Category Archives: Daily News

six rough riders and one pansy

Posted on November 13, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock


Saturday, I went on an eleven hour horseback ride with friends.
Yes, my butt hurts.


These friends often trailer the horses out to areas of national park or local mountain regions to go trail riding through the forest. Fall is prime time for riding because the horses love the crisp weather and the foliage is breathtaking. So far, I’ve been unavailable to go with them because of other family commitments, but this weekend all we had on the agenda was Kent marching in the Veteran’s day parade. The only thing worse than dance on Mark’s arthritic hips is riding- he can’t even sit astride a horse now, but he understands my love for such things, so he promised he would cheer loud enough for us both, and he urged me to go. Didn’t take much for me to say, “OK!”


Its deer season, so I was told I had to wear an orange vest. I complained that considering I’d be on a white horse, I shouldn’t need a vest. They said that with my deer colored hair poking through the brush as I emerge over a hill, I’d probably be a prime target for some beer drinking, over-excited, under experienced, weekend hunter from Atlanta. OK, give me a vest.


They said we’d be going out on Saturday morning, so I figured I should be ready at about 9. Usually they go on Sundays after church. But since this was a Saturday, I figured they’d go earlier. Little did I know they’d show up at 6am to load my horse! I was standing at the door in my jammies thinking, are you kidding me? But I quickly dressed and went to make coffee while they loaded my two horses. I have my priorities straight, ya know.


The friends going on this trip included Mark’s best friend, Ronnie (the preacher fellow who built our house and likes to play tricks on unsuspecting country-girl wannabes), his two young adult sons, the seventeen year old wife of one of those boys, Shane ( 30 – the fellow who sold me my new Pinto and is currently training her) and his wife, Amanda. Then, there was me, the oldest of the bunch (although Ronnie is coming up the rear in that category).


We decided to take both my horses. Pepe came as my mount and Shane would ride Joy to give her more trail riding experience. Off we head for Aska Mountain. I figured we’d be out for a few hours. I never dreamed we’d be astride these animals, charging through the forest, for some 8 hours straight. Ouch.


I have never ridden like this before. I grew up with horses, but I rode over well established trails and along farm land. I went to horseback riding camps and took lessons too, but in those cases I was working in a ring, going over baby jumps in a controlled environment. Nowadays, I ride on our land, but only along the roads and in the pasture or around the ring. This ride was entirely different. They took me along barely cut paths through the forest, along rocky roads, on pavement, and through thick underbrush. It was everything except a controlled environment.


They would say, “Wonder what is over that mountain . . . let’s check it out.” Then, grinning, they’d charge straight up the hill without a path to speak of, weaving through trees and underbrush, dodging killer tree branches, hoping up snake wouldn’t land in anyone’s laps or that we wouldn’t disturb a wild boar. The horses would slip and slide, snorting and sweating from the effort. I just held on for dear life.


I said, “Do you think horses are allowed in this area of a national forest?”
“Don’t’ rightly know,” “Shane would say. An hour later we would pass a sign that had a big X through a picture of a four wheeler, a truck, and a motorcycle.
“Doesn’t have horses blocked out so we must be A-OK,” Shane would say.
“Doesn’t say you can bring a boat in here either, but I doubt they are allowed.” Then, I’d hear myself, and cringe because I sound so much like my mother.
“Ye-haw,” I’d say, urging Pepe to dance because I rather not be that careful, goodie two shoes sort of person that age seems pushing me towards becoming.


At the top of the steep mountain, we would come to an open trail. Every time they came upon unfettered spaces they would open the horses up wide and go charging along at a full speed run. You see, I trot and gallop, but honestly, I haven’t opened up my horse like that since I was a kid. I confess, I’m a tentative, middle aged rider now. But I’m not about to be the person holding a group of friends back, (nor would my horses let me) so in the end, I just thought, whatchagonnado?, and so I played “cowgirl on a mighty steed” for the day. I have to admit, once I re-familiarized myself with speed and daring, I had a blast.


I was grateful, because without these friends pushing me along, I seriously doubt I’d ever get down, rough and wild, to ride like that. Furthermore, I could never go exploring in such wilderness alone or even with a friend, because I’d get lost. I kept saying, how do you all know where we are?” And they’d explain that they’ve hunted this mountain for years. They grew up playing in these woods, coon hunting, exploring, look for their lost dogs. They know every path and trail, or if they don’t, they just have to go a few minutes until the recognize something and they figure out where they are.  Remarkable.


I learned not only a great deal about my friends, thanks to quiet conversation as we weaved slowly through some of the more difficult paths – but I learned a different side of my horses too. Pepe (my white horse – well, technically he is considered grey, but only because he has a light shadow of freckles along his neck in the summer) is a very well trained, ex-show horse. I love this animal with the passion of a fifteen year old with a crush. There is something in his eyes and character I just took to from the very beginning. Funny,  I have a drop dead, gorgeous, expensive, top of the line pinto, (Joy) and she is fantastic, but in the end, it’s the little quarter horse gelding I’m most devoted to. What can I say, I’ve always been drawn to character and personality before looks or an impressive résumé. Why should it be any different with horses?


Anyway, I’m used to Pepe being calm, sweet, and easy to control. But then, I’ve never taken him out to the wilderness in frisky weather with other horses before.. He was out of his mind with excitement. While the other horses moseyed along, he’d prance, picking his feet up high like he was in the show ring. He simply wanted to dance or run the entire time, and if I held him back, he did this strange thing – sort of like galloping in place. We used to teach kids how to cartwheel in place by undercutting their feet and this horse’s movement reminded me of that. He could gallop, yet not go anywhere. It was like some funky dance step designed to give the illusion of moving, yet not actually propelling you forward .


The horse trainers stared and said, “What the heck is that horse doing? I think we’ve seen some really strong competition horses do that in the ring, but Lord, we can’t imagine how you could teach an animal to do that. Where did you get this horse, the circus?” They all started kidding me, stating that only a dancer would end up with a horse that dances too. He was doing the watoosee all day long. And like it or not, I had to dance along with him.


“I retired from dance. Your turn to do the same,” I’d nag at the horse. It didn’t help. His soul was filled with rhythm and spunk all day.


I didn’t really mind his antics because I trust and adore this animal, and actually, it was sort of funny. Well, it was funny for the first three hours. Then, I got tired of bouncing up and down, having to remain attentive to control him so I wouldn’t get knocked off. I was getting really annoyed, but nothing I did would stop him. Everyone else was walking along calmly, and there I was on Pepe, bouncing along on this tireless, moon walking horse. I wanted to kill him. My butt hurt.


He also insisted on being at the head of the pack. It didn’t help that Shane and the seventeen year old were constantly taking off to explore non-established riding areas. They kept riding ahead full speed to do wild, boyish things on their horses. After trying and not succeeding to keep my horse back with the mature adults, I gave up and let Pepe charge ahead with the wild ones. Ee-gad. What else could I do? One good thing was that it allowed me to watch Joy in action under the control of a fearless rider. Man, she is pretty. And this gave me a quick refresher course in carefree riding. After a few hours, I switched horses with Shane and had my first experience riding my new horse. You can feel the power underneath you when astride a horse like that. Previously, I’d been somewhat intimidated by her, but she is magnificent. It didn’t take long to be assured I’d picked the perfect horse.

I groom my horses regularly and I bath them occasionally, as is common. But Pepe is a really dirty horse. He is forever upside down. Figures– the light colored horse would be the one who likes to roll. Anyway, as he started sweating, layers and layers of dirt embedded next to his skin started oozing out. And before you know it, my white horse was caked in mud. It was dripping off of him in huge fistful clumps. I was mortified! I had no idea he was that dirty.


Everyone was kidding me, saying, “When did you say you bathe that horse last – ahem, might that be never? Gee Ginny, we thought you liked that horse.”
 

(After I wiped him down with leaves for ten minutes and pulled off clumps of dirt. Eesh.)

