Category Archives: Daily News

It’s been one of THOSE summers.  Eesh.

 It began almost 6 weeks ago when I sprained my ankle. I’d
like to say I was leaping from my horse in a death defying move, or maybe my
big toe got caught on my ear as I was wrapping my leg around my head in an
exotic yoga feat, but alas, I’m not that interesting.   Actually, I was washing my car and I had put too many
quarters in the vacuum, so instead of counting my losses, I decided to crawl
into the back corners of the van to suck up any invisible specks of dirt that
may be hidden there (to get my money’s worth from the carwash, you see,) and
that had me in this awkward, blind position as I crawled backwards out of the
car. I stepped on the vacuum hose and my foot rolled over and hit the sidewalk
hard.  I just sat on the ground and
cried. Partially because it really hurt, but mostly because I knew it was a bad
sprain and I was feeling sorry for myself. Getting injured at the half waypoint
of intense yoga training is seriously bad timing. I couldn’t reach Mark, so I crawled
into the car and drove to the coffee shop with my left foot, where I iced the
ankle and had a pity-party – with coffee. 
The foot swelled up to double it’s size and turned black and blue.
Great.  

 Did I go to the doctor? Of course not. I NEVER go to the
doctor. I just figured I’d ice it and wrap it and keep it elevated and in a day
or two, presto, I’d be fine. But, of course I wasn’t fine. I hobbled around on
crutches for a week (which is really difficult when you are at a barn feeding
animals, because the crutches sink into the mud and you can’t balance on gravel
and …. Well, let me just say it’s a good thing chickens don’t learn to talk
like parrots or there would be a litany of cussing going on down there forevermore.  

 That weekend, I went to my next 20-hour yoga intensive on
crutches, and had to observe. What a drag. Two weeks later, I had my next yoga
intensive weekend, and I hobbled in again. Luckily that was a special event
weekend where we studied meditation and ended up meditating for 20 hours – it
is called rounding. It was a very intense, remarkable weekend that I won’t go
into now, but luckily my bad ankle didn’t hold me back.

 This weekend I had another intensive scheduled, and we were
going to work on handstands and headstands and other inverted positions. I
couldn’t bare missing out again, and dang if my ankle wasn’t still swollen up,
5 weeks after the fall, so I dragged myself to a sports doctor who took e-rays,
then yelled at me because I’ve probably been walking around on a broken ankle
for 5 weeks. She put me in a cast. Now, I’m hobbling around without pain at
long last in this jazzy black metal and Velcro boot thing. Yeah, I’m stylin’.
The problem is, the injury caused my entire body to get out of whack, and I’ve been
experienced horrible pain in my knees too. I asked the doctor to check
everything, because if my body is deteriorating I figured I should know before
I sign a lease on a new studio.

 The doctor and I viewed the ex-rays and she showed me I was
in marvelous shape for my age, I just had to be patient and let my injury heal
– and don’t be such a dope about it next time.  I got a cortisone shot in my knee, which made the pain disappear,
and now, finally, I’m on the mend. It was a revelation to learn I’m in good
shape. I guess I had convinced myself that I was falling apart because Mark has
such serious physical problems from his years of dance, and he is almost 7
years younger than I am, and has danced for far less years. Logic has it that since
I’m older, and danced all those hard years in New York, I MUST be falling apart
too. Ah, but all bodies are not created equal. Speaking with the doctor changed my outlook, and
suddenly, I’m primed and ready to re-enter the dance world. (but that is
another subject and since this blog is about my lousy summer, I’ll set that aside for now.)

 I wore my boot to the yoga training this weekend, and
actually did all the physical asana in it, (held yoga positions) though my
transitions were not exactly graceful. Can’t have something like a broken ankle
stop progress, ya know. I did a few inversions and worked on spotting other
students, but they wouldn’t let me handstand against the wall, for fear I’d
smash through like the bionic woman. 
That’s fair.  I must say,
this portion of yoga training came easy, because when you’ve taught acrobatics,
you understand spotting and how body awareness goes askew when you are upside
down. I had a head start, so to speak. 

 Moving on – to the bad summer proof. . .

 My baby llama was killed. I don’t want to go into details,
because I was devastated and rather not think about it too much, but in a
nutshell, the coyotes attacked in the night. We found him at noon the next day
laying in the creek as his dad, Dali, was, only in the baby’s case, he wasn’t
dead, just horribly maimed. He was bleeding, couldn’t stand, and had half his
ribs eaten away. I knew he couldn’t be saved, and therefore he had to be put
him down as quickly as possible. Of course, I don’t have a gun and wouldn’t
know how to shoot one if I did, nor do I think I’d have the emotional
strength.  Well, maybe I could.
Amazing what you are capable of when you love something. The vet would take a
long time to arrive, and would charge me a fortune, but I didn’t know who else
to ask for help, so, sobbing, I ran to the house (on my broken ankle –  this was before going to the doctor
when my actions were continually making the injury worse) to call Mark for
advice. He said he’d take care of it and called a friend to come shoot the
beast – a humanitarian choice, but still, the mere idea had me in hysterics.
Meanwhile, it took the friend over an hour to arrive, and I had to listen to my
most beloved pet suffering, crying out to his mother and looking to me to help
him. I was a basket case.

 After an hour of this horrible torture (for both the llama
and me), the poor animal was so exhausted and week, he simply laid his head
down into the creek and started to drown. Every instinct had me wanting to rush
to him to hold his head up – but for what? So he could suffer a bit longer
until someone came to shoot him? The kindest thing was to let him go. So, I
watched my most loved animal thrashing in the water, blood pooling around him, as
his life slowly ebbed away. Needless to say, I collapsed to the ground in
uncontrollable grief, which is when Mark and his friend arrived.  

 I was crouched over, inconsolable.

 For days after that, I couldn’t get Pauli’s image out of my
mind. Knowing he suffered so long and had such a violent end just did me in.
But in retrospect, I suppose watching him drown was better than watching him be
shot. I went to the house as Mark brought the tractor around and buried him
near the blueberry bush. He later told me Pauli looked very serine and at peace
– convincing him that drowning had been the more graceful way for the young
llama to go. Mark also told me that he heard animals always go to the water
when they know they are going to die. Apparently, deer do that when they’re
shot – go to water and drown themselves on purpose when they’re suffering. This
information was passed on in a kind attempt to make me feel better, I think.
But honestly, it didn’t help.

 Meanwhile, I knew I had to get my remaining llama, Pulaini,
out of here. I’ve worried about the coyotes in spring, and so I’ve had the llamas up for sale
for a month already with no takers, so now I decided to just give her away to
any good home (which as far as I’m concerned just means a home without killer
coyotes) I called several llama farms, but they didn’t want another animal.

 At the vet’s advice, I ended up calling llama rescue and
just yesterday signed surrender papers. Most of the llamas picked up by llama
rescue are problem animals. They are old, or have not been cared for properly,
or they have behavior problems so no one wants them. But my llama is in the
best of health, fully registered, has great fiber, and she’s gentle, halter
trained etc… They promised me she would go fast to a good home, and they do
check ups on the animals adopted out so she would be sure to go someplace with
ample pasture, shelter, and the companionship of at least one more llama. In
the end, she will be well cared for and happy – so I’m happy. The regional head
of the llama rescue organization commended me on caring more about her health
and wellness than risking her well being while I tried to sell her (because she
is still a valuable animal). I figure I’d need to spend more on counseling if I
had to go through one more llama death than I’d ever get by selling the animal,
so I’m happy to let her go. The only problem is, they haven’t picked her up yet
and every night I hear the coyotes out there. I pace around the house wishing I
could just go out there and blow their brains out. Clearly, my yoga training
has a way to go since ahimisa (doing no harm) is a key philosophical unit in
the Yoga Sutra’s of Patanjauli. But hey, I doubt the monk that wrote these
guidelines had killer coyotes messing with his loved ones.

 Anyway, I am now a llama-less farm girl. I was headed in the
llama-free direction anyway, but it came about in a more violent way then I’d
hoped for. Now, along with my warm and fuzzy memories of watching a llama come
into this world, I have stored memories of watching him go out in a sad,
painful way as well. Life can be bittersweet. Without llamas, I have no need of
angoras (since I need to blend their fiber with other fiber to use it) so I’ve
decided to look for a good home for my rabbits too. Downsizing.

 It seems Dance is reentering my world (thanks to the Yoga
trapdoor). Animals are slowly exiting. It feels like my life has gone through
an eclipse, but now the moon shadowing the sun is passing. An eclipse is a
marvelous and rare thing to witness – but it is not a state you want to be in
forever. 

Anyway . . .   

 These aren’t the only highlights of my month of misery, but
since I promised to keep these blogs shorter I’ll only mention a few more
things.

 Kent totaled his car. He’s fine, but the car is a goner. We
decided to cut our losses and not tell insurance due to his age and what it
would do to his (our) rates. Poor kid is without a car all summer – and around
here that really nails your feet to the floor, but I am sort of glad. I have
been concerned with his driving for a while now, and I can’t help but feel this
accident will save his life in the bigger scheme. I count my blessings for
that.       

 He also wrecked my car on mother’s day. He and Mark were
running to Home depot to pick up some supplies for our family gardening project
(my gift) and Mark asked Kent to drive. No sooner had they gotten into the car
than Mark backed into our stone wall. Perhaps I should mention that 3 months
ago he backed his car into Mark’s car and wrecked two in one shot. What can I
say? The boy has talent. Why Mark had him drive when he knows Kent treats
automobiles like bumper cars is a mystery. Ah well.

 A rock hit my windshield and cracked it. Can’t blame Kent
for that – just the auto-gods. When the company came to fix it, the crack
spread. Now I need a new windshield too. 
Hey, bring it on, God’s of automobiles, I say. After the llama accident,
these car issues are naught but a nuisance.

 This morning, I was washing a set of sheets and when I came
into the laundry room during the first spin cycle there was a two-inch layer
of water everywhere. The machine, only two years old, is leaking. Great. Kent’s room below is under water. Don’t want to think of the damage that will cause to the ceiling. 

 Someone came to see our home last week and since we’ve
lowered the price drastically we really thought it would move. They didn’t make
an offer. Dammit.

 I could go on and on . . . There are plenty more aggravating,
life glitch moments to share, but I think the few I’ve detailed here makes my
point. No reason to dump negative facts on innocent friends who show up here expecting
positive news or a fun read.

 I just wanted to make a point –  it’s been THAT kind of summer.  I’m ready for some good news, happiness,
and/or pleasure. Frankly, I’m way, way, way, way over-due. 

My fiftieth birthday was this last weekend. After years of
rounding up my age, actually becoming fifty for real was no biggie, at least
emotionally. (And for the record, I don’t feel at all compelled to round up to
55, at least not yet. Needless to say, Mark is relieved.) 

To celebrate, Mark took me to London.  A few years ago, a reporter was
interviewing us for an article for the newspaper, and during the small talk we
exchanged beforehand, he said, “You must go to Europe, but go before you’re
fifty or you never will.”

 Of course I couldn’t let that go, so as the big birthday
approached, more than once I brought up the fact that I was going to be half a
century old and STILL hadn’t travel overseas.  Mark’s no fool, and he knew that considering he might have to live
with me for the next fifty, he better take me somewhere or never hear the end of
it. Thus the trip to England.  I’ve
always wanted to go someplace with an entirely different culture – different
language, customs and attitudes, but with only five days to get away due to
Mark’s work schedule and my yoga training, London seemed as far as we could go
without spending the bulk of the time on a plane. They may speak English over
there, but at least they have a funny accent and the pound and driving on the
left side of the road offers a pinch of curiosity. I was delighted with the
gift.

