm and we owned horses.” Well, ya learn something new everyday. Jody was a camper, horse woman and competitor and all that, when young. Funny, how you can be friends for years and not know a detail like that. We didn’t ride yesterday, because it was rather cold, but tomorrow it will be 60, so we will. We will do the galleries today, and I want to take Sebbie to the feed store to look at the young chicks. Fun.

*Side note – I have decided what to name my rooster when I get it. Joe Cocker. Partly because of the cock thing, but partly because when Joe cocker sings, some people think it’ awful noise, and others think it is a beautiful sound. Joe is controversial that way, just like a rooster. Anyway, I gave it some thought, and that seems to be what sticks for me. Joe Cocker, Ginny’s cock. Yep. It is perfect.

 It is a joy having my best buddy here. Nice to have someone to talk about grad school , kids, life change, frustrations etc..  Jody understands it all – been there, done that. She is a social worker, and we also have some great intellectual conversations about the culture here, my reading student,  etc…. She recommended some books I’d love – a book on class distinction in America and how to handle and communicate with different socio-economic groups. (Sounds boring, but it is actually a fascination and this book, I’m told,  is fun.)  I’ll just put it on my year away reading list.

The point is, I needed this visit. Really. I’ve been feeling isolated and lonely lately. Happy, but missing friends.

New subject –

Yesterday, I got my student facility parings list. I will be working with a new mentor, A.J. Verdale next term. I am so jazzed. She’s a powerful, demanding teacher -I was so impressed with her at the last residency. I made a request for her, but wasn’t sure I’d be assigned. Now, I am excited and feeling the pressure a bit. She is someone I will have to work hard to impress. Can’t wait. After that, my final term, I’ll be able to choose whomever I want to work with and get it, since it will be time to finalize my thesis. Gee, time flies when you are drowning in reading and writing.

Ah – someone is stirring. Gotta go. Cooking for a crowd, don’t ya know. Got a hashbrown casserole in the oven and I need to make the bacon and biscuits and a fruit salad.

Love company for more reasons than one, ya see.