Meanwhile, their mud colored, copper horses looked fresh as a daisy. A so did they. My horse happens to love me so much he has to rub up against me at every opportunity, and it wasn’t long until my yellow jacket was as muddy as he was. I looked like Pig Pen shuffling along with the clean crew of Charlie Brown. It was as if I’d gone on a different ride than everyone else, one that involved a mud pit. Good thing I love that horse so much, because for a while, I almost considered shooting him. I don’t think I’ve been that dirty since I was ten. But hey, a little dirt never hurt anyone.


(Shane on my Joy, and his wife, Amanda on a kicking, biting, horse named Rebel. Guess the name fits.)

The day truly lifted my soul. I saw miles of fall leaves coloring the landscape like an artist’s palate. I listened to the rustle of hooves shuffling through a foot-deep trench of crackling leaves followed by the clip clop of hooves on hard dirt, with birds singing from above and the constant hot breath of a hard working animal below.  I felt cool breezes and the hot muscle of my mount at the same time, sparking thoughts of how diverse and remarkable life can be. I couldn’t help but think of how I spent my Saturdays only a few short years ago, holed up in a studio without seeing the Florida sun for entire weekends, people complaining and questioning every decision despite how hard we worked to please them or how successful the dancers or dances we continually produced were. As I rode along, at peace and filled with gratitude for my life, I marveled that I could be in this place, doing this wonderful thing with people who knew me better in one afternoon than my previous friends bothered to get to know me after years of acquaintance. No one is single dimensional. I’m glad I rediscovered that about myself as well.


I waved to a few walkers on the Appalachian Trail (who actually shouted that the Pinto was the prettiest horse they’ve ever seen … ah, that’s my girl.) And I had funny conversations with my no-frills friends – they are the best kind of people who gather together in a casual way just to enjoy the sweet, simple pleasures of nature and camaraderie. No one in this group cares who makes more money than the other, or what you do for a living, or your level of education or whether or not you are ambitious or talented or came from the “right” kind of family. They don’t steer the conversation to work or dance or their kids, or even horses just because it is something they already know we have in common. Conversation just rolls along naturally, touching upon interesting subjects as we discover what makes each other tick.  There is simply lots of laughter, respect, and good natured curiosity and acceptance about each other’s past, future hopes, and interests. Amazing how, when people don’t want anything from you, you grow comfortable in your own skin.


Anyway, it was a perfect day filled with inspirational sights, sounds and thoughts.


We came upon a huge water tower and the boys asked me if I wanted to go up to the top to see the view.  Of course, I said yes. Then, they got off the horses and started shimmying up the metal grids. I was like, “Um… where are the stairs?” They explained that it was a service tower to check for fires, so people are not supposed to come up. I just have to climb up the first three flights, then there are stairs so the next eighteen floors are gravy. I was like, “Have you forgotten how old I am?’


“Only as old as you feel,” they called over their shoulders as I watched their butts head for the sky. “Don’t be a pooper.”


I shouted that Mark would forgive me for falling off a horse, or even a mountain, but I’d get in big trouble if I killed myself by falling off a tower when I didn’t have to be up there. Considering I was already so sore I could barely walk, I decided to be the old fart and skip the view (yet deep down I wished I was 18 again). I stayed below with Ronnie. This gave my horse further opportunity to get me even dirtier, an equine’s idea of a good time. I opened my thermos of coffee, wondering if these people ever eat anything other than beef jerky and candy. I guess food isn’t important when you are having fun. Ronnie and I ate a sandwich we had slipped into the saddle bags this morning, and while smiling and waving the young ones upward, we talked about how sore we would be the next day.


The days are growing short this time of year, so by the time we returned at 6:00 it was pitch dark out. I hobbled around the barn, putting my tack away, dreaming of the steaming tub calling to me from the house.

Mark took one look at me and chuckled. I guess I looked as beat as I felt.


“Did you have fun?” he asked, wondering if my dirty exterior meant I’d fallen or something. “You OK?”  


“I had time of my life,” I said.

I didn’t have to tell him I was OK. Some things go without saying.

 

 

 

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Clean legacy

Posted on November 12, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

My clothes washer died. A few months back it needed a new belt. That cost me a whopping 125.00. This time it was a new drum seal (for 150.00). I figure it is only a matter of time until this clunker will need a new motor or something. Not that I’m complaining; any washer adopted by this family is in for industrial use.  It is only natural the poor thing will rebel against the abuse or kick up its heels and die from exhaustion. Anyway, we decided that it was time to buy a new washer.


Washing is the bane of my existence. We are a dirty family – between my working with the animals twice a day and/or working out, Mark getting grimy on the tractor or in the workshop, and the kids just being kids . . . not to mention that I am constantly washing sheets and towels and what have you, and then we have Denver coming over to do her clothes too. I must spend a minimum of an hour a day, every day, trying to keep up on our endless laundry pile. I don’t know how those people who wash once or twice a week don’t drown in soiled undies. I would.


Anyway, I picked out the washer that could handle the biggest load – three loads in one, like the big monsters at the laundry mat. It has a fancy-smancy electronic panel that assures many cycle choices. It also uses 4 times less water, conserving both energy and water. (Must consider the environment with every new purchase, ya know.) Best of all, there is no agitator in the middle, just some kind of new science that cleans the clothes with spray force and water distribution – water which happens to be recycled throughout the process, to boot. Imagine that! And no agitator means I won’t have to wrestle with all those strings on sweatshirts, spaghetti straps on nightgowns, etc…which constantly get tangled up in middle pole of my traditional washer. Yeah, laundry is gonna be a piece of cake from here on with my new scientifically advanced whirlpool.


They delivered this ultra cool washer today. I had them put the old washer in the garage. We are still going to have it fixed to give to Denver – thus lessening the laundry gridlock around here even more. Yippee.


When the two fellows came to deliver the machine, they stood outside, admiring the house. They commented that they see lots of houses, but in most cases, they all look the same. Ours is truly unique. We hear that a lot, but still it is nice when someone takes the time to compliment your home. So we talked about rustic house design and building in the casual way that is common to country folk. People are never too busy to pause and chat with a stranger around here. In fact, it’s only when you are too busy to exchange pleasantry’s that they know you are not from around here – and they don’t think much of those self-serving, superficial city folk that won’t give you the time of day or look into your eyes when talking to you, ya know.


Having gotten to know the woman of the house a bit, they came inside, looked in my pantry where the new washer will go and said, “Well, what day ya know. Looks like we got a liquor runner here. Whatcha got in those huge tanks? Wine or whiskey?”


I explained that I was making wine. They thought this was marvelous and wanted to hear just how I turned sugar into alcohol and what fruit I used to make the different flavors, so we spent some time talking recipes and techniques. They marveled at the different degrees of clarity of my wines in various stages and asked lots of good questions. Then, they shared a story of homemade wine they’d had before – especially the mighty kick of a particular blackberry wine they were served by friends around a campfire on a starry night. This lead to questions about how I control the “proof” of my wine’s alcohol content, and I explained that when making homemade wine, people sometimes top off the fermenting liquid with brandy instead of water. It’s an option because you must add something so you won’t have air in the jug, yet sometimes you don’t want to water down the taste. Then again, sometimes the alcohol content can be higher for other reasons. Anyway, homemade wine can pack a punch. It’s true.


I enjoyed the conversation as I always do when I meet new people. Up here, people are friendly and curious, but the talk never feels as if they are judging you or setting you up because they want to sell you something or get something from you. Down to earth conversation is just common courtesy in these parts. You take the time to know people, whether they are picking up your mail, delivering your washer, or asking for directions.


Anyway, as they hooked up the washer, we had a lovely conversation about wine making, new fangled clothes washers, and house building. After they were done setting up the washer, they pretended to wrap their arms around a big 6 gallon jug of wine and said, “We’ll just be taking our tip with us now.”

They were kidding, of course.

But the truth was, I was already thinking these fellows deserved a treat. Just this morning, I was labeling my tomato wine  (because I am getting too many bottles to keep the different batches straight so I have to start labeling and sorting.) A case of my tomato and strawberry wine was right by the door. So I pulled out two bottles of tomato and said, “This may not be the tip you are used to getting, but I want you to take this home and try it . . . and the best part of sending you away with a  bottle is that if you don’t like it, I won’t ever know.”