 All of Mark’s relatives live in London or nearby cities. We
spent the first night with his cousin, Laurence, and his new, pregnant wife.
We’ve met before in America and instantly hit it off, so this turned out to be
great fun.  If you want insight
into a different culture, the quickest path is to visit the home of a lifetime
resident (and to open a bottle of scotch and let honest banter fly). The next
day, before dropping us off at our hotel in London, he took us to an old
country pub for lunch that was built in the fifteenth century. As you might
imagine, stepping into such a real chunk of history was thrilling for me, so I
wandered around to get a good look at the structure, the rock walls and low
ceilings held up with rustic beams.  
I ran my hands along the heavy oak bar and marveled at the door hinges,
handmade by a blacksmith hundreds of years ago. I pictured this pub as it must
have been, standing alone on a small village dirt road half a days’ drive by
carriage out of London, visited by travelers hundreds of years ago. Cool.

 I ordered a vegetarian Cheshire pie while Mark had the fish
and chips (and ale, of course.) England is definitely a drinking culture and we
were told more than once that Americans couldn’t drink worth a hoot. Since we
hadn’t the inclination or stomach to keep up beyond a day or two, I can’t argue
the point.

 The food in England is different, but it certainly explains
my mother-in-law’s bland tastes. Every meal is based on meat and potatoes, and
in the five days we were there, we hardly ever saw a vegetable or salad unless
we special ordered it on the side, and then the vegetables came boiled to a
pulp to assure there wasn’t an ounce of nutrient left. Ah well, when in Rome… I
tried to order something English everywhere we went. I had fish and chips,
spotted dick, treacle, and bangers and mash. I almost ordered rabbit in
London’s oldest pub, renowned for game dishes, but I just couldn’t quite work
up the enthusiasm for it as I pictured the Easter bunny getting his head blown
off. It was Easter Sunday, after all. 

 For breakfast I ordered the traditional English breakfast,
eggs with beans and sautéed mushrooms, always served with a sausage and a
delicate piece of toast sitting upright in a rack (to assure it comes cold and
dry, I guess).  But the hardest
food adjustment for me was living for five days without a good cup of coffee.
In England you take your coffee white or black. White means you’re served a
latte. Black means you get black coffee, but rest your soul if you want
anything other than skim milk to put in it.  They don’t serve half and half or cream or even whole milk
with coffee in London, so every cup of coffee (always too weak or too strong)
tastes off and there is no hope of repairing it with a dash of something else.
We finally got desperate enough to step into an American franchise – a
Starbucks. I was convinced we could get regular coffee there, but alas, even
this icon of American culture was run differently in London and all they had to
put in the drink was skim milk. I asked if they had anything else for the
coffee, but the fellow working behind the counter tilted his head like I was asking
for breast milk or something. “What else could you want?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

 OK, so in England, one must stick with tea, but even that is
served strangely in my opinion (with milk and clumps of sugar, watering down
the taste, while I am more a lemon and honey sort of tea drinker).  You also don’t drink water in London
because the pipes are so old that it tastes metallic. Everyone pays for bottled
water, usually sparkling and nary an ice cube in sight.  Odd, I tell you.

 The good news is that no one is fat in London, except the
American tourists, of course. I suppose this is because they have no fast food
except a few American standbys, like McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken (all
of which serve very poorly made examples of our traditional junk food). Perhaps
the fact that the regional food is so bland and unappetizing helps too. Heck if
I lived there, I’d never eat and thus be thin (I’d be driven to drink too).

 The weather was typical for London. Rain. When it wasn’t
raining, it was gray and misty. I suddenly understood the description of “pasty
complexioned lords” in every Victorian romance novel I’ve ever read. Ah yes, to
live in London is to be a mole. The savvy London raincoats are stylish and all,
but to live without the sun would be difficult for me. For five days I didn’t
mind.

 I did mind that despite being prepared with all sorts of
converters, my American appliances didn’t work in London. The circuitry in
England, like the plumbing and water pressure, is very weak.  This led to what Mark called, “The
great global curling iron disaster.” 
I couldn’t blow dry my hair or get the wayward ends to curl under in a
controlled fashion. This made me feel like the ugly American, literally. Ah
well. Let the rain come. Wet hair beats wayward frizz any day. 

 I was disappointed by how Americanized the city is. 80% of
the TV they watch is American shows, so turn on the tube and you get CSI, and
other crime dramas. Most all the movies in theaters are American shows
currently open here, like Marley and Me or Monsters verses Aliens.
Even the London shows are just copies of the Broadway hits. I swear I expected
it to be the other way around. No where did we run into a cockney accent, if
anything, the gentle British accent seems to be fading, replaced by the flat
notes of American mainstream. Be careful what you let in to influence the
younger generations, I wanted to tell them.

 Most of the city seemed to me like New York with an accent,
or like another Boston, which makes sense since all our forefathers came from
London and built their new cities in the image of their old, “civilized” hometown.
The cities are even structured the same. Hyde Park is like Central Park, only
smaller. The Thames is like the Hudson River, only muddier. London Bridge is
like the Brooklyn Bridge, (and for the record, it isn’t falling down) the
underground railroad (the Tube) is just like the New York subway. Mark
maneuvered around in it beautifully. I just followed trusting he could figure
it out, and he did.

 But there are things our forefathers didn’t try to reproduce
here – like Westminster Abbey, The palace and royal family or Parliament. These
ancient structures, so ornate and daunting are truly remarkable and give a
glimpse of the world and it’s power structures from long ago.   That was fun to witness, despite
the crush of tourists all determined to spend a few moments with history despite
how “disneyesque” it all seems now. In the end, you can get a better view on a
video documentary than in real life, sad to say.

 There were other disappointments, like when we stood for
hours to see the changing of the guard and it turned out to be nothing more
than 30 soldiers in red marching by us, pausing inside the gate so the band
could play a song. What song did they play, you might ask. The British Anthem?
Actually, it was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I kid you not. Mark is
taller than I, so he could see what was going on. I looked at the statues of lions in the square and said, “Doesn’t anyone notice that that’s an American song?
Please tell me there isn’t a tin man standing on guard, or a
scarecrow tap dancing to amuse the crowd.”

“No, just a guy swinging his arm ridiculously high and I’m
happy to report that they all are marching on the correct foot.” (Once a dance
teacher, always a dance teacher.) 

Personally, the highlight of the trip for me was the fact
that Mark’s mobile phone, even though he upgraded to a global unit, didn’t work.
I was able to spend time with him “unplugged” for the first time in ages.  I have a cross to bear regarding our
culture’s new reliance on cell phones and Internet communications 24-7. There
is nothing ruder than driving with someone else in the car, or sitting with
them in a restaurant and suddenly your guest is answering the phone or sending
a text. It is as if the person is saying, “Something else is more important
than being in your company, so I think I’ll just ignore you and attend to it. ”
Offends me. I’m old fashion that way.

 Next on the London highlight list would be speaker’s corner
in London. This is a corner of Hyde Park where they used to allow prisoners a
chance to have their last say before they were hanged. The rules were they
couldn’t say anything negative about the royal family, and they had to be at
least six inches off the ground, so as not to be on British soil before they
had their say. 16,000 people were hanged in one day at this spot. The youngest
was only 8.  Can you imagine? Over
the years, the corner was no longer just a place for the condemned. It became a
place for people to air their true feelings about the issues of the times. Now,
on Sundays, people still gather here and anyone standing on a box can voice
their opinions about whatever they want.  Americans take for granted the freedom of speech and we are
used to seeing people exercise that right, but the idea of setting aside one specific place,  a controlled
environment, for allowing the free speech concept is interesting (historically).
I had to see the famed speaker’s corner!

There was a crowd there when we arrived around noon and
about 5 different men standing on a box to have their say. Most of the
conversations were about religion, just preachers on a soapbox, but this may
have been because it was Easter Sunday. 
Still, the crowd wasn’t of a passive nature, and everyone was standing
around arguing and conversing with those on the boxes, sort of like an
intellectual debate free for all. I love it.  I walked up to the crowd around one impassioned speaker and
he suddenly pointed to me and shouted, 
“You miss, do YOU believe in evolution?” (He was arguing against it
apparently.)

I said, “Absolutely.”

Then, the entire crowds turned, waiting to see what I had to
say. I stood there dumbfounded. I didn’t know what was expected of me.  Ee-gad.

 “If you are so
certain that YOU have the answers, tell us all how a fly came into being? How
can a fly exist if we all came from one universal amoeba?  We are different because God made the
fly. Do you believe in God?  If evolution
is true, tell us then how it is possible the fly came into being. Explain a fly!”
he yelled, still pointing at me.

I shrugged and said, “I just got here. I don’t really even
know what this conversation is about….” And the man turned away and pointed to
someone else, diverting everyone’s attention as quickly as he aimed it at me,
and people began arguing the point, laughing and yelling and talking of flies
and God. Mark pulled my arm towards another speaker.  In my mind I was thinking, “Wait! I can explain the fly if
you give me a minute.”

Suddenly a man in the crowd stopped and shouted, “I want to
talk about women and sex!” As you can imagine, many heads whipped around, mine
included.  “I think action must be
taken against women who do not cook!” He yelled. He was trying to draw a crowd,
but most people chuckled and ignored him, more interested in tossing around
ideas of evolution or religious beliefs than discussing whether or not women
should be forced into the kitchen.

Personally, I would have loved to hear the man’s argument,
but again, Mark took my arm and led me away saying,” I already have a women who
cooks so this is of no interest to me.”

He hustled us along, thinking we really should go catch the bus
for our city tour, so reluctantly, I followed him, but the truth is, I could
have stood around for an hour or more listening to those people shouting what
was on their minds. I was amused, curious, and damn entertained by the entire
concept – especially that this public venue for opinion, outrageous or not, has
survived to this day and age.  We
weren’t there long enough to determine if anyone took it as a serious medium
for discussion or if it was just another tourist amusement. I will always
wonder.

 Of course, since then, I keep thinking about that man
pointing a finger at me and asking me to explain a fly. The fact is, I CAN
EXPLAIN A FLY, and if I’d been there any longer, I would have liked to try. Unfortunately,
I was just caught off-guard. I went to speaker’s corner thinking I’d be a
spectator, and so wasn’t prepared to interact. But given a chance, I believe I
could get that jovial, laughing crowd to agree with my opinion once I started
in about natural selection, reproduction, the gene pool, and Darwin’s theory. Let
an American have at ‘em, I say. An impromptu public debate, all in good fun,
would be great entertainment. I’m a cheap date.

 If I lived in London, I’d go to speakers corner often, just
to stretch my intellectual muscles and to laugh with others at the audacity of
some people who not only believe some pretty far fetched ideas, but also are
passionate enough to make a public special of themselves over it. Especially in a country where most people are rather proper and reserved – the contrast alone
makes it an interesting cultural spectacle. Like a steam valve for the
repressed proper Englishman.

 Anyway, London was lovely; a novel place to go that gave me
an entirely different perspective on the world. We took plenty of pictures, but you will have to wait for them until I have a day to download. 

It is easy to romanticize
foreign travel, but in truth, the world is getting smaller all the time and
tourism robs you of what you are really seeking when you go so far, at least
for me. Good to discover.  I left
satisfied, not yearning to see Paris or Italy or Timbuktu (at least for
awhile). We loved the trip, but we both agreed that next time we decide to go
someplace far away, we will choose Glacier park before every glacier has
melted. Nature is a jewel far more precious than those on the Royal family’s
crown, after all.  If nothing else,
travel reminds you of how fortunate (and spoiled) Americans are. Our open
spaces, diverse choices, and luxurious accommodations and consumer goods cocoon
us, setting the bar unreasonably high regarding what is a normal standard of service
or living. A reality check is always good for your cultural ethics, like tuning
up your car to keep it running smooth. We Americans must appreciate what we
have, and at the same time, be reminded that we have too much and need to stop
the madness. Perspective is important.

 I could say more about London and my big birthday adventure,
but I must go do my yoga homework. Tomorrow I return to round three of my
intensive yoga weekends, and due to all the traveling I’ve been doing, I’m not
as prepared as I should be. Shame on me. Ah well. I love all I’m learning about
the eight limbs of yoga (beyond asana). In fact, the ideology makes many of my
core beliefs suddenly fit together.

 Do I believe in evolution? Damn straight
Brit boy. Flies be damned. My ever changing life and shifting view of the world
is proof of it.

Newsflash – the simple life is not necessarily the easy
life.  Of course, I figured that
out the first year we lived here, but somehow, I kept thinking it would get
easier with more experience. Actually, the opposite is true. The longer we live
here, the more the attitudes and behavior of our former fast paced life slip
away (i.e. the treadmill of working to support endless consuming and waste in
search of relief from the endless work required to support the lifestyle).  I miss the energy and convenience of our
former world, but not enough to lose myself in that lifestyle again and turn
away again from my new habit of savoring life, seeking meaning and feeling
present and connected. But still, the simple life is not easy. It takes effort,
sacrifice and a big ego wallop.

 This week’s fun . . .

My bees are dead. Not all of them, just the two new hives
that I set up last spring. My old hive is growing stronger every year and it’s
filled with bustling, energetic bees. I’ll be taking honey off them twice this
year, probably getting ten pounds or more. But the other two beehives are
empty, save a few dead bugs on the floor and empty wax comb.  It’s not uncommon for new beehives to
have trouble in the early stages. A hive can die off due to disease or
starvation. They can be robbed of the vital honey required to survive by other,
stronger beehives. Sometimes they simply decide their home is not secure so
they swarm, just packing up their members and moving someplace else. 

 A few weeks ago we had a killer cold front come in. I
happened to be visiting Florida, so Kent had to deal with lugging water to the
llamas and cracking frozen ice for the chickens. When I came home, I was making
the rounds checking my animals and I noticed the top of two beehives had blown
off during the wind. One was from a new hive, and the other was from my
established hive. I don’t think the lids were off more than a night, and there
is still a wooden top with center hole in it covering the boxes anyway, but I
was concerned about exposure. So when we had a lovely 65 degree day a few days
later, I decided to check the bees and perhaps feed them as a treat since I kept
seeing bees around my animal cages trying to scrounge for something sweet and
there is nothing blooming outside. I mixed up five pounds of sugar with water
in a gallon jug and took it to the hives. As I approached, I was delighted to
see hundreds of bees swarming, but on closer look they were all from my
established hive. No action around my two newer hives. Uh Oh.

 I opened the lid. The hive that had lost the top was
completely empty. Drat. I went to the other new hive, hoping that one fared
better. Inside was a clump of dead bees and a box full of wax comb, but the
hive had long since died out. I wasn’t all that surprised. Both of these new
hives were hobbling along last fall, with erratic and disorganized honeycomb. I
knew something wasn’t right but still, the bees were multiplying.  I guess they died in the last two months
or so.

 Now, I have to figure out what went wrong so I learn from
the mistake. That is the part of this new lifestyle that gets frustrating. The
mistakes are endless, and sometimes, just plain sad. Both of the new hives are
made of polyurethane foam,  a new
fangled beehive product that is supposed to be easier to lift. As a woman
handling these heavy supers alone, I thought that sounded great. But these
hives didn’t get off to a good start from the get go, and all along I’ve been
blaming it on the one different element – in this case, the product. I’ve been
bothered that I didn’t set up another traditional wooden beehive since I at
least know what to expect from that. Of course, I don’t know for sure it is the
hive material. It could just be that the bees I bought were inferior, or that
they didn’t get a good start because the neighboring hive was robbing them.
Perhaps it is because the darn hives are leaning forward a bit (I’m still
waiting for my husband to make me a sturdy table to hold my hives, and they are
sitting on concrete blocks at a bad angle.

 The new hives and the two, three pound packages of bees that
I invested in to set up this new system cost me about 250 dollars, so I don’t
want to just toss the valuable supplies away if I don’t have to – but I also
don’t want to pay 100.00 or more for more bees and spend another whole year
working on them if the dang hives are going to die next winter too, before I
ever get a dab of honey. Thus, my dilemma.

 I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with the empty
hives and all that wax comb. Can I put a new package of bees in there this
spring, giving them a head start, or would this confuse them, or cause a
further disorganized hive? Perhaps I should scrape it all out and give the wax
to Mark for woodworking, or make some beeswax candles so my project isn’t a total
loss. Then, do I try using the lightweight hive again, or cut my losses and
stick with the one product that worked for me? Shall I attempt to split my
strong hive and make a new hive for free, or will that cause me to weaken the
one good hive I have? And why bother if I’m going to put them in the hive that couldn’t support bees last season anyway? Besides which, I barely know what I’m doing when it comes
to splitting hives….

 At this point, I guess I’ll just wait till spring to take it
all apart and make a decision.  I
sure was excited to have three hives going. Makes the effort seem more
worthwhile. Dang. 

We’ve had a particularly wet, yet mild winter. I let my
angora rabbits go too long without pulling wool, which was evident because the
cage was getting big clumps of angora fur caught in the bars, and the animals
were looking horrible. When you don’t groom and remove the fur, it clumps and
felts, turning into one solid mass. So, I decided to spend some time on the
rabbits. I had intentions to just cut a few inches of hair so they would be
more comfortable, but once I started I discovered a solid clump of fur next to
their skin. Dang. I cut off what I could. I didn’t want to cut it too short
because I knew we could get a cold front any day, but I also didn’t want to
leave all this clumped mass of fur on my rabbits or the new hair would grow out
and be tangled and I wouldn’t be able to use it later, when I had the time and
interest to do so. In the end, I really only worked on two of the rabbits, but
I cut away more than I probably should, wanting to start fresh and being
consumed with trying to get rid of all that matted hair. Of course, a week
later, we had the worst cold front we’ve experienced in six years. The weather
went down to 2 degrees at night. I was awash in guilt, imagining my rabbits
shivering and miserable because I removed their protective coats.  Is it not enough that these poor
rabbits suffer all summer because it’s too hot, now I have to make them cold
too???? When I went to feed them, I saw they had crawled under the hay for
extra warmth. Gee, that made me feel bad. 
And I still had two rabbits that needed some kind of grooming, so the
next nice day, I gave them a hair cut too, only this time I didn’t cut the
fiber so low. I figured I had to leave the felted mass on their bodies even if
it did ruin the fiber for me come spring. 
Then (and here is another example of the endless learning curve) the
next day I went to visit the rabbits, and damn if they don’t look like I didn’t
cut them at all. They must have scratched away at that felted mess until it was
a soft and loose as freshly grown wool. They had big, round fury bodies and
they looked warm, happy and much more comfortable. I’ve had angoras for three
years, but never knew they would do that with matted hair. Chalk up another new
lesson on working the farm.  It is
endless. Will I ever be so experienced that I’ll live one day without an “Uh oh”,
or “Oh my” moment?

  Of course, I
love learning new things. I love the discovery, the challenge, the sense of
accomplishment that comes with amassing new skills. But some days, I really
miss being an authority in my field – any field.

 I haven’t been blogging much because I’ve been focused on
more formal writing – steadily working on the books I may never sell. How’s
that for productivity? I was also was introduced to facebook by a friend and I’ve
been linking up with “friends” as they find me, enjoying perusing their sites,
looking at pictures and catching up. Remarkable, this plugged in generation and
the erratic way everyone communicates now.  I hobble along, fascinated with this medium even though it feels
harried and incomplete to me.  

 Mark works all the time now. He’s a natural at real estate
and I’m proud of him, but I’m wicked lonely and I crave meaningful work. I’m actually
seriously thinking about opening a dance studio next year (My friend George in
middle America doing the “I told ya so” laugh right now – he told me I wouldn’t
last a year, but in my own defense, I’ve held out for FOUR years. Remarkable
considering my personality.) So, I’m writing business plans, checking out
locations and doing plenty of soul searching. There are elements of the dance
school business I refuse to invite back into my life, but there are wonderful,
enriching elements of sharing dance with young people that I miss and after a four-year
sabbatical I’m ready to put up with SOME of the crap attached to the joy. The
challenge will be in structuring a positive, creative, artistic environment
where dance is what counts -keeping dance parents and egotistical students from
turning the beautiful process into a drama fest.  But I honestly believe that my umpteen years of experience
have left me with the wisdom to do it right. I certainly know where to draw the
line so I won’t crack up and walk ever again. Anyway, you can laugh at my naïveté
and idealism later when I am pulling out my hair at yet another recital. One
thing is for sure; the children of this community NEED a decent school. The
young women around here need a role model – they need a positive relationship
with a woman who is down to earth and straight-laced, educated, creative, and
community oriented, and as ambitious as she is family oriented. They need to be
shown that a woman can become more than someone who just gets married at
sixteen and has kids…. Or obsessively works at the cost of inner growth
(forgive me, that sounds like I’m judging – but really, the kids here need
positive role models and they need a positive place to put their energies. They
also need a way out of this community and dance scholarships might be one way.)

 Anyway, this whole thing began when Neva started begging me
to dance and I realized I couldn’t write a check to the crappy little school
available here. If my kid is going to dance, it has to be in a way that teaches
her the true beauty of the art – and her training has to such that it will
provide self awareness, self esteem and artistic growth. Some sound dance
technique wouldn’t hurt either.

 So I’m toying with the idea of another studio. The other
day, Mark came into the bedroom and did a little pirouette. I laughed and said,
“What is that?”

He flopped on the bed and said, “I am so ready to teach
again … and so NOT ready at the same time. I have mixed feelings about all this.”

I know what he means. Me too.

 The new studio would be my gig, but Mark offered to be my
ballet teacher if I promised I’d never let another person teach his subject and
undo his hard work. Ha. When it comes to dance we will never change – we have a
certain standard for quality and we’d rather quit than be involved with
training that does not uphold our vision. But hey, if I can get the best ballet
teacher ever to work at my school part time even with strings attached, I’m
willing. The rest will unfold, as it should. One thing is for sure – I want to
keep it small so I never lose control of quality or the general attitude of the
place.   

 So that is the update. Dead bees, bald rabbits and a dance
school glimmer in my eye.

Not much news on the writing front. The weather is drab and
it puts me in a funk. This is the only month I ever miss Florida. I’m holding
out for spring where a girl’s fancy turns to her new garden, baby chicks and
bottling the wine that has been sitting in a carboy for ten months. Yes, there’s
always a lot to look forward to if you remember it’s the little things that count… 