They assured me they wouldn’t be picky about any free bottle of wine, but they were just kidding about taking home wine as a tip, and they didn’t expect me to give any of my precious wine away. But I told them I have more bottles than friends to give them to, and anyone as interested in the subject of winemaking as they’d been deserved to have some honest to goodness homemade wine to sample for a true understanding of the pleasure of homemade wine. They had displayed true delight to learn a person could make wine out of tomatos, so I figured that was the flavor they’d most appreciate trying. 

I really wanted them each to take a bottle home, because frankly, I loved their sincere interest and I’d enjoyed the conversation. So, they thanked me and lumbered back into their delivery truck, smiling and waving, with two bottles of Hendry Valley 2007 Tasty Tomato Wine under their arms.    


This is why I love being a wine maker. A hobby like this not only provides you with a good conversation ice breaker when meeting new people, but makes for small, memorable moments. I suspect these guys will later tell the story of the lady who bought a washer and sent the delivery boys home with a homemade wine tip. And someday, when next they are drinking strong blackberry wine around a campfire with friends, they will talk about the tomato wine they sampled, thanks to a nice woman in a “cool” house with a funky new fangled washer.  Gee, I hope my wine gets as good reviews as my house did.


Country people do love to talk. They share stories casually with anyone who will listen – and plenty do. It’s the small talk woven together that creates a distinct flavor and builds community pride in small towns like this. The residents of Blue Ridge honor and respect the local heritage and maintain a deep appreciation for the traditions and individuals who help make the place unique. They don’t think much of conformity or generic commercial products, and as such, they applaud old fashion innovation. Homemade wine smacks of down home, vintage ways of doing things. As such, my rot gut wine is not only acceptable, but truly admired, and taste has nothing to do with it.

There was a time I might have strived to impress people with my winemaking finesse, but living here, I’ve learned the joy of doing things without regard to high achievement or meeting standards set by others. You just don’t encounter censorship or critique in these parts (except in matters of religion,  but that is another subject entirely). Such acceptance keeps fun at the forefront of your interests, as it should be .


Anyway, I like knowing I’m going to be a small part of the wine folklore in our community. I’ve just added a two minute tale to the millions of stories swapped in daily conversation by people going about the business of living. The subject of my tomato wine will no doubt come up in the most casual and unassuming way. Which makes me a part of this community now. It is always nice to feel a part of something wholesome and good.

Since I’m a gal with the five gallon jug salute for anything worth saluting, tonight I’ll drink to tomato wine, clean clothes and good conversation.  And the marvel of slowly being absorbed into a community legacy. 

Cheers.

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My Fast Life

Posted on October 4, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

A friend once told me “Your life moves very fast.”

At the time I thought the comment was silly. Everyone’s life is a constant unfolding story and we all experience change and evolution all the time. But the shift in a person’s life is not unlike growing hair -when you peer into a mirror daily, you simply don’t notice change. Then one day, you’ll be running a brush through the strands and suddenly think, “Lord, when did my hair get so long?” (or gray or missing), and after that, you can’t stop noticing the alteration of your appearance.


I’ve thought about that fast moving life comment often the past few years, and I am ready to admit, my life moves very fast. This is evident whenever I spend a few weeks, or even days, without blogging. I come to the computer and think, where should I start? Because inevitably, there are many events or experiences to write about. The picture I paint here of the Hendry world is nothing but a Swiss cheese rendition of a dense (yet palatable) meal. I couldn’t cover it all even if I gave it my best college try. So I strive to hit the highlights, or often, just pick silly subject matter (like chickens) meant to entertain. But in the case of friends who tune in to my blog because they are sincerely interested in how our world is evolving, I’m always sorry I can’t be more thorough. Sometimes I am compelled to write about a particularly moving moment, but I simply don’t take the time to do so. The fact is, I am most committed to living a full life in the flesh than creating one on paper – an important distinction and one I must remind myself of often.


Anyway, changes are happening in our life, things both small and large, which combined seem daunting, exciting, scary and riveting all at once. We sold FLEX two years ago, and a great deal has happened in that time, but it seems as if suddenly everything has picked up speed. Our life was like a river clogged with debris. The water eeked through, but it didn’t flow freely and the fluid that did ooze through the damned up area was littered with fallout.  Suddenly, it feels as if the dam has broken free, allowing the water gush along with new force. With each passing day, it flows more clearly. 


For us, the dam was FLEX and all the nasty strings attached. We left, but we were tied to the school and/or people, regardless (not something we expected.). This tied our hands so we couldn’t move forward to build a new life with conviction. We had serious financial limitations we were not counting on when we began this transition, and as it became obvious that things would not end well, we kept tossing around the idea of going back. This was a perpetual enthusiasm killer and until that door was truly closed (selling the building) the lingering possibility kept us tentative about planting permanent roots here.  Throw into that mess Mark’s father passing away, taking on the responsibilities of his mother, addressing conflict with my own family, and dealing with no small amount of depression regarding retiring from an art we loved (and due to physical issues and age,  we knew that we really had no choice but to gracefully end our love affair with dance), it is no wonder we lacked steam to forge forward.   But now, knowing there is no going back, we are suddenly focused on our options and deepest desires for creating a new sort of life. And that demands action.

Anyway, what has happened since I blogged last? I’ll give you an overview.

Big things:
Denver cashed in the remaining balance of her college fund to pay for an intense eight week course in silver smithing and metal work for handcrafted jewelry design at Penland, in NC. It is a very prestigious school for folk arts, offering subjects such as glass blowing and blacksmithing. Her teacher is a renowned jewelry artist with pieces in art galleries all over the country. Denver is learning so much, and she’s happy with this new venue in her life. She sent me her first creation yesterday, a pair of copper earrings with horses cut out of the front disk. I adore them, more than I can express. I don’t plan to take them off until she sends me something else – perhaps something in silver? She said I have to wait until her skills are more refined before she makes me something in silver, considering it is 178.00 for a six inch square sheet of raw material. Copper is good practice material. We talk almost every day and she sounds happy, which makes us happy. Everyone must find their way in life, and if the arts are calling her, who am I to try to railroad her into a practical career that doesn’t feed the soul? She says the school is in the beautiful mountains surrounded by 100 acres – with free ranging llamas all around and that makes her think of me. She said she tried to make llama earrings, but they came out looking like big cats, so she stuck with the horses. Ha.



We will go visit her in three weeks – can’t wait.  We are each walking on our own, preparing to meet for our Breast Cancer Walk in ten days. I will, of course, wear my earrings for the entire 60 miles.
Speaking of which, fund raising for the walk has been very difficult because we are in this quiet, small country place and know so few people. The friends I can count on from my past have done what they can, and I am so grateful, but I am constantly hitting obstacles when it comes to business help etc.. We’ve done the bake sales, sent the letters, auctioned the baskets (the proceeds of which we put into Denver’s account) but still we are far short of the required goal. It is very frustrating. For example, Mark and I have spent over 70,000 each in two different firms recently with our business conflicts, but neither responded to a request for a sponsorship. That sucks. Other businesses we have supported for years and years have not responded either.  Makes you feel the world is a cold place. Ah well. If I’ve evoked enough pity, you can still donate, just go to: www.the3day.org/atlanta07/ginnyhendry.


Moving on:

We closed on our new land for the coffee shop/ art gallery (the Bean Tree). We took pictures as if it was a great and exciting beginning. Both of us noted that when we bought the Lakewood Ranch land (at a far higher price because that was a BIG project) we went through the motions like robots. We had a ground breaking ceremony and the paper was there taking pictures etc… but deep inside we were already drained and our overwhelming feeling was, “sigh, here we go again.” This closing felt far different – we were thrilled over this tiny patch of earth – it felt important in the big scheme of life events.




The only sad thing was that the man selling the land has cancer, and hospice got involved earlier than expected, so they called to tell us they didn’t think he would make it until our closing date. They asked if we could do anything about that, and while we wanted to finance the land with a bank, we decided to go ahead and close right away and handle the financial details later. The family was very grateful. They felt their dad was “holding on” for something, and they guessed it was this closing because he was concerned about his wife being set financially before he left her. So we did a quick impromptu closing, and they went home and told him everything was in order. He died a few hours later. The family called and thanked us for arranging a quick closing. It was a glitch in our long range plans but we felt it was the right thing to do. It was a poignant experience, more so because Mark had just experienced the same loss with his own father. Anyway, we own the land now. Yippee. The conditions upon which it was being sold are sad, but we hope to do something special there so that family feels all ended well.