     This week, I caught crappy gray chicken. Sometimes you need an accomplishment like that to feel you have a grip on your world.
     Crappy Gray Chicken, as I warmly call her, is a young, energetic spring chicken with a crazy fluff on the top of her head. She went wild the first time I let the birds go free so she doesn’t trust me or the chicken pen. Every time I come near she squawks angrily and sprints away on her spindly legs looking like the Road Runner on speed.
     As winter crept in, I noticed I was losing chickens at an alarming rate. When food sources are low, every wild creature in a three mile radius decides my flock is fast food heaven. (It’s only taken me 3 years to figure this out, duh.) So, I’ve decided to close my birds in the big pen for the winter. Not like there’s much to eat in the meadow anyway. The problem is, they’ve been given so much freedom that I never have my birds all inside at one time. A handful of them even prefer to roost in a big fir tree by the chicken house at night rather than go inside where they have protection from the elements and marauding creatures.
     One afternoon, I was bringing a bag brimming with kitchen scraps to the chickens and I noticed the entire flock had followed me into the pen. I closed the door. Voila. The chickens were in for the winter. But when I turned around, I saw Crappy gray chicken peeking at me from around the corner of the chicken house.  I asked Neva to guard the door so the other chickens did not venture out and spent an hour chasing Crappy Gray Chicken, thinking I could scare her into the pen. No luck. Eventually, I gave up and decided I’d just have to catch her another day.
    For a week, I tried luring her into this or the other pens, but she wouldn’t come near. Meanwhile, as I went about my chores or drove by on my way to run errands, I could see her hovering around the door to the pen or pressed up against the back side of the wire fence. Obviously she was feeling ostracized from the flock and deep down, she wanted to join them. She just couldn’t overcome her fear of me. I felt sorry for her, but I was perturbed too. Why did Crappy Gray Chicken have to be so crappy? She should trust the girl with the feed, ya know.
     After two weeks of trying but failing to capture the wayward bird, I decided to let all the chickens go again in hopes that they would all return (crappy gray chicken too) to the henhouse that night because certainly by now a new habit had been formed and everyone had discovered the joy of sleeping inside rather than roosting in a tree. That night as I went to close the pen door, I spied seven chickens sleeping outside in my fir tree. So much for chicken training theory.
    A week later, as I was spreading around a windfall of kitchen scraps from my Christmas feast, the bulk of the flock followed me into the pen again. I closed the door happy for the opportunity to contain the birds yet again before I lost the bulk of them. As I was leaving, one leghorn latecomer stood anxiously at the door. I open it and she ran right by me to be with the group. Now, that’s my idea of a good chicken. I looked at all the hens pecking in the piles of vegetables and leftover stuffing. No Crappy Gray Chicken. She was outside again, peering at me from around the chicken house.
   “I can hear your stomach growling, and I don’t feel sorry for you,” I said to the bird. “A hundred hungry beasts are going to be prowling around here tonight and you are the only one left on the menu, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in this pen.
    She squawked and ran away.
    “You are a Crappy chicken.” I called after her.
     I told myself I didn’t care, but it drove me crazy to see her day after day wandering the perimeter of the pen clearly wanting to be with the others.
    I offered a cash reward to my kids if they could come up with a way to catch Crappy Gray Chicken, but distracted by new Christmas presents they weren’t much motivated. I was on my own.
      I formulated a plan. If I close off the door to the chicken house at night while the birds were all asleep and keep the pen door open with a bunch of chicken scratch and kitchen scraps scattered about, Crappy Gray Chicken will certainly wander in to fill up on the goodies. Then, I’ll just have to sneak down in the morning and close the door without her seeing me. That night, after dark, I went down and propped wire against the chicken coup exit, spread food about and left the big pen door open .
   It was a great plan, except for the fact that in the morning it was raining, which meant Crappy Gray chicken would be tucked in a tree or up in the hayloft. I couldn’t keep the birds trapped in the small chicken house for long, because my roosters would fight if confined and as day crested the flock would be frantic for food and water, rain or no. Chickens are insatiable that way. Feeling guilty and a little bit cruel, I forced the birds to wait until the rain stopped and at about 11:00 went down to the barnyard. Crappy Gray Chicken was in the pen! Quickly, I closed the door (I was inside.) Crappy Gray Chicken freaked and ran as far down the chicken run as she could as if I was one of those disturbed neighbors that made all the babysitters disappear in those teen slasher movies.
   “You are a big scardy-cat, baby,” I called after her.
     I removed the barrier so all the chickens could come streaming out, and they began pecking at their breakfast and squawking at me because they didn’t appreciate their confinement a bit.
    “It was a sacrifice you had to make. One for all and all for one,” I nagged back.
     So now, Crappy Gray Chicken is with her flock, safe from becoming a winter blue plate special and I have boasting rights as a chicken round up specialist. My final conquest for 2008.

  
    Yesterday was a sunny, 55 degree day. The ground was soft from all the rain we’ve been having, so I decided to plant some bulbs I ordered ages ago that have been left in a box in the garage ever since we decided to put the house up for sale. We recently built a nice stone entrance to the land with a directional marker to the “lodge” so potential buyers will be impressed (la-ti-da, whatever). I decided to plant the bulbs around the upturned earth around this new structure so that our house, if it hasn’t sold by spring (or even if it has) will have a prettier drive in. I also want to get rid of the clutter in the garage. 





    I opened the box and my jaw dropped. I had 300 big red Empress Tulip bulbs inside. Must have been sipping my own wine the day I placed that sale order on the internet. I rolled up my sleeves and spent the afternoon planting all those bulbs and a few others that people have given me for gifts or that I picked up in clearance. I do that, see flowers on sale and buy them, then leave them in a corner of the barn or garage because I’m too lazy to actually plant them. My intentions are good, but the follow through is often on on a delayed timer.

   It felt good to be outside on what felt like a spring day even though it was December, and good to get all these collected bulbs in the ground – kind of promising – as if I was buying insurance.  Now, we will certainly sell the house – the heavens will want me around for years to come to witness these bulbs bloom. It’s only fair since I’ve done the work.

     I next decided to sheer my angoras. I hate to remove their hair in the midst of winter, because it still gets cold at night and I expect another cold front to roll in any day now. But I’ve been lax and the poor bunnies are matting with huge clumps of felted angora fur hanging off their bodies and catching on the bars of the cage. This is what happens if you don’t dehair them every 12 weeks or so. I spent two hours clipping clumps of fur and trying to make my poor rabbits comfortable again, my guilt raging.  This did put a small damper on my Crappy Chicken conquest, but in the end, it was nice to have another task off my to-do list. Today, I’ll work on the other two angora rabbits – can’t start a new year with unfinished chores nagging at the back of your mind.

    As I was working on the rabbits, bees kept swarming around my head.  I noticed a dozen of them in the rabbit cages crawling over their food. I noticed even more bees in the chicken house crawling on the corn feed. Weird. I guess the warm weather has them out of the hive, but this late in the year nothing is blooming so they’re trying to find sugar in these offerings. Today, I’ll mix up a big batch of sugar water as a late Christmas present and remind them to be patient. In the spring, they’ll have 300 new tulips to visit. They can turn those sweet flowers into honey – an extra bonus for my efforts. Cool.

      I’m going back to work full time by September. I’ll discuss my plans another time (since I haven’t decided  exactly what I’m going to do yet), but knowing this casts a sense of poignant appreciation for the sweet creatures I spend time caring for now. Will I have time for you all next December? I wonder. Will spending an afternoon planting bulbs be a thing of the past? Will I lose this wonderful feeling of peace and tranquility that fills me everyday when I’m outside doing simple chores, convening with nature and my thoughts? Will this sense of connection with the earth stay with me, or get buried under worldly responsibilities and silly ambition when I rejoin the workforce? What will happen to the books that lie inside me, some dormant, others fighting to be set free?
 

I guess that is up to me. Remind me of that if I need reminding later.

The winter issue of New Southerner, a literary magazine of alternate living, is now available on line at www.newsoutherner.com. You don’t want to miss this year’s award winners, primarily the essay Threads of Meaning, by yours truly. Check it out. I read the bios of the fiction and poetry winners, and I must say, I’m in good company. Since this essay is a chapter in my memoir, I couldn’t be more pleased. The timing is great considering several agents have shown an interest in the book. Makes me seem like a promising up and comer, or so I like to think. Anyway, I just wanted to share.

Winter is here. Ho Hum. This is when I wonder what the heck I am doing with all these animals. My fingers are perpetually frozen as I crack the surface of water buckets each day. I have to exchange rabbit water bottles for ones from home because they freeze solid each night. Even my hose and water pump is frozen solid, so I’m back to carting gallon jugs to the barn so my nursing llama has a plentiful supply of fluids.  I watch my diminishing hay supply with concern . . . I’m probably going to run out by March –crap. Something picked off over a dozen chickens, (my favorites, of course) in one week, so now I’m keeping my flock in the pen. This makes for cranky chickens and a peacock with a rotten attitude, but I’m determined to keep them alive till spring. When the food supply grows short, chickens are sitting ducks, so to speak. My ducks, on the other hand, are thriving. I bought more ducks than I wanted or needed this fall, because I figured a few would inevitably get picked off. Apparently, as a group, they are survivors. I have this huge quacking click of always hungry birds parking themselves on my dock now. Just goes to show, you can’t control nature and shouldn’t even try to second guess it. I have two mallards which started out as solid black ducklings. Their heads turned green last week and their body colors are changing. I am always fascinated with watching different breeds of animals change as they mature, so these birds are my entertainment de jour this season. My raw “nature education” never grows dormant here.

We put up our Christmas tree last week. It’s a monstrosity of a thing – twelve feet high with a billion branches that require shaping and fitting into individual brackets. After hours of working to put it together, we got to the last few rows and the plastic branch brackets started crumbling. Apparently, our fake tree didn’t take well to the heat and/or cold of the attic. Oops. Suddenly, the tree started wilting and  branches started falling off. It looked like Charlie Brown’s tree, only the blown up version. There was a time when we would have shrugged and gone out and bought another tree. That’s not us anymore. We were determined to make it work for a variety of reasons.
• We have at long last adopted the “Use it up and wear it out” country mentality and we’re no longer comfortable or interested in a disposable lifestyle, so we don’t want to replace the tree for financial or ecological reasons.
• We don’t’ believe we will be living here next Christmas, and since this spectacular tree is designed for this spectacular house, we certainly don’t want to replace it for a single season. The next house will require a different size (and less laborious) tree – maybe we will even go  back to something real.       
• We’d already put two hours into erecting the dang tree, and the idea of taking it apart and having to start over with something else another day was unacceptable. Besides which, we were planning to decorate and take pictures to send to a magazine for next year, and the plan hinges on using what have and know works. 

So, Denver, Kent and I decided to get creative. We started with super glue. That didn’t work. We tried rolls and rolls of duck tape. No good. I suggested we try tying the branches up to the base with a complex series of pulleys and supports hidden in the branches. In the end, a combination of all three things allowed us to rig the tree for one more season. For three hours, we coaxed, manipulated and cursed at the tree, begging it to hang in for one more season. We bullied it into submission. Lights, ribbon, and ornaments hid our cheating machinations, and voila, the tree is as pretty as ever, just so long as you don’t peer inside to witness the mishmash engineering involved. Between you and me, I like knowing we are getting one more year out of this baby… it’s the principal of the matter, but I imagine taking it down won’t be much fun. Perhaps I should ask for a hatchet for Christmas.

After getting the tree up, I turned my attentions to gifts for business associates, neighbors and friends. Mark has a long list of people he wants to acknowledge this season since he is working again. Last year, we brought wine to everyone and it was a big hit, but I hate being easy to second guess, so this year I decided to put a twist on our family offerings. I made dozens and dozens of jars of wine jelly and made up baskets with a variety of other canned goods (since wine jelly is an acquired taste, I thought each basket deserved something more traditional too.) I especially like my raspberry, cranberry conserve made with apples. Nice discovery – almost hate giving it away. I’ve been in the kitchen with the holiday music cranking, watching the clock because I musn’t forget to feed the animals early, before the dark sets in and makes the task more miserable than need be.   

More news. . .my son has a girlfriend now. We adore her. She has snow white hair, and a lithe, lengthy body. My first thought was, “Wow, I would have adored having that body in dance class.” My second thought was, “What the heck is that girl doing holding my son’s hand?” Humm… Later we were told about the budding romance. It’s been flourishing for a few weeks, but my son took his time sharing the news, either because he wanted to be sure the relationship was going somewhere, or because he though it was going somewhere and he didn’t want his queer-bo family to embarrass him sooner than necessary. Anyone’s guess.

He really likes this girl. I know because he brought her over and showed her his dance pictures. That’s a first. Why do I like her? For starters, her family raises and trains horses and this girl has been showing for years. She is an avid reader and when she came over, I was finishing up A Thousand Splendid Suns, and she smiled and said, “I read that book months ago. I liked it better than the Kite Runner, how about you?” She reads a book a day and loves animals. Bingo, we have things to talk about. Besides this, she makes my son blush – that alone means she had me at hello. She plays in the band, is a model student, and has a sense of humor. She still has to pass the ultimate test, of course, which is whether or not she can decorate a Christmas cookie well enough to pass muster, but till that’s been established, she’s OK in my book.

Neva is playing the trombone now. It is quite a sight watching her practice, her short arms barley able to stretch far enough to maneuver the horn’s sliding parts. But she has a knack for band, good wind, and other than the fact that she has to carry the instrument to school each day and it’s bigger than her, the trombone suits her. On Sunday, we went to the first and only concert that both my kids will play in together (because this is the only time the sixth grade performs with the high school). It was spectacular. Mark and I still can’t believe that in the tiny town of Blue ridge such a progressive and impressive music program exists. We are delighted Neva is giving band a shot – it was touch and go for a while there because she didn’t think it was “cool” enough. Eesh.

Kent has turned out to be quite the drummer, and so he was selected for the honorary position of drummer in the school’s specialty jazz band. They will perform on Thursday, and honestly, they are as good as any jazz quartet I ever listened to in clubs in New York. Yes, the music area of our lives has been rewarding since moving to Georgia.  

Neva caught the Twilight bug last week, and finished all four of those big books in four days. Her Christmas list is now filled with paranormal teen romances. I’m like, “Are you kidding me? If you want to read romance, why not try a historical?” She rolls her eyes as if to say, “Vampires are sexier than men in cutaway jackets and top hats.” Foolish girl. I’m hoping it is a phase that she will pass through – I’m not a big paranormal buff personally. I did steal away last weekend to take her to the first movie of said book and she spent the time leaning over and whispering what was wrong with the story because the book did it this way or that. I nodded and pretended to be interested as a good mother should. Ah well, I’m just thrilled she loves to read and her delight over discovering the appeal of romance amuses me to no end. She’s a passionate kid. Love that about her.

I should probably talk about Denver too while I’m on the subject of kids. She is doing well and has two jobs and a new boyfriend we very much approve of. But there is a small drama unfolding at her place of employment because she chose to handle a moral delimma in a professional manner. Until it is resolved, I think I’ll leave the subject of Denver for another day. I will say she is maturing and becoming a very, very socially conscientious young woman. She applied to be a volunteer for the Peace Corps last week. Don’t know if anything will come of that, but I am proud of her activist bent and passionate nature too. She still aspires to go to California to study jewelry design and is working towards that goal.

Now, I have to get to work. I’m working on my thesis novel again. Ugh. This is a book about dance, and because dance is a subject I feel still feel strongly about, it is hard not to be preachy or melodramatic or . . . well, this is a hard book for me to write. But I also think this particular book is one only I can write, and my professors say those are the books we are born to wrestle with, so, I keep returning to the manuscript. Cranky but compelled. When I get too exasperated, I’ll go back to the historical novels – my vacation from life. I think the dance book will be years in the making.

The point is, I keep working, working, working, even if I feel like I am on a writing treadmill going nowhere. At least I have my little essay to feel good about this month, and since that circles me back to the beginning of this blog, it makes for a good ending subject. So –  Bye.

It has been a crazy busy week. We flew to Miami for a former student’s wedding (which was very, very lovely) and the day we returned, got a call that someone was flying in from West Palm Beach to view our house.

This meant dropping everything to get the house ready. Not that the house isn’t in good shape, but I still had pumpkin decorations and fading mums on the porch and other remnants of fall that were past their prime… So, we hustled to spruce everything up to be show-room ready. That afternoon, my mother called to say she and Dad decided last minute to visit. They would arrive the next day. Some people may want more notice for a family visit, but the house was going to be clean anyway, so this seemed awfully good timing to me. I was delighted. We enjoyed a fun three days.

I had applied to the Georgia wild life commission to receive fish to stock our lake and was told to bring three 20 gallon containers to a specific place at a specific time to retrieve them. The lake has been left alone for a year to get ecologically balanced and at long last is ready to support fish. Mark was working, but since my parents were here, they joined me for the two hour drive to get this bounty. We argued about whether we should take the truck and if our containers were big enough to support all those fish on the long drive home. We wondered if they would smell or splash water, and speculated all manner of fish related issues. When we got to the hatchery, the game warden went to a tank and started weighing fish that were half the size of minnows. I was thinking, “Gee, they must be giving me these bate fish to feed the bass, brim and catfish I’m hear to pick up. But no, this was the stock. I received about a teacup of minnows, which considering their size might indeed be a hundred or more, but still, the paultry handful of fish seemed silly for those big containers.

“Is that all I get?” I asked.  The warden claimed my teacup of fish was all a one acre pond can support. I was lucky they approved my application. Had I purchased the fish from a private hatchery, they’d cost twice as much and still be this size. Well, there ya go. Ya learn something everyday.

My dad and I couldn’t help but make jokes about these itty bitty fish that we drove so far to get, but the man assured us they would be full size and laying eggs by spring. He even said he gave us sixteen additional fish, just to be nice.  I can’t imagine these minut fish ever being big enough to catch, but whoever buys our house will have a fully stocked lake, or so the theory goes. It took a full day to get the fish and introduce them properly to the lake, and considering I won’t be living here, you might wonder why I bothered. Well, if the new owners don’t want to feed my ducks, I know my beloved birds will always have something to eat. Besides which, it was a new experience and it’s always fun to see how these things are done. Now I can say I’ve stocked a lake. Check off another item in the life experience column.

The showing went well, and the woman viewing the house seemed impressed. She asked if she could schedule a second showing as soon as her husband could arrange to fly up. That seems promising. That night, we got another call from a gentleman’s secretary. He was one of the power executives we mailed our fancy brochure to, and one of his staff members was calling to arrange a future conference call with Mark to discuss the house and another showing. I’ve made jokes for years about “I’ll have my people call your people,” and dang, if this isn’t proof there really are people calling people for people. Ha. We next got another call from an agent who said she had someone who might be interested if we would consider taking less.  Well, all I can say is thank you Mr. Obama for finally sending the message across America that the world may turn once again. After the last few dismally quiet months, the sudden interest in our home is much appreciated.

While we were preparing for the house showing, I got another call. This was from the New Southerner Literary Magazine. Apparently, I won their essay contest. When I applied for the fellowship, I was dismayed to note how inadequate my résumé was in the literary department, so in a last ditch effort to validate myself, I sent a few essays out to some literary venues. I haven’t sent anything to contests in years, and frankly, I’d forgotten about it, but dang, if my revised essay Threads of Meaning didn’t win.   They called to tell me my prize check will be in the mail and to ask if they could change one thing. In the piece, I didn’t state where I lived, and they thought readers would want to know where in the country the story occurred (it is about spinning wool fiber). No problem. Sure. Change away. I am now to sign a contract that promises I’ll give credit for first publication to New Southerner if I ever have the essay reprinted. This essay happens to be a chapter in my new memoir, so I don’t see this as a problem. The publication rules are all new to me and I learn as I go. Fascinating.

Before leaving for the wedding, I sent out 40 query letters to agents to introduce my new book, (finally finished) called My Million Dollar Donkey. I was hoping one or two professionals would agree to read the material and consider representing it. The first day, I received three bounce back messages from agencies not accepting material. Bummer. Even though I knew this probably wasn’t a reflection on my work, it made me feel low. What if no one will read this book and it lies dormant like the historical? I’m proud of the memoir. It deals with important issues in a fun way and I have high hopes for the project. If it ends up collecting dust, I’ll be gravely disappointed.

A week later, I started getting responses. I’ve heard from 7 agents so far and five of them are asking for partials, a synopsis and author’s bio. Though I’ve had  great faith in this project, I didn’t expect such a wealth of positive responses. I’ve been conditioned to expect rejection, I guess. This is a grueling business to break into. So all week, I’ve been preparing more material for agents. A request for material is a long way from selling, but it’s a very important step in the process. I’m grateful agents are taking me seriously enough to at least give the book fair consideration.

My two no’s were by mail. Today, I went to my file to make notes about them and realized one of these agents was never sent a Donkey query. Ha. This rejection is for my other book. So, I’m batting even better odds than I thought with my memoir. Of course, just as I closed the file and went into my e-mail, there was another “the concept sounds intriguing, but I think I’ll pass” response. Ah well. So much for my blooming overconfidence.

Anyway, this is a week filled with promise and hope.

Perhaps the house will sell. Our new house is half finished, standing at the other end of our land like a beacon of the hoped for the future . . . if only . . .    We put construction on hold until our current home sells. I can’t describe how good it will feel to see that construction cranking again and see Mark covered in saw dust, his most becoming state in my opinion.

I can’t help but feel with all the darts being tossed at my writing dart board something is going to hit soon. I care about this book. I can’t wait ‘till it is in the hands of someone who can help place it with a publisher. Perhaps an agent will be my Christmas present. 

I won a literary contest. Cool beans. I will let everyone know when and where they can read the publication. I’m validated now – sort of.

My historical novel, which I lovingly refer to as the Albatross (because I can’t seem to let it go even though it drags me down into despair and frustration constantly) is sitting on a senior editor’s desk for a huge romance publisher. Well, to be truthful, she has only a partial. We met at a seminar, had a lively conversation about commercial fiction and how it clashes with a formal literary education (she was in a PH.d program and left it to be a romance publisher) and she requested the book. I should be excited, but I’ve gotten so use to rejections and comments like, “This is a good story but it is not a romance,” that if the book ever did get published I’d probably have a heart attack on the spot. And yet, I keep flinging the albatross back into the world. I am persistent if not practical. So, since I am counting blessings, I’ll throw this one in for good measure.

Even an exciting week has its low points. Here it is. I ran over one of my chickens. Squashed her flat. About ten little hens were crossing the road (to get to the other side, no doubt) as I was driving down to feed the donkey. I went slow, mumbling “Get a move on chicks.”
 
They usually scurry aside when a vehicle comes through, but when I got out of the car, I looked back and dang if there wasn’t a chicken pancake. Oops. That’s a first. I would feel guiltier except I’ve decided she must have been a very stupid chicken anyway.  Nevertheless, I’m stopping the car next time I see a chicken speed bump before me.

Donkey is fine. Peacock is still laying. Mark eyes every omelet as if I’m out to poison him.  The horses are dirty. Washed them on one of the last warm days of the season and they went out and rolled in the mud, looking worse than ever within the hour. I gave them the cold shoulder for two days because this means I’ll have grubby horses till spring, but I couldn’t stay mad. Dirty, happy horses are better than clean, disgruntled horses, after all.

Pauli, the baby llama, is so tame you’d swear he was a wolfhound rather than a camelid. He rubs against my legs and gives me kisses whenever I go into the barn. What a cutie. Did I say I was going to sell my llamas? I take it back.

My angora rabbit is due to have babies any day now (Ready for new homes for Christmas) and nothing has been picked off by a predator (unless you include cars) for months. Yes, the barnyard is well adjusted and in harmony with the universe. I dug out my gloves and I’m gearing up for the searing cold ahead. Time soon to crack the ice on drinking buckets and to cuss when the metal gate closures freeze shut. Lots of good times ahead.

Now, I must make three cheesecakes for a huge open house we are having for 40 realitors this Thursday to show off the house. I’m planning my desert table and appetizers in advance. My mother in law is coming for dinner tonight too, so I have an excuse to make something fun – think it will be chicken in a creamy sauce on a puffed pastry with a salad. Perhaps a pie.  Cooking still brings me joy. If I was smart, I’d be writing cook books – less tormenting to the heart, I suspect.

Back to work.

For most people, it takes discipline to blog. For me, it takes discipline NOT to blog.

So much of my writing time gets absorbed by my essay length entries about my country adventures, that several weeks ago I decided if I was every going to finish my book in progress, I’d need to take a blog sabbatical. And that is what I did.

The good news is, I’ve just completed my memoir project. I still need to do some rewriting and tweaking, but the basic skeleton of the novel is in place. I’ve even written query letters for agents or editors, though I won’t send them out until the book is truly polished. I’m aiming for the end of November. Unlike my historical novels, which are difficult to place because they straddle the line between commercial romance and literary historical, (thanks to too many rewrites and my drastic evolution as a writer) the memoir has a distinctly marketable subject matter. It’s timely, and thanks to it being an “after the MFA” project, I can honestly say it is far better than my previous work. Anyway, I have high hopes for it.