The very next week, (ain’t life cruel) our Lakewood ranch building deal fell through – only days before the expected closing. A church had contracted for the building, but they are having problems getting a permit from the county. Funny, because our first proposed buyer was a liquor store, and that was OK. But the county knows to keep out those rebel-rousing churches. Whatever – it was a huge disappointment, because this will delay our being able to build our new business. It is always something…..


We are in negotiations for selling our cabin. That is good. We don’t like the attitude of the people interested in buying it, so we are on the verge of saying “forget it.” That is bad. But our interests are too spread out now, so we would like to get this cabin off our list of things to think about. We need to focus. But it might go. It would be a relief to say the least.


There is a two acre lake in my back yard. What a huge difference water makes to a home setting. How did a big ole lake show up in our backyard? Well, God works in mysterious ways. So does Mark. Pictures and more on this phenomenon later. It deserves some real attention.

Mark’s workshop is finally finished. We had to wait for the Sarasota Building to sell to move forward on things that required an investment, so as soon as we closed, we jumped in with a vengeance. I got the barn, he got the workshop. He is in the throws of organizing equipment, setting up machinery and building workbenches to get this project fully operational. His set-up is quite impressive – I’ll post pictures when everything is finished and the machines are roaring. He is excited, and I am excited for him. I know that man only needs the tools and a chunk of wood and great things will happen. It will be fun to see his creativity unleashed. I am also more than a little excited to get some furniture in this house. I think I have balanced my coffee cup on my lap for long enough. I want a table somewhere. Last but not least, this workshop getting functional isn’t just about him making things. It also means he will be busy and I will have more private time for writing. Long overdue for us both.


What else? We finally built shelves in my office. That doesn’t seem like a big thing, but it is to me.   I have at long last unpacked my reference books and placed the things that inspire me about the room. For two years, I’ve lived out of boxes -Yuck. I feel good in here now – ready to work. I have started a new book, a memoir of moving to the country. It is humorous and fun. It is nice to be out of school and finally free to write something close to the heart. After a funky period of disillusionment ( a part of the growing process, I expect)  I have a renewed excitement about writing – there are so many projects I want to work on. Writing (other than a blog or a school assignment) is another long overdue and sorely missed aspect of my life that got put on hold. Here are pictures of my office where I spend a great deal of time. The top shelf won’t be set in for another week, because it is a natural edged rough sawn wood for looks and we had to wait for it to dry. It will be pretty when finished.  You might notice that over my windows are the words, “Imagine” and “It’s all good.” They are words to live by, in writing and in life. I’ve even taken out the “slaves for sale” chairs and put them on display. If you are newer to this blog, you won’t know what that is – I made a couple of chairs by putting antique newspapers from 1850 over them and shalacked the surface. I caned the seats myself too. The want ads displayed on this chair are concerned with runnaway slaves, which is the subject of one of my historical books ( a book with a hero who who runs the underground railroad), thus I find the chairs meaningful. I like them, anyway. 





The dolls over my desk have finally come out of hiding. Mark HATES these dolls, he says they are freaky and they remind him of Chucky. As such, they have never been allowed to see the light of day. But each one was chosen to represent a character in one of my historical books. I pick them for their period dress and coloring and expression. I look long and hard to find a doll that really looks like my characters -they serve as inspiration to me. I don’t really care that he hates them. Heck it keeps him from hanging out in my office. I am now on the hunt for two dolls that represent characters in my second historical- one has to be a black doll, the other a dark skinned doll with blue eyes dressed in Indian dress. I know, that will be a stretch and I may never find it. The point is, I don’t collect dolls just because I like dolls – I collect dolls as representations of the important people of my imagination. I guess I’m only telling you this so you don’t think I am some weird woman who still plays with dolls.
 
Little things that have happened:
We always go to a restaurant on the last week of the month to here a live jazz band that Kent’s drum teacher (a wonderfully talented man from England – don’t know how he ended here in the mountains) organizes. Last time we went, at the end of the night, Simon (the teacher) suddenly announced Kent and put him on the spot to play. I thought Kent would die of embarrassment. He was a nervous wreck because he’d never played with a live jazz band, didn’t know the song they would play, and didn’t know the feel of that particular drum set. Nevertheless, he stood and took his place behind the drums for his first live debut in a club. The band played a swing number and Kent was great! His teacher was beaming and said, “I told ya so, he is remarkable” to anyone who would listen.   Mark and I were shocked, because swing is complicated – it’s not like you have an even beat in the background to simply pound out. Kent was doing riffs and drum rolls and off beat rhythms as if by instinct he knew just what was needed. The people at the restaurant went wild applauding and the members of the band kept saying, “How old are you again?” as if they couldn’t’ believe anyone 16 could handle such authentic swing. But then, rhythm has always been Kent’s strength, and he’s had very diverse exposure to music, more than the average kid. It took about an hour for the color to leave his cheeks. We were very proud and impressed and happy for him. I was so bummed I didn’t have my camera.


Had we never stepped away from dance, my kids would never have the opportunity to discover their unique gifts. They were too involved in our world, following in our footsteps out of habit and convenience and because dance was all they knew. But each person needs to create their own path and for Neva that includes soccer and horses and writing. For Kent it is drumming. I will always be grateful we retired in time to give them the space and time to question who they are and what they love and to go out and tackle it.


Neva came home the other day and said, “Sorry mom, I got published before you.” And indeed she did. The Georgia Literary Festival had a contest for youth writing, and Neva submitted work. From the 500 or so entries, she was one of 5 picked to go in the book. I’m not surprised, she writes all the time. She is mostly a poet.
Here is her published poem entitled :


Mountain Moon Dance

Look up at the sky, what do you see?
Upon the moon, a glimmering star,
Fitting in the moon lit sky perfectly
The moon dances

More stars appeared before my eyes
They danced and twinkled all night
The crickets started applauding
As if the finale was near
The moon did a last shimmer with the stars
But then he left the stars, following
Giving the part to the sun
The Mountain Moon Dance is done


Neva Hendry  – age 10
  
Some day I’ll post some of her other poetry – she has written some lovely pieces about horses and I recently sent one in to Pony magazine. We’ll see how it goes. She is a remarkable little soul – and talented. If she wasn’t my kid, I’d be jealous.


Mark’s sister, Dianne, just got a position training to be an ex-ray technician and working in the medical field. She is thrilled. It is a good job with benefits and potential for advancement and one she feels will be meaningful. She is overdue for something exciting happening in her life. I’m happy for her.
 
We’ve gone places I could write about too, but I just haven’t been in a blogging mood. For example, we went to a horse auction. It was like going to the pound, only with starved or unloved horses on the block. Sad. Some great bargains to be had- some wild horses just needing someone to train them and love them a little. It was HARD not to buy one – Mark practically sat on my hands and it looked like he was ready to put tape on my mouth. He did buy me a new, upgraded saddle at an unbelievable price. We plan to go back to purchase a donkey cart there too. The underground horse world is unique – we stood around this huge auction barn with dozens of rough horse traders and old men-farmers, who buy and sell like horses as unsentimental commodities. I, of course, consider the horse as something sacred, more like a beloved dog that requires gentle care. It was a fascinating, if not disturbing experience. I will go again. It was interesting for sure, and there is always something to learn when you wade deeper into an interest, even when you go into the shadowy corners. I am very taken with my horses. That is an understatement.


We have season tickets to the theater in Atlanta and went to our first show last weekend – The Rat Pack. It is always fun dressing up and taking the kids to ever sophisticated Atlanta to remind them of the other half of the world. But it is only as good as it is because we get to come home again. My cosmopolitan-loving days are long over, I’m afraid, and while I adore the events, I can’t help but watch the traffic, people and consumerism and wonder where the world is going. We have concert tickets, show tickets, and a yearly pass to the art museum (the second chapter of the Leuve exhibit opens this month.) For all that we embrace “country” we have a duel existence. Creates a wonderful balanced life


Kent had a birthday. He is sixteen! Pinch me. I’m so old.  He is going to get a license next week. I’ll write more about this later – providing I don’t’ have a heart attack between now and then as I teach him to parallel park. 


This is a long update, but at lease it catches readers up a bit so I can go back to blogging at random without feeling I’ve avoided important family shifts.   I will try to make the next entry more entertaining but, then again, it is October. I always slide into a quiet period in October. Just one of those things….


Now, I’ve been called to help Mark paint his workshop. I’m willing to put in some muscle to get that job done.


 

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A busy week with friends

Posted on September 2, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

When we sold FLEX, lots of people were unhappy. But two friendly business acquaintances (a couple that did computer work for us) said, “Oh goody, that means we can be real friends now.”
And they proceeded to become just that.

At the time, we told lots of people, “Come up and visit sometime.” 
This is the one couple that did.


They came to visit us only two months after we moved the Georgia, taking great interest in our little cabin and the land where we were going to build a house. They loved the serenity of the mountains and the wholesome environment and talked about one day moving here as we did. (They are fifteen years younger than us, so it is not time for them to make such a big change quite yet.) Talking about what we think is important in life while sitting around a campfire was a great way to get to know each other better, seeing what our interests were beyond the scope of our business dealings. We found the more we got to know them, the more we enjoyed them. Our humor meshed.


They came up again when the cabin was in a more finished state and went with us to see the newly dug house site. We all went horseback riding and ate apple pie at the area orchard. This time, when we sat around a campfire, we were not burning the old paneling and furniture from a dilapidated cabin, now we were burning wood we wanted to clean out of the pasture was on our new 50 acres. Mark and I talked about our plans to develop the land and Steven offered to help whenever we needed some muscle.


They came again in the winter just after we moved into the new house even though we didn’t have much furniture and we all had to wade through unopened boxes. They did all the appropriate ooh-ing and ah-ing as we talked about how far we’d come. They were the first people to sleep in our guest room (and to point out how cold it can be – we have since fixed that). On this trip they even looked at a few lots for sale, knowing someday they want a cabin in this area. Steven began his campaign to get us to sell them “a small acre on the back corner of our land……since you have more than any one person needs….” Umm… love ya, but no. Yet, if we ever do start selling off parts of this land, I can’t imagine a better neighbor. 


Now, they just came up again for a five day visit. This was different, because usually they come, stay a day or two, then have to go. Now we had time to actually do some things. We hiked to one of the area’s waterfalls, and rented a pontoon boat to go tubing. It was a toss-up between this and white water rafting, but the pontoon won because they are closing the marina for the season this week, and we thought we should take advantage of the lake. The rivers are always open.  Diane was available to join us. It was all adults – different for us, but nice in it’s own way.




I’ll post a picture of the place we hiked, but we’d just walked a long way all uphill on a mountain, so we look the worse for wear.

I

I cooked big meals, we rode four wheelers, and they got to see the final work on the new barn. Steven helped Mark for a few hours in the workshop. It was a busy week for us, so they just sort of pitched in and lived the Hendry life for a few days.

For example, the first night they were here happened to be the night Shane, the trainer, was delivering my new horse. I had made us a lovely dinner with homemade multigrain bread, pasta with my fresh tomato sauce and grilled shrimp, salad from our garden and cherry and peach crisp. We sat down, took three bites, and I got a call that the horse was on the way. I was like, “Glad you are hear to visit . . bye!” And I ran down to the pasture leaving everyone to eat alone. (I guess I won’t be winning any trophies for best hostess of the season.) I was so excited. The horse’s name on her papers is Superfine Joy, which suits her and describes how I feel around her – so I am keeping it – calling her Joy. The horse wouldn’t load in a trailer, so Shane rode her over in the dark from his ranch. She arrived all sweaty and agitated since she is just beginning training, but Lord, she was beautiful.

Shane said, “I adore this horse. She is strong and alert. You can feel the power under you. I wish I’d have bought her myself before you came along.” (He was considering it.)


“I don’t want too much power there, Shane. Don’t forget.” I said, patting her on the nose while she pawed and snorted. It is still hard to believe this will be my horse.
 
Shane laughed. “She will be a doll baby when I’m done. Promise”


Joy is probably the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen, or maybe I’m partial. She joined Peppy, my other horse, without a moment of fighting or establishing dominance and they have been warm and congenial companions ever since. She is gentle and sweet (at least when no one is riding her) and I could only describe her as striking as she runs across the pasture to see me each time I drive to the barn area. She takes my breath away. I love this horse! I even taught her to take a cookie from my hand, though the first few she spit out – she couldn’t figure out what a sweetie was.


Mark kept saying, “Watch out for Peppy. He is getting jealous. You usually fawn all over him, and he doesn’t like the way you are ignoring him.”

I pooh-pooed that comment, until the next day, while petting and loving on Joy, Peppy reached out and bit me. Right on the breast ! I now have this huge mouth print that looks like a gigantic hicky where I should have pretty cleavage. Harrumph. It didn’t hurt so much as shock me.  (Normally, Mark would get jealous about a telling mark like this, except he has already accepted that I’m having an affair with my horse.)

Peppy has never shown aggression, certainly not towards me, and I didn’t have any food or anything to provoke an accidental bite. No, that bite was true jealousy – that is so like a boy, ya know. So I am careful to dish out my love equally now. Eesh.   

Anyway, Steven and Sara were here to witness the arrival of my heart’s desire. That was fun.

The next night, I plied our guests with another nice homemade meal – twice baked potatoes, brocolli in cheese sauce, crispy baked chicken and more homemade rolls. I was buttering them up for a favor (the guests, not the rolls). I even made Steven his favorite, Milk chocolate brownies, still warm from the oven (he is a chocolate person). When dinner was done, and everyone was in a good mood, I explained that I had finally received a long awaited call from a man who sheers llamas, and  he was coming out in the morning to do the job. I needed to catch the llamas and contain them so they would be ready. I was certain everyone would find that lots of fun.

“We don’t have much llama catching experience,” Steven said, trying to get out of the impending task. Aparently the way my kids groaned let on that perhaps chasing llamas isn’t all that fun.

“I have homework,” Kent said.

“I’m here to talk with Sara, and she hasn’t finished eating,” Denver said.

Mark knew better than to make excuses, and he was trying to avoid eating the brownies anyway, so he agreed to help and then guilted everyone into joining us.

We spent the next hour chasing llama’s, Kent and me on foot with ropes and the men on four wheelers. We got Dali easy enough. He is used to the routine and isn’t frightened of us. But the new llama, Pulani, was a trial. They’d corner her and get a rope around her neck, but then she’d drag the boys ten feet, duck under the rope and get away. She was fast, smart, and determined not to be caught. Eventually she just got so tired from running away in her heavy wool coat, we practically walked up to slipped the rope over her. Neva had been filling water buckets and aranging some feed to make the barn ready. The llama’s slept in the almost finished barn to become our first overnighter tenents. Love that barn!   


In the morning, the fellow came to sheer. He put the llama’s in a portable shoot, to give what they call a “barrel cut”. (Can’t shave the entire beast because it is too close to winter now.) My poor llamas really do look like overgrown poodles now. But at least they are cooler and I have a big bag of (what I’ve been told is) very fine wool fleece to take to the Southeast fiber fair next month to get professionally carded for spinning. I have such a hankering to spin my own llama’s wool combined with my angora fur to crochet a scarf to wear all winter. That will be one special scarf to me, even if others don’t recognize it as such.



The man, Don, taught me not only how to sheer the animals, but how to clip their toes and other basic care. It was fascinating. Steven and Sara watched, then later Sara said, “I love animals too, and I want to have more of them, but thanks to you, I’m seeing how much work it is, so I might just stick with my parrots and dogs.”
She doesn’t know what she is missing.


Mark and I decided to arrange for Don to come out again in the spring to give a full body cut (for the sake of learning how it’s done) and the next year we will buy electric sheers and start sheering the animals ourselves. We did it by hand last year, but that is simply too hard with more than one animal. We will have three llamas in a year, since my girl is pregnant, so we need to consider what is most cost effective and convenient.  Besides which, I like being self sufficient when it comes to these things.