I’ve also spent this time off applying myself to building a writer’s dossier. I joined AWP(Association of Writers and writing programs) to set up a career services file and made requests for letters of recommendation from professors, put together a resume, worked on a writing sample, and tried to drum up some teaching experience. I’ve made arrangements to teach memoir writing at the arts association of Blue Ridge (no easy feat to set up considering this will be new subject matter in the program) and contacted Appalachian Tech  about trying some creative writing classes again, this time at their main facility. It’s frustrating, because I’d have so many outlets for teaching if I lived anywhere else, but here in the mountains, pick’ins are slim. Teaching, as you can guess, comes naturally to me. I don’t believe there is any better a way to celebrate your art and indulge your idealistic values than by teaching others. I’m as committed to teaching creative writing now as I once was about dance. So, I’m starting at the bottom and trying my best to find an outlet. And I’m diligently working on classroom material and a syllubus.
 
I applied for a two year fellowship at Emery University. The competition will be steep, and frankly, I fall short in the teaching experience category (which is a killer considering all my teaching experience in dance makes me a seasoned communicator, but still, it doesn’t count) so being selected for a fellowship at a fine school like Emery is a long shot, but I applied anyway. Sometimes, the act of trying is as valuable to your growth as succeeding. I’ve certainly learned a great deal by putting my packet together. Today I received confirmation that the department received my information. I swallowed, thinking “Did I do the best I could?” Of course, its too late to worry about that now. But I am glad I made the effort. Sucess begins with seeds of effort.

Mark says, “What if you actually did get it? Are you going to drive all the way to Atlanta everyday to teach at Emery? That will be a killer.”

True, but I’ll worry about that when and if it happens. Like I said, this is a long shot. But even so, I’m willing to go where I must go and do what I must do to build a foundation for this new career. You have to operate that way if you’re serious about your craft. I remember all the inconvenient and impractical (in a monetary terms) endeavors I undertook to build a dance career. Years later I could attribute much of my talent and experience to those early efforts. I can’t help but believe it will be the same for writing.
Anyway,  this is why I haven’t been posting.

Now, I’m ready to resume my casual meandering about my reinvented life. Of course if I’m ever selected for a fellowship or teaching position, I’ll not be able to write about it, other than a general announcement and expression of glee. Blogging about my students, fellow teachers or employers is just too invasive and threatening to consider, even when you doubt they will ever stumble on the site. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a blog is PUBLIC, even though it feels like an intimate exchange between friends.

Confidentiality is paramount to developing the intimate environment necessary for helping a student through the discomfort that surrounds personal growth as an artist. I’ve thought a lot about this. I’ve only been able to blog these past years because everyday adventures – animals, family and country living, are safe subjects, easy to address. I sure never could have blogged while owning FLEX. Eesh, the very thought makes me laugh. The potential for catastrophe would have been greater than the atomic bomb. Besides which, when the people involved in your livelihood are invited into your head, you can’t resist but to become on guard. You end up saying what you think they want to hear, or worse, sending subtle messages that deep down you wish you could say to their face. Either way, the work is affected. If you can’t be really honest, writing is a waste of ink.

So this is my announcement that I’m back. And since catching up is hard, I’ll just pretend you haven’t missed anything and write about whatever is going on in the present as if I didn’t take a break. If you missed all my riviting talk about llamas and chickens and bears, oh my, you won’t have to wait long for more . . .   

This morning I was making my rounds. I went to check on Pulani. Not in labor, of course. Just fatter.

I gave her breakfast, a cookie and a scolding. Then I hung Dali up in the barn so that when his mate does finally give birth to his offspring, he will be looking on in spirit. Perhaps this is a twisted romantic view, but it seemed appropriate to me, but for all I know, this scull will scar the new baby for life and give Pulani the creeps. Ah well.
 

Fed everyone else. Went to check on some other animal issues.

This season I’ve learned just how sneaky poultry can be. After my great duck caper, Romer knew better than to try to lay her eggs in the barn. Not only did I try to slip her some baby ducks that weren’t hers, but now there was a llama in her stall. The nerve! So she found a more secluded place to lay a bunch of dormant, unfertilized eggs that she would spend months sitting on. She laid a dozen eggs in my compost tumbler. I’d left the door open and I guess the shavings, manure and garden scraps seemed prime nesting materials. It’s no doubt stinky in there, but always warm and dark in the metal bin, which would be great for fertilized eggs. Luckily I discovered her before covering her up with more manure or closing the lid. So for about 6 weeks she has been diligently sitting on eggs in the dumpster. They are overdue, so nothing is going to hatch, sad to say. When I visit, she hisses and acts all indignant. I can’t wait for her to give up and return to cool lazy days on the pond. I want my composter back.

My spring chicks are full grown and laying now, but lord knows where. I get about eight eggs a day in the chicken house, but the rest are found in the hay trough in the barn, or in bushes. I keep seeing the chickens sneak up to the top of the hayloft where I could never follow. I bet there are two dozen eggs up there. They will either hatch and a bunch of baby chicks will come tumbling down from the sky, or they will rot and smell, only to be discovered frozen this winter when I work my way through the hay. As winter comes, I’ll close the birds in the pen and they will get use to using the chicken house. I moved a fancy garden shed to the area, filled it with roosts and shavings and had fencing added to attach it to the current pen. This was to provide more housing for the new birds, but they haven’t gone inside yet. Picky poultry.

This spring I took my prize pumpkin (the only one I grew last fall, and so I kept it for nine months) and smashed it on a hill by the barn. I was hoping it might take root, and it did. I have a nice pumpkin plant up there, and several pumpkins got a good start. But a day or two later, I’d notice the little globs were gone, the flowers attached demolished. Finally, a larger pumpkin started to grow. I was delighted. Then one day I noticed it didn’t look too good, and upon closer inspection I see that the chickens had been pecking away at it. They think my planting around the barn was designed to provide them with a smorgasbord. Oh no you don’t! So I put the top of some unused cages over the new flowers and sure enough, I am now growing a few pumpkins under security wire. The bees still go in and pollinate, but the resulting fruit can’t be scavenged. I will not be thwarted by poultry!

I have not been quite so lucky keeping them out of my bucket garden. The chickens began hanging around to eat the bugs, which was helpful, but when they accidently pecked a plant and discovered just how yummy the veggies are, they started enjoying my harvest long before I had a chance to.

I can’t complain. I’ve already reaped tons of zucchini and peppers out there, but all my tomatoes were blightly and only a few cucumbers were good. It is winding down now, and I’m ready to put closure on the gardening in a bucket project. My beans ended up mostly as special treats for the rabbits, and everything else looked slightly undernourished despite my feeding the plants daily and providing the best soil you can buy. I think the limitations of their situation make them sad. OK, so I’m not in favor of gardening in buckets anymore. Nice try. Lesson learned. I also know now NOT to plan next year’s garden anywhere near the barn. I may have water resources in that area, but I have sneaky feathered thieves too. Chalk another one up to the learning curve.

I next went to see how my bee frames fared. Sure enough, they had been picked cleaned by ravenous bees.


I thought I should put them back and tried to open the hive (no veil or suit or smoker.) Big mistake. Everyone inside was still pissed at me. I quickly closed the lid and suited up. I returned with the smoker and easily put the frames back. Then I decided it might be nice to check the lower boxes to see how the queen and brood are faring. I haven’t done that all season. Another mistake. The bees got instantly agitated and swarmed me, out for vengeance for my honey robbing, I guess. I got stung through the suit on the elbow. That’s a first. It was only a small annoyance, but then I noticed a buzzing on my ear and around my face and I thought one of the bees had climbed into my helmet. That’s a problem. Can’t have them stinging you in the eyeball. So, I walked away shooing the millions of bees off my suit so I could take off my helmet. Instantly a bee dive bombed my face and stung me on the lip. Bitch! I cleared my helmet, went back and put the hive back in order. First I tried to take a picture of myself stung. Didn’t occur to me that I wasn’t wearing make-up or would have that startled expression- forgive me if this gives you nightmares. Anwya, I figured if the bees are in that kind of mood, I’ll skip poking around for one day.

Now, my mouth is numb. I feel like a dentist shot me with nova cane. Ouch. I’m going to fix myself a hot tea with HONEY from that stink’in bee. That will make us even.

MY bluebery bush is loaded and lots of fruit is ready for picking again. When Neva comes home from school, we’ll go to work. Untill then, I’ll sit at the computer and try to convince myself I can be creative …. With a numb mouth, I really want to just go out on my porch and read. I’m enjoying a terrific book called “Five quarters of the Orange” by Joanne Harris (same woman who wrote Chocolat) which will be discussed at my book club this month. It’s engaging, so if I dare start, I’ll waste the entire day reading. Can’t have that.
  

Tomorrow, Kathy is graduating from two years of drug court. The ceremony is in Jasper at the Appalachian Technical College where I hope to be teaching soon. She is excited, because this means her life is her own again and she is truly clean. I’ve written an article for the local newspaper about how she overcame addiction, learned to read and started giving back to the community. I’ll take pictures at the ceremony and then drop my packet off at the news office. I am pretty confident they will publish the piece as a special interest story. I’m going to include my résumé and an introduction and tell them if they ever want a contributing editor or are looking for someone to fill a staff writing position, I’d be interested. Mostly, I wrote the article as a gift for Kathy and the literacy program. She deserves recognition for her hard work and diligent efforts, and she is an inspiration for others.

We took some time off this summer, but we’re meeting twice a week again. Yesterday, I took her some honey, some homemade blueberry jam, and we spent the entire lesson doing an interview. Even after 2 ½ years of working together, I learned things about her I didn’t know. Interesting.

Kathy has never been on the internet. I explained that I blog and that I’ve written about her on occasion. I would never want her to feel I was exploiting her by sharing our journey in a public way, so I explained that it was mostly friends who tuned in, people who knew me and were interested in my adventures in Georgia. I write about her occasionally because she is an important part of my journey. I explained that as result, she had a nice fan club rooting for her from far and wide.

“Everyone will be thrilled when I post pictures of your graduation,” I said. “They have followed your progress and they want you to succeed.”

She blushed and said she was sure glad she hadn’t disappointed everyone.  I told her each life touches others in subtle ways and when people read about how she is overcoming adversity it reminds them to be grateful for their blessings. It might even inspire them to take action to make their lives more successful, or to reach out to help those less fortunate. This brought us back to the article at hand. She said, “You should add a before and after picture of me. That says it all.” Not a bad idea.

The fact is, working with Kathy has been about so much more than reading and writing. It’s been about personal connection, the human spirit and sharing a friendship without personal judgment or social status interfering. I wish everyone a Kathy in their lives at least once.

Yesterday, I had a silent temper tantrum. I stomped into the house and plopped on the living room chair and sighed dramatically.

Mark has been very hard at work setting up his new vocation as a full time real estate agent with Century 21 in the Mountains.  He is working on the computer about ten hours a day and we don’t see much of each other. Meanwhile, it’s spring and there are a million things to do now or forever hold your peace. Such as, if I don’t take advantage of the spring rains and spread grass seed now, I will have to endure another year debilitating mud around the barn. Frankly, I can’t bear the thought.  If I don’t do any planting now, I miss the boat and we go an entire year without any fresh produce. I know homegrown produce isn’t really a high propriety, yet it feels important to me because what the heck is the point of owning and struggling to pay for 50 acres if you don’t use it to provide a more wholesome, natural lifestyle? Every year I put off working to fix my pastures, they grow more overcome with weeds, more useless to the animals and more unattractive. Last year we paid for several tons of lime so the time is ripe.  I’m frantically spreading weed killer, grass seed, fertilizer, lime, trying to fix the situation even though I have no clue what I’m doing. I’ve even kept the horses out of one side, which is difficult because they now have nothing to eat and I can’t buy any hay for a few more weeks – an entirely different problem.
 