Don was a nice man, a few years older than me. He told me he stopped working at 48 and gratefully, never had to go back. His wife has been spinning for 4 years and they now have 38 llamas. He takes care of them all, and travels to cut for other people now too. They are active in the fiber arts guild, and they have booths at fairs etc… I laughed and said, “Few people would call what you are doing “not working”. I’m guessing you work all the time.”


He said, “We have what I call labor intensive leisure. Sometimes I say, Honey, I want to go get a job so I don’t have to work so hard.”


I understand what he is saying. Many people consider “working” as something defined by a steady job with a boss. Work can be more creative than that. I’ve always pieced together my livelihood by engaging a range of creative endeavors; figuring out how to make an income doing what I love. Self employed, one way or another. This kind of work lacks the stability of a “normal” job, and the pension if you are lucky enough (or boring enough?) to stay at a single task for years and years. You don’t get insurance or a company car, but it does offer a certain sort of freedom and challenge to life. Anyway, it works for me and always will – and I can honesly admit we’ve always lived well enough, and that reinforces my content with the system. It is interesting to see what will come of our interests at this stage of life.


Don said he was glad to come out to sheer my llamas because he likes to know all the “llama people” in this area of Northwest Georgia and Carolina. I thought that was funny,  because it meant he considered me a “llama person.” I’ve been called many things throughout my life, but llama girl has never been one. Just goes to show how a person’s  definition can expand and change over the years. I’m one of those “llama people” now. Who’d ‘a thought.


The next night, the boys went fishing. Sara was reading and enjoying the quiet, so I decided to bottle some wine that I’ve been meaning to get to. It was a big job, because I had to soak and clean the labels off of all the wine bottles stored in the garage. The boys came home earlier than I expected, and Steven nagged at me for starting a project because that meant I wasn’t available for the “big game” We play sequence into the wee hours, every night when they are visiting. I suspect Steven has rued the day he wanted to be friends, considering every time he and his wife, Sara, visit, we girls kick the boys butts in this game. The boys are always  obnoxious and pompous and the girls always classy and brilliant as we nail them– yep, that’s the truth of it. But don’t mention it to Mark or Steven. Boys are such sore loosers.


Steven and Sara don’t drink, and filling wine bottles is only so interesting, so they sat on the porch listening to the coyotes while Mark helped me inside. We bottled 29 bottles of Pinot Grigio, filled them, corked them and put them aside to label later. I like doing this with him because bottling is the one time I can say, “Put a cork in it, Dear,” and not get in trouble. By the time we were done, it was late and Sara and Steven had gone to bed, so Mark and I took our turn sitting on the porch drinking the first glass of homemade wine.  Mark agreed it was amazingly good. Yippee! It will be over a year before we can drink the wines I made from raw fruit, like the blackberry, strawberry, apple and tomato currently aging, so suddenly I have an appreciation for the wine grape juices you can buy to hurry this process a bit.  Think I’ll do another batch that way. 


Anyway, it was a busy week – fun because we had the opportunity to entertain, yet life didn’t come to a standstill. Our friends were around to witness our joy as we celebrated the final closing of our Sarasota building, after weeks and weeks of it being put off – which relieves a huge stress from our world. They were here when we signed the contract to guarantee the purchase of our new land for our next business. Abviously, the next time they come, there will be more developments to witness in Hendryland.

They witnessed the work of our world and yet explored Blue Ridge Lake with us, and some area trails too. All told, it was a week that combined vacation fun with everyday ranch-farm-homestead chores. I think they enjoyed it. And it is always fun to see your world through someone else’s eyes – puts everyday drudgery in a new light, ya know.
They left yesterday, so our time is ours again to plug away at life. That is good too. I admit, with no one to entertain, we curled up in bed early yesterday and watched three movies in a row. Big blobs – that was us.


I must go walk. Still in training, don’t ya know. And I gotta dust off my dancing shoes. We are going to Sarasota to teach next week, but I’ll write about that later.

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Some Friendships Float on Forever

Posted on August 5, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock


My best friend, Jody, from Sarasota, has come up to visit. Her eldest son, Lee, moved up to our area when we did – actually sooner. He came up with Mark to help with our dilapidated vacation cabin when we first bought it to help with the remodeling project, then fell love with the area and a girl, and decided to stay. We ended up moving here some time after him when FLEX sold so shockingly fast and we found ourselves with the rug pulled out from under our feet before we knew what was happening (another story).



Lee and his girlfriend have a new baby –convenient for me because it motivates Jody to visit despite her busy life as a single mother/hard working school social worker.  She is my age, yet a grandmother three times over now – and considering we’ve been friends since our sons were two, that is really weird to get used to. When did we get so old?


When Jodi comes, up she stays a night or two with her son, but then moves to our house for the remainder of the trip. She sees her son, grandchild and his family every day when they are not working, but it is more comfortable for her to stay with us, because we have more room, great comfy beds, I cook, have laundry facilities and an unlimited supply of wine (ahem)…. Furthermore, she always comes up with her son, Kyle, and 6 year old grandson, Seby, and three guests are a lot for a young couple just starting out with a new baby. So we end up having a nice casual visit where she can come and go without feeling weird, and yet we can plan some fun for us too.
 
Her son, Kyle has been Kent’s best friend since they were in diapers. I always get such a kick out of seeing them together. They are seventeen and sixteen respectively, but when together, they seem like the same bumbling toddlers they were fifteen years ago, cracking jokes and doing silly, foolish, weird, boy things.  They share a common understanding of the world having had similar experiences growing up, and they share a rich history of friendship and memories. This means there is always something to crack a joke about.



I listen to them talk, their voices growing deeper every year, their bodies getting broad shouldered and muscular, and I’m intrigued. The dynamics of their relationship seems the same as when they were two, and yet they are so obviously becoming men. They are more laid back than ever, and now their conversations occasionally slip towards subjects like college and the things they want to do in life. They will both get their license in the two months, so they also talk of cars. I couldn’t help but think that the next time we are together, these boys will just be able to take off in a car to go whitewater rafting or whatever, seeking innocent (or not so innocent) trouble to amuse themselves. Eeesh.



Mark and I have made some good friends here – couples we enjoy having over for dinner or going out with. But when Jody is around, I realize how starved I am for intimate friendship. You know what I mean…. The kind of friendship that sparks talk about serious things, with someone who asks sincere questions about your world and actually cares about the answers. In most cases the talk between casual or new friends is more polite, with the probing questions inspired by casual curiosity and in hopes to keep a conversation lively.  That is nice, but not the same.



Jody doesn’t ask me how things are going with my reading student and say “Gee, it’s great you do that. She is lucky.”  She asks me how this project has impacted me inside and how I feel changed. She asks questions about the process of teaching an adult to read, and where I think it will go, and what I have learned about literacy and its role in our life. She is curious about how I am preparing to teach the new literacy tutors (I do the training at the college August 19th). She is fascinated that there are so many people who can’t read in the world today, and this springboards our talk to bigger social issues. Shoot me, but I like to talk about issues that stretch beyond the daily personal stuff. 



We talk about books, and I push her to read “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” since it has had a profound impact on how I view food. (It has changed how I shop and eat and cook and explains a great deal about how and why I am reinventing my life.) Intrigued, she vows to pick it up, and then tells me all about what she is reading.



We talk about our dreams of retirement, how we will fund those dreams (we both have our sites on a tiny secondary place in Italy to visit regularly) the new business Mark and I are planning to open, my masters experience (she has earned two masters as an adult student, so she really “gets” this. I typed half her term papers, so I know far more about psychology than my little brain can handle) and my current book project (she adored my first book and I had nag to talk her out of giving it to her dad now, since I am rewriting it to make it a better work.) Like all friends, we talk of our children and family and work and the basics. She is curious about what makes me happy and if I am pleased about living here and what I miss. As I talk to her, I see her mind spinning, as if she is contemplating what her life would be like in a quiet rural place like this, even though she has never longed for this kind of lifestyle before.



Of course, I am curious about her world, and I ask questions about her work etc… in return. She is a remarkable person who cares about others on a proufoundly inspirational level.



I can’t tell you how much I miss good “real” conversation. Not that I don’t have some rousing conversations with my donkey, but really, Jody has better responses (and she doesn’t crap and chew while I’m discussing important world issues.) It is very rare to find a friend that you can relate to on a soulful level. You must cherish and preserve that kind of thing if you are ever lucky enough to stumble upon it.



Anyway – the visit was fun. We rented a boat one day and spent the day on Lake Blue Ridge, tubing, swimming and exploring. We tried every combination of people on the tube, the kids alone, then in groups. Kent and Kyle did daredevil stunts looking like Cypress Gardens Ski rejects. It was a crackup. The lake, with green mountains all around and a national forest taking up more than half the banks (assuring no houses or people for miles on end) is such a beautiful area – can’t believe it took us so long to take advantage of it (we’ve stuck mainly to the rivers)– but we will be going out on the lake often now, you can bet.



Thought I’d share a few pictures. Unfortunately, there are none of me (somehow they got deleted while Mark was clearing space in the camera) but Jody took some and will send them to me – so you may get a pix of me as a speed demon mermaid on the tube yet. Yes, I was quite the daredevil, holding on for dear life, my knuckles white, my hair flayed back to show off a sunburnt face, deep in concentration as I sucked up water from the wake (I KNOW Mark was trying to dump me by making sharp turns and heading for wakes, even if he batts his eyes innocently and denies it) I tried to impress my kids with a touch of water ballet by sticking my legs up in the air. That failed miserably, by the way. 







This driving is serious business to the Dad ya know. “Onward, that ‘a way, young captain!”

All my friends MUST share a sense of adventure, or they aren’t any fun.This picture doesn’t do justice – you need sound so you can hear Jody’s squeeling to get the full effect of the moment.

Life is measured in the small moments that count.  

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Auctioning my heart and soul? (And it comes cheap.)

Posted on August 2, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

Egad! someone is selling my work on e-bay. A friend sent me the link.









http://cgi.ebay.com/Dance-Studio-Teacher-Training-Manual-Syllabus-Ages-3-8_W0QQitemZ160142211907QQihZ006QQcategoryZ2228QQcmdZViewItem
 
I always thought one of these day’s a book I wrote would be featured on Amazon or e-bay. That is the world of commerce and the great frustration for publishers today, and a sign that you are at least still in circulation, but it never occured to me someone would be unloading my dance materials in this way. I guess I thought they would be kept forever like all precious heirloons – considering how valuable a resource they are to anyone teaching dance (Ha – how’s that for humility). At least “greenmuffy” (the current high bidder at this moment) appreciates me. 

Ah well, you know you’re getting obsolete when you are going cheap on e-bay. Pitty. I guess I retired just in time….

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I’m behind on blogging – oops

Posted on July 30, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

Last week, Neva went away to Girl Scout Horseback riding camp. In addition to riding, this camp also features sailing, canoeing, snorkeling, and all kinds of scouting fun, like campfires etc… I am always very grateful that our life now has room in it for non-dance oriented kid experiences. I see my kid’s lives as fuller with new adventures feeding their understanding of the world and the different sorts of people in it. Sure makes them excited about life.


Kent was at Band camp all week from 1:00-9:00. He’s getting to be a dynamite drummer and this year he has been moved to the quads – the position where they place the better drummers. He says the quads are heavy, but fun to play because they can make a lot of noise and they are the backbone of the marching band –I’ll be able to hear him up in the stands at the football games even if I am wearing ear-muffs. Yeah . . I think.

I figured, with both kids busy, I’d get a lot done this week. I had visions of plowing forward on my book and getting some serious writing done. But I haven’t sat down at my computer once, except to write a daily e-mail to Neva and to check messages. Go figure.


It has been a busy week, but productive in its own way.

I spent the first day going to Atlanta with Denver for a big Cancer Walk expo. I haven’t mentioned it lately, but we are both walking 60 miles this October, raising money for Breast Cancer Research. It’s time we get on the ball with our training and fundraising. (Sigh.) I will be talking about that soon, hitting readers up once again to donate to this worthy cause. (And if you are one of those “I’ll do that later” friends, with good intentions to help us out  even though you gotten around to it yet, and if you feel inspired at this moment, don’t let the feeling go. Just go to http://www.the3day.org/atlanta07/ginnyhendry to give us your support. It would be much appreciated. (and it will alleviate the guilt that I’m sure is keeping you up at night!) We took a few pictures with our phone, but they came out fuzzy and bad – ah well – it proves we were there (Mark sometimes accuses us of stealing off to go shopping instead of saving the world, so, when we really DO go where we say we are going, we bring home proof)



Denver and I are big weenies who share a deep sensitivity towards the hardships of others. It is a personality trait that is sometimes admirable, but usually, laughable. For example, we go to this big pep rally sort of event and see a tent set up with a light glowing from inside. It is there as a celebratory thing- last year’s memory tent placed in public to get people focused on why they are walking. Each year, a blank tent is erected at the campsite for walkers to sign. It gets filled up by the end of the three days with inspirational messages.

We say, “Hey, lets go check out the tent.” We walk up there, read about two of the short comments on the tent, (comments like, “we only get one mother. I lost mine last June. Today, I walk to save yours…..) our low lips buckle and we are both crying. We look at each other and laugh. We are such saps. But at least we are saps together.



The rally taught us what to pack for the three days of walking/camping. It helped us understand how to train. And it reminded us how important it was to be creative in your fundraising attempts. Now, we are making wonderful gift baskets filled with Appalachian crafts and goodies to raffle off as a fundraiser. We are raffling off a piece of beautifully framed artwork, one of some 50 works of art that we inherited when FLEX closed (don’t get me started on THAT one.)  Denver talked to local businesses near the train station and they offered to let us place the baskets where many tourists come by and we have them in stores frequented by local residents. I am filling baskets with homemade pickles, blackberry jam, some homemade cordials (the wine isn’t ready), candles and (soon) homemade soap. I’m including my glass and clay jewelry, and Denver has made hand beaded jewelry as well, including some inspirational earrings featuring a beaded breast cancer logo. Very nice. We are trying to finagle some of Mark’s handiwork too, trying to convince him to donate one of his gorgeous baskets or turned bowls for a good cause.


Once we close on our building in Sarasota (in about ten days) Mark and I will be buying a lot across from the train station in McCaysville for our future coffee shop/art gallery. Denver and I plan to set up a booth there to have a bake sale a couple of weekends to raise money too. I will cook for two days straight and fill the table with muffins, brownies and other fun snacks for the tourists – and we will sell jelly and pickles for fun too. I plan to write an article about our activities for the local paper, to bring awareness to our projects and to stir up some donations. Then, when people see us walking they can toot their horn and wish us luck (small town etiquette, ya know.) It is fun working together at this project for a variety of reasons – beginning with spending time with my daughter, and ending with feeling as if I am doing something worthy to make the world a better place for the women of the future. I think of all the kids I’ve taught over the years, innocent little girls in pink leotards who made me look at the world as an exciting place. Considering the national odds, I know more than a few of them will battle breast cancer in their lifetime. So, I walk in honor of my mom, a breast cancer survivor, but I walk for them too.  


Oops. I didn’t mean to go off on that tangent. The thing is, we are on fundraising and training mode now. We walked 7 miles yesterday. It is nice training here, despite the hills, because you see cows and birds and can go miles without a car passing. It’s serene.


The next day was Mark’s birthday. I gave him a brick. (I know, he thought it was weird too). This happens to be a brick with the words “Mark Hendry” that will be placed in the walkway of the new multimillion dollar performing arts facility, the Cobb Energy Center of the Performing arts in Atlanta. (considering how upscale this facility is, I wonder why they needed to sell bricks out front… hummmm……) Now, everyone can walk all over my husband for years to come. How’s that for a unique present. I also bought him tickets to see the Broadway tour of Dreamgirls at the Fox Theater. We were floored when we went, because this theater is more striking and bigger than any Broadway theater I’ve ever been in (and I’ve been in most of them). It was remarkable. The ceiling is cast in blue light with pin points of light like stars, and the walls are castle – you could swear you were outside at a Roman coliseum. Thus far, we’ve always gone to the Alliance (another big theater in Atlanta) and hadn’t discovered this one. Wow. As we left, it occurred to me that I have access to more “New York lifestyle” here than I ever did in Florida, and yet within an hour and a half, I am home in the wilderness. It is like the best of both worlds at the end of my fingertips. We are lucky.