I’m knocking myself out trying my best to handle this raw, undeveloped land to make it work for us, but my lack of experience makes me more than slightly inefficient. Sometimes it feels like I am just wasting money, energy and hope. And it gets frustrating.

For example, Mark is unavailable to help me clear and turn over an area of ground with the tractor. If the house is going up for sale, Mark doesn’t think we should have a big garden in the area where we planted last year– new owners might not want the responsibility. We have tons of space on the opposite side of the 50 acres, but there is no water to be had over there as of yet, so nothing will grow. I found an area near the barn that could work for a garden, (though my chickens might cause mayhem with it) but I would need Mark to remove a few stumps and help me till the red clay soil, and for all that he would love to help, he just doesn’t have time this month. Next month will be too late because timing is very important when it comes to growing seasonal produce. That makes me a gal with a huge amount of land and no place  to put a dinky garden. Ain’t that just like life. 

But I can be resourceful when I want something. So, I decided to do container gardening by the barn this year. I planted a lovely bunch of herbs in half barrels, thinking that since they are perennials, I could move the containers to a new house or garden next season. The plants that are only good for one season I planted in big plastic tubs we had from moving. I’ll simply toss them into the compost at the end of the summer, and I can save the soil for a garden next year. I was quite proud of my efforts, but  I made the mistake of showing off to Mark.

He gently said, “Um. . . I hate to mention this, but herbs need bad soil. You must mix that nice black soil with sand and make it grainy for drainage. Herbs in that rich, feed-based soil won’t do well.”
He looked at my furrowed brow and said, “Of course, I might be wrong. You can just wait and see how they do. And the tomatoes do look good.”
Of course, we both know he is going to be right and the herbs won’t thrive .
It seems everything I do, I have to re-do. It is part of the learning process, and although I do love learning, sometimes it is a big, fat drag.
Meanwhile, I am watching huge weeds grow in the pasture. They are monsters and I can’t kill them with a little sprinkle of weed killer. I haven’t learned to run the tractor, so I can’t mow them down. I know they will reseed and create a bigger problem later. We don’t have a lawn mower, or I could mow myself. I just have to watch them grow strong and spread with the lovely spring rains and there is nothing I can do about it. I can mention it to Mark, but then he feels I’m nagging and mowing a pasture is simply way down on his priority list (though keeping his wife happy does help move it up a notch on the chores-I –don’t want-to-do list)

Anyway, all these things are making me testy this month. I guess my bad attitude was powerful enough that my silence wafted up the stairs to Mark’s office and he could feel my discontent.  He stopped what he was doing and asked if I was OK.

“No.” I answered. “I’m finished. I’m done with living on 50 acres. Done with animals. Done with little creatures dying on me. Done with mud and wrestling with tools. I’m done with killing myself to do a job and it all being for nothing because I’ve done it wrong. I’m done.”
“What happened?”
“My four wheeler is stuck in the middle of the pasture, and nothing I do will get it out. I was out there trying to spread seed to fix that mud hole, but I just sank as if I was getting sucked into hell by the devil. The spreader wasn’t working anyway, of course, so I was stuck doing all the spreading by hand. Why is it nothing works around here?
For your information, fifty acres is too much for one practically 50 year old woman to handle alone. I feel inadequate because I don’t have the muscle, the wherewithal, or the strength to keep up on all this by myself. It would be different if I could operate the tractor, but I can’t. You never taught me.
My horses have to be let out everyday because there is no hay to be bought, but they almost broke the chicken coup because they thought it would be fun to eat the scratch – which isn’t good for them, by the way. They knocked over the trash and stomped through my new grape vines. They are a nuisance when released. You’d think if they were so hungry, they’d eat the long lush grass in the field so we wouldn’t have to cut it, but no, they keep eating the new grass by the barn. Dumb beasts – don’t they know I’m trying to make that area nice for them?
For the record, I had to go to seven stores to find those stupid shipping peanuts you told me to put in the bottom of my container gardens and ended up having to grovel to buy a couple of bags from a company that uses them for mailing their own products. And now, you tell me I have to change out the soil? You know what a mess that will make if dump out the contents with those peanuts at the bottom? Am I supposed to pick every one of those stupid dirty peanuts out of the soil, then mix the sand, then return it all? Gee, that sounds like fun. ”

(As I said, I was having a tantrum and while I know Mark is doing what he is supposed to be doing and he is working diligently to provide a living for the family, I’m still feeling as if he had this bright idea of buying a huge chunk of land then lost interest and plunked it in my lap. When he found this land he talked about gardens and homegrown eggs and living close to the land, but from the beginning it has felt as if I was the only one interested and all he does is make gentle criticisms like a big fat know-it-all when he should be out there teaching me this stuff since he is the garden guy and the tool guy and the guy that was inspired by friends who did these country things back in Massachusetts in the first place. You see, tantrums have a way of exaggerating truth in a person’s mind and making you feel all self righteous and indignant and abused. I was on a roll.)
“We can sell this place and move if you like,” Mark said.
“Not on your life, Buster. I’m also done with living unsettled and in transition. I’m not going to work this hard and take off before I see the result of my efforts. We are going to make this work.”

Mark offered to change his clothes, get on the tractor and pull my mule out of the mud. But we had to do it now, because he was supposed to go into the office and he would have to quickly change back into decent clothes and get going. He apologized for not being more available to help me. Told me we could talk about this whole country thing and if it is right for us.

Now, even in my most ornery state, I’m not so selfish that I don’t see reason. And deep down I am very appreciative and impressed with my husband’s hard work and his commitment to supporting the family. Not like he is having fun. The last thing he deserves is a complaining wife. And honestly, I love having a chunk of land. It is my choice to have animals and a garden and to put efforts into developing the land to be more agriculturally sound. There was no way I was going to have him stop his work to go muck in the mud to appease me just because I am spoiled and in a bad temper. I told him that we could get the mule out another time, and that I wanted him to take care of his own priority list. Really, he needed to ignore me. I was just having a bad day and I would get over it.  Nothing I was up to was really important in the big scheme anyway. I took a shower and read something, and that helped.

A few hours later, I was walking to the barn to feed the horses when Kent drove home
from his band practice. He paused the car and said, “Wassup, Mom-o. Why are you walking?”
I explained that the mule was stuck in the pasture and I was having a bad day.
He said, “I’ll get it out for you.”
“You can’t. No one can. I’ve tried everything. Dad will get it out tomorrow. Or the next day. He’s busy.”   
“I’ll get it out for you..”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
I knew he wouldn’t be able to free the mule, because the dang thing was two feet sunk, thanks to my tantrum. I just sat in my seat cussing and gunning the tires for about ten minutes when I got mad. I have a very intelligent way of handling my frustration, you see.

I pointed out that he was wearing decent shoes and that it was a god awful mess out in the pasture, which was why I was out there trying to plant grass seed in the first place. Just so happens I destroyed yet another pair of good running shoes just this morning.

He said, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t own a decent pair of shoes at the moment.”

“Well, if you can get my mule out, I’ll buy you TWO pairs of shoes, ” I said.

I should have known, that was the ticket to assure my son would wedge that mule out of the deepest hole or die trying.

We trekked down together, and while we were walking I saw something huddled in the grass.
IT WAS MY FEMALE PEACOCK, PALATE!
I was shocked. She wasn’t dead after all. I went to check on her, and it seems she had a bum foot. Something must have tried to get her, thus the pile of feathers I found,  but she was resilient and got away. She has been laying low to heal. I can’t tell you how delighted was. And in one swift moment, I no longer felt sorry for myself or hated my life, or was filled with negativity. Peacocks have a way of dragging joy out of the deepest regions of your gut.

I was no longer alone in my misery. My peacock had risen from the dead, and  my son was around to cajole my spirits and add muscle to my pitiful efforts.

I climbed into the driver’s seat of the mule to show him just how stuck the machine was. Kent offered to push. I gunned it. He shouted. I turned around. There was my son looking like a negative of himself. He was covered in mud from head to toe, big chunky wads of goo that the wheels had churned up and tossed at him like a machine gun was dripping from his arms, shirt, jeans and forehead.
He tilted his head and a fist size wad of mud spilled out of his ear. “Thanks.”

I laughed so hard I almost fell out of the mule. Thus began our determined quest. We wedged sticks under the wheels. Next, we tried huge slabs of cardboard. We tried rocking it, pulling, pushing, etc.. Nothing could get that sucker out. I gave up and told mud boy I’d buy him the shoes for trying anyway and I went to finish spreading the grass seed by hand. Kent kept messing with the four wheeler, unwilling to accept our failure. About ten minutes later I heard a warrior’s yell, and sure enough, he was driving towards me. He had wadded up the cardboard and wedged it under the wheels and somehow driven out. I don’t think he was fueled by gas nearly as much as he was fueled by determination.

I love that about teens. They have a way of tackling the impossible simply because they don’t know what they can’t do.

We drove to the barn and hosed off about ten gallons of mud from both the four wheeler and Kent. He admired my container gardens, helped me put Palate into the chicken house to convalesce and we checked out the work we did last week together. Kent helped me plant six grape vines in a mini-vineyard (complete with stakes and wires to support them) on Mother’s day, and he bought me one of those funny resin gnomes (we named him Pino as in Pino Grigio) to watch over the plants. He is mighty proud of his contribution to Mom’s winemaking. It takes three years for wine vines to produce healthy fruit, so we made a date now for him to come home from college for the first bottle of Kent’s Pino Protected wine.

So, I got over my temper tantrum and went to the house to make a nice dinner for Mark to come home to. I decided to keep plugging away to fix the mud even if my attitude isn’t always rosy as I go about the task. I’m going to fix those pastures and start a pasture maintenance program to assure my horses have food when hay is scarce. I’m going to grow tomatoes and peppers and squash and cucumber and herbs in my containers and have a bumper crop and force feed my family all summer  with more produce than I might have grown in a traditional garden. Even if it kills me.

It’s been one of those icky months, but a few highlights include :
We found a home for the puppy.   
My peacock is alive!
I found a way to grow produce even if I can’t have a traditional garden this year.
I called and met with a local dance studio owner – I’m consulting with a studio owner in Singapore and plan to visit there in Sept. and I’m working on a dance studio management book – all subjects that deserve a different sort of blog. But they are interesting.
So, if I look past the mud and my agricultural failures, life isn’t so bad.

And even the agricultural pursuits are an adventure if I’ve a mind to keep a good attitude. 
The post master called this morning to kindly say, “You have a package of bees here. A few bees are on the outside of this hive. Um…. Can you come get them soon?”
It is raining, so that makes it a bad day for transporting bees to their new habitat, but what ya gonna do?  I must go pick up my package, scramble to set up my two new hives and figure out how to move the insects from the shipping crate into the hive (Last time, I hired someone to bring me bees, and he set up my hive and did the transfer for me – this time I’m on my own). It will be another challenge – but at least no mud is involved in this particular pursuit.

Last but not least, I’m going to a reading in Atlanta tonight (an official date with my recently absentee husband) to the history center to listen to an author discuss his historical novel. Just so happens this author is also my most favorite actor of all time. Gene Hackman! I’m so excited. Mark is accompanying me, not because he is all that interested in the book or the history center, but because he has to babysit me so I don’t embarrass myself as the out of control enamored groupie I have the potential to be in such a case.
Gee, I hope when I go to have my all time heartthrob sign my book, he doesn’t notice the dirt under my fingernails or a hitchhiking bee doesn’t climb out of my pant leg to sting him. At a fancy literary event in Atlanta, that would take some explaining.

Happy Mother’s Day to the mother’s out there.
Denver and Kent are working today and Mark is in Florida on a business trip. So that leaves me and Neva to celebrate.  That’s fine. We always have loads of fun together.
My only regret is that I am forfeiting my one day of year when I can force the family to do my bidding. I usually pick a canoe trip, much to everyone’s misery but mine. They lucked out this year, but that doesn’t mean I won’t make a play for a Mother’s Day Canoe trip rain check later.

Today has to be a better day than yesterday, because yesterday was the worst.
I cried.

When I went down to feed my animals, I found one of my  big metal cages had been tossed several feet, than rolled over many times until the door finally opened. My lovely (highest pedigreed) bunny had been killed. She was literally skinned, so only her pelt remained – just a face and ears and body, like the carefully cleaned raccoon pelts you see in stores. Whatever did this was hungry. The tarp that I had covering the cage had been torn to shreds. I don’t mean it was ripped, I mean it looked like fringe.

No dog can do this. This had to be a bear. Spring is the time bears come out, hungry and sniffing for trouble. Damn bears.

I noticed that my second big cage had been shoved around too. A big, heavy wood piece I put on the ceiling for enhanced shelter had been tossed about 4 feet and this tarp was shredded too. The cage had not been knocked from its stand (probably because it weighs over 100 pounds) but it was askew. Had the bear been successful, he would have gotten my other female and all her babies too.

This made me upset, but it’s not why I cried.

I was cleaning up the mess, picking up my beloved bunny’s caucus and whispering a “sorry,” when suddenly I wondered, “Hey, where is Palate?” My peacock tends to hang around whenever I’m at the barn. She is curious about me and we are buds. I had a sick feeling so I took a walk to find her. I found a pile of feathers instead.

THAT is when I cried.  If someone had driven up to the barn at that moment with a U hall and said, “Hey, want me to cart away every animal you have and relieve you of this burden for good?” I would have jumped at the chance.

I don’t ever say never, but right now, I feel I’m done with peacocks for good. And I’m leaning towards letting my bunnies go too. Except that this week I received all the fiber from my llamas and bunnies that I sent to the carding mill 5 months ago, and it came back all soft and magnificent, like miles of fluffy cotton streams. It is ready to spin, and I will soon have gobs of yarn made of my dear pet’s fur- so this week, I’m thinking my animals are glorious and fun. Weakens my good judgment, ya know.

In case you were wondering, this is what carded wool looks like. The black wool – remarkably soft – is a combination of my llama , some black sheep wool and angora, the white is a sheep fleece with my angora blended in for softness. The tan happens to be camel and alpaca, with a bit of rabbit thrown in because I wanted to make the blend meaningful. I bought the raw wool for the animals I don’t own on the internet. Just had to try it for experimental sake. The gray is pure angora. Luxurious!



Mark is out of town for a few days, which makes the current animal threat even more frustrating. Without him here to help me devise a solution, my rabbits are sitting ducks. That bear can just return and devour my other bunnies tonight unless I do something about it.

I’m embarrassed to say I’m not exactly skilled at working with tools. The best I can say is that I used to walk around Home Depot looking for inspiration, fueled by a need to be creative for a dance. I bought stuff like PVC pipe and a saw and made 3 D boxes for a dance in a variety of sizes. Lots of cussing and blisters, but hey, it was all in the name of art. I have never been very experienced with hardware, but I could figure things out when I needed to.

So, if I could figure it out for dance, I certainly can figure it out for rabbits.   

I went to home depot and bought some big shelf brackets and wire. I bought wood screws too. I already had bought myself my very own power screwdriver/drill about two weeks ago. It was on sale for 19.99.  I thought it was time to begin my own barn collection of tools. Mark has about a dozen expensive drills, but I’m not allowed to touch his tools. And we have a drill at the house for quick projects, but it is meant to stay in its place.

Mark sort of sniffed when he saw I’d bought my own drill and commented that I should just use the house drill when I needed one. To buy another drill was wasteful.  But I know I’d get yelled at for not putting it back or using it in the wrong way or something and I don’t want to feel he’s doing me a favor by allowing me to use the family drill. Besides which, then I have to count on it being charged, and I rather be responsible for that kind of thing myself. Furthermore, I don’t want to have to traipse to the house to collect tools when I’m down at the barn and need to do a quick mend. As you can see, I’ve built up a strong case for wanting my own (cheap) tools, so when I saw the modestly priced drill, I snagged it.

 I love that drill. I’ve put up my very own pegboard in the barn to hang tools in the feed room. I’ve made holes in the feed buckets and the salt block holder so they won’t fill with water when it rains – been wanting to do that for three years now. I drilled holes in the big plastic tubs I’m using for a container garden this year (I’m on a mission to perfect the tomato crop).  I hung some additional hooks for my rakes and put up a couple of clocks. My new motto is “To drill is a thrill”. I always plug it in so it is charged and ready.

Having done my home depot shopping, I stopped by the feed store and purchased two big metal rabbit cages to mount on the chicken house. I have my buck mounted this way, and he has always been safe and secure. Mark helped me with that project, but we never got around to doing it for the other rabbits, even though that was the plan when I had the chicken house built and insisted it have a little roof for the rabbits.

OK, so now, I have to do this project myself or risk losing my rabbits. I’m a girl on a mission.

It takes me 5 hours. No shit. I spent about 1 ½ hour putting the cage together and three hours screwing in the brackets (I didn’t measure so I put the top brackets too high, of course.) Then, there were obstacles, like the fact that it took me 25 minutes to figure out how to change the direction of the screwdriver to take a screw out rather than drill it in. I had to reposition a bracket. Alas, figuring out my cell phone isn’t the only thing technical challenge to a gal like me who spent far too much time dancing and far too little time living for the last 50 years.
 
Once I had the cages wired onto the brackets, I wired them to the roof beams for extra support. In the end, I had a very secure cage for my mother bunny right next to my boy. I got an extra bonus –  my rabbits won’t be lonely now. They immediately slept nose to nose, content. I stood there watching, wondering how tall this bear might be and if he has long arms. Damn bear.

I still had five baby bunnies in the other cage. Denver showed up and helped me repeat the process again on the other side of the chicken house – no roof here but I figure I can cover the cages for now and talk Mark into building me a roof later. Doing all this the second time was easier (slightly smaller cage). I put the two babies we are keeping in this new set up, wishing I’d bought one more cage. I stopped at two because I didn’t want to go crazy buying cages until I was sure I could mount them successfully. Today, the store is closed, but tomorrow I’ll purchase another cage and put it in the remaining space on the chicken house outter wall. I left the other three babies in the original cage, but this time I put cement blocks on the heavy wood top to help keep it secure. The rabbits are simply getting too big to keep together – which stretches my safe cage options.

When I finished, I called a friend who has mentioned he’d love an angora and urged him to pick a bunny or two up ASAP. I’m determined to move these animals now.

Rabbits were not my only project of the day. While driving to home depot I spotted an animal in the middle of the road. At first, I thought it was a skunk, but when I got close, I saw it was a tiny puppy. He was lost and it looked as if he was bound to get hit, so I stopped the car in the road. When I got out, I saw he was dirty, starving and scared. OK, he’s a stray. He tried to get away from me and almost got clipped by a car coming the other direction. Obviously, I couldn’t leave him there or he’d bite it. So I pulled to the side and tried to capture him. He was only about 5 weeks old. If he’d been dumped by someone, he would not be so fearful of people. I figured he was one of those wild puppies that are born in the woods from a stray– a sadly common occurrence around here. I didn’t not see any more of the litter or a mother anywhere. So, I tried to coax the wild dog to me with a calm voice, but he was desperately scared, and so very, very small. He started to scramble up the bank by the road, but it was too steep and he slipped back down, so I reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. He then tried to bite me and he was scratching and making a racket.

There I was, holding a wild baby dog, but I had to get back in the car and drive. I’m alone; there is no box in the car – what’s a girl to do? I put the dog in the back seat and he climbed under the seat and whimpered.

Neva had spent the night with Dianne, so I picked her up. As you can guess, she was delighted. We drove to the vets to have the puppy checked, but the office was closed. So I brought the dog home and we gave it a bath. He was filled with fleas and ticks and he was so scared that every time I held him now, he lay limp in our arms like he was dead or in a coma. We fed him and he polished the entire bowl of dog food and the entire bowl of water in about three minutes. OK, now we are sure he was a stray, because he was starving on top of all else.

Every time we held him in our arms and stroked him, he immediately fell asleep. He is just so little he needs his rest like all babies. He is not exactly a well adjusted puppy, but I’m feeling very glad we rescued him. I keep having to remind Neva that we probably won’t keep this dog, but we can be happy that we found him and are giving him a second chance. Frankly, this young a dog probably wouldn’t have survived for much longer outside and if he did, he’d grow up to be a wild stray. They don’t live a very good life, and they are often caught and put down or shot by farmers.

The dog spent the day eating and sleeping and slowly, he warmed up to us. He hung with us at the barn as I struggled with the rabbit cages and he seemed more comfortable there – I guess the “outside” is more familiar.

I tend to believe in fate somewhat – that the world sends you what you need when you need it. Not that I’m superstitious, but I think we each have an energy that connects us to the earth, and we can draw things to us when we need or want them most. All day, I looked at that little dog wondering “why today?”

When I’ve shared my grief over the bear and dog attacks down at the barn with friends who share my agricultural interests (and have far more experience), they respond that I should get a “barn dog”, which is an outdoor dog you train to live in your barn. They claim the dog will eat and sleep there and be happy because he has lots of freedom, yet he also has protection from the elements. The fact that the dog isn’t sleeping at the foot of your bed doesn’t mean he isn’t loved. You give him the ongoing care and companionship a dog loves (because you are down at the barn everyday), and you train him as you train any pet, but he sleeps at the barn. When the dog considers the barn home, he will protect the area at night. My son’s dog, Teddy, was born in a barn and though, in a place like Sarasota, the idea of an outside dog is scandalous, here I’ve learned some big breeds prefer the outdoors to the house. In Teddy’s case, despite the dog’s outdoor preference, Kent has trained him to come in at night because he wanted to sleep with his dog – Poor Teddy is always restless and wanting back out at 2Am – even in the dead of winter. He has me convinced that some dogs really can be happy outside. This is not the case with our other big breed – a lazy old plot hound that would sleep in a comfy bed 24-7 if we allowed it. She refuses to stay out when she knows it’s time for bed.

Anyway, this little puppy is helpless and bitty now, but he looks to be part husky. He has the coloring of the area huskies and the blue eyes and the very dense fur. This means, he would make a great outdoor dog, because he will be a good size and he won’t get cold in winter. He is young enough now to train anyway we choose. So, while I don’t really want another dog, I can’t help but wonder if this dog showing up on the very day my rabbits and peacock were Hor de oeuvres is not the universe’s way of sending me what I need to keep my barnyard safe.

I will think about it. In the end, the real question is, can we – a family of serious animal softies – keep a dog in the barn when winter comes and it is cold and wet outside – because three big dogs is simply too much for one house and I don’t want to set us up for an inner struggle and feelings of guilt when the weather turns. If we keep this dog, it HAS to be an outdoor dog.

So maybe we will find him a good home – but even that wouldn’t guarantee he’ll live the cushy life of an indoor dog. Up here, many people keep their dogs outside and it’s considered perfectly normal.

I just feel that no matter how you look at it, we have saved a little dog from a sad end. He is young enough that we can probably find him a home, or we will assume he was sent to us for a reason and give him a home with us. It is good dog karma no matter how you slice it.

Even if he is only with us temporarily, he needs a name. I called him Newman – because everyone knows Paul Newman has the most beautiful blue eyes ever, and this dog’s baby blues are a close match.  


I first suggested we just call him Blue – but Neva felt that name suggested he was sad and thought it might jinx him. Once we associated those feelings to our little lost dog, “Blue” just sounded wrong.

Another day – another slight shift in our world. If you pay attention, you start noticing how change happens, day in and day out – it’s the subtle things that add up, the small decisions – to stop the car or not to stop – to do a task or put it off  . . . These are the things that make your world what it is.