We went to a fantastic restaurant/bar before the show where all the tables are set in small booths with couches. Sort of bohemian and holistic in decor, with some interesting art on the walls. We ordered wine and hor de erves and had a ball watching the other patrons and discussing the design of the place. Someone very artistic, or very weird put that place together.


Earlier in the day, we had gone window shopping in a quaint, artsy area filled with unique stores -about as far removed from your typical franchise shopping as possible. I hate shopping UNLESS it is in original, individually owned stores, because then you see novel merchandise. I could browse for hours in unique stores. I have an earnest dislike of malls and generic shopping where you can look at stores in Atlanta or Boston and it is all the same – Victoria Secret, Clares, Express or Macys. Yuck.

We had homemade Italian Gelato from a local chef with wild flavors like Vino and Viagra (didn’t try that one). We sampled dips and salts made by a renowned Atlanta chef who opened a small store for his special sauces and rubs. But mostly, we marveled at the antique and art stores. One store had odd décor items for sale. For example, they had a trashcan hanging upside down on a chain with a light bulb inside and they called it a “urban chandelier” .It went for 2 grand! They had 5 rusty disks on a wall as an art piece for 3 grand. I swear, you couldn’t PAY me 3 grand to hang that junk on my wall.

Mark lifted one eyebrow and said, “Honey, take me to the junk yard, I’m gonna make us rich.”   No kidding.
We stared, trying to see the “chic” or “artistic” quality in this stuff, but honestly, it was simply ugly, simplistic, and a sad commentary on people striving desperately to be different . Next, we went to a holistic store and sampled pillows filled with buckwheat. Ouch. This may be organic, but it sure isn’t comfortable. They had robes made of bamboo too. I’ll stick with cotton, thanks.


I guess art is in the eye of the beholder, but honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone paying for, or wanting to live surrounded by these unattractive, dismal items. And yet, while we were there, someone came in and paid 350.00 for an old glass bottle. Our eyes bugged out and Mark looked at me and said, “We moved to the wrong place if we want to open a new business.”

I thought of what he could do with that very same trashcan and light bulb, create something truly striking and worthy of hanging,  no doubt, and agreed.  Ah well, who wants to sit around selling trash all day, regardless of what you title it. A rose by any other name……


The next day, we drove to visit Cades Cove, a national park in the Rockies with another couple that we are good friends with. We went looking for the black bears, which are usually everywhere, but we kept missing them. A fellow would pass us on a trail and say, “Watch it, there are six black bears up ahead 50 feet. Too many for me with the kids.” And we’d run on ahead, but they’d be gone. I was disappointed. Happened about three times. We did see lots of deer, however, including one that was only about two hours old. The mother sprinted a safe distance and we went up close to take a picture. Didn’t disturb the baby, of course. That sweet thing hunkered down into the grass trying to be invisible, his legs too wobbly still to follow mom. It was so beautiful.


I marvel at Ronnie and his wife, Louise’s, attitude. They have a deep reverence for nature, taking pictures and commenting on how beautiful the deer are. And yet, they are both hunters (he uses a gun, she hunts with a bow and arrow) and in a month, they will be out killing deer just like these. It is a sport, true, but they eat the meat – always. I find it fascinating that the same people who hunt deer have such deep respect for them. You’d think the opposite would be true.  But their attitude is not far removed from Indian philosophy, to respect what you eat and to honor the earth for it’s nourishing gifts. They also raise their own cattle, garden, etc…. I’ve learned a great deal from them, and I admire their connection to nature and food. Talking to them always makes my mind spin, challenging what I’ve been taught to believe and accept as right and true.   


We shot over to visit some of the shops in Pigeon Forge since we were right by there, and on the way home, we visited a workshop where a man makes art out of trees. I was enthralled by what he can do with a chainsaw and knife. I want to put these kinds of things for our coffee shop when we finally get around to designing it, but Mark said, “Only if you can sell enough coffee to pay for it.” Harrump.  I might be better off trying my hand at making a totem pole myself – one more excuse to get my pink chainsaw (or is it gonna be green and purple….)


The rest of the week was filled with winemaking, and gardening and a few other adventures, but I’ll save them for subsequent entries. Some news deserves a blog all its own.

It is good to be back.

 

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Tell tale nails

Posted on July 12, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

My fingernails (lovely tapered French manicured tips) are black around the edges and no matter of scrubbing seems to help. I was pulling weeds in the misty rain for two hours in the early morning. Two days ago my nails were stained blue due to blackberry picking and wine making. The day before, I banged one so hard on a horse bucket, it almost pulled off and my finger started bleeding underneath the nail. Cussed to high heaven. The horses barely blinked. Guess they are used to my temper.


When I went to have the nail repaired, my dear manicurist, Tracy, shook her head and said, “What you always do that nails so bad?’ (she is Vietnamese and struggles with English. Nevertheless, I ask her questions about her life and how she came to America and fell into the nail profession all the time. She has made an important appearance in my thesis novel due to these conversations.)


I shrugged and said, “Hobbies.”
At this, she lifted an eyebrow. I know she was thinking I should take up knitting. She’d be right if I really wanted to look polished all the time. Of course, another alternative is to simply stop trying to keep up with nail grooming and accept my inevitable farmer’s hands. I do trim my nails “active length” but nevertheless, every week I come into the shop looking like I tried to claw my way up a mountain. 


If I was practical I’d stop primping and having my nails done every week – at least in the summer when my activities revolve so heavily on outdoor work. But I can’t seem to make that jump into “au natural”. I think I have some latent concern that the next thing you know I’ll be forgoing makeup and stop shaving my legs. I’ll never “go country” or organic in that way, even if I end up a hermit in the woods. The fact is, I don’t care if no one but my Donkey sees me, I want to look nice. After all, I’m still me, just in another place doing new things.


We went tubing the other day, and I apologized to Mark that I was going without taking a shower first or putting on make-up. He rolled his eyes and said, “Are you kidding. It’s tubing. I’d think you were weirdo if you came looking any different than this. No one is going to see you anyway.”
He often says things like this, making fun of me because I’ll be out in a pasture shoveling dung with pretty jewelry on, but I always think, YOU see me, you big boob. That counts. I was relieved when Diane showed up with her hair all frizzy sticking up out of a headband. In Georgia, every day is a good hair day for lucky me. That counts for something when all the other feminine elements have passed the “mystic” phase and gone on to “mysteriously missing”.


I have considered taking a few more pottery classes to refine my basic skills. I sometimes imagine getting a wheel and perhaps building an outdoor brick firing kiln. We certainly have the space and I adore hand thrown pots and the remarkable possibilities of clay. But honestly, the thing about learning pottery that was difficult for me was taking off my nails. My fingertips felt raw and they hurt with the constant pressure of spinning clay against the bare fingertips. My acrylic nails are not just for looks, they are a strong protectant (and they are good for prying stickers off of things or opening flip top cans). Besides which, I just don’t feel pretty without nice hands. Pretty is as pretty feels. I’ll conveniently avoid the question, How pretty are nails when they are rimmed in black, stained blue, or they have been broken by feed bags, saddles and cages?
Pretty enough for me, apparently.


I am on my way to teach Kathy this morning. We haven’t had a lesson in three weeks due to my graduation. I’m looking forward to seeing her and catching up. I bought her a Boston shirt and a few new workbooks. She was invited to lecture in the jail last week, and I can’t wait to hear how that went. Seeing her progress, watching her life improve, always gives me a jolt of joy. I’ll run my grubby little fingers along the pages of a book and listen to her faltering recitation of the lines with true pleasure.


It will be a symbolic reminder of a simple truth – You can’t wait for someone else to get a job done if it is important to you. Sometimes it is best to just dive in, get your hands dirty, and do what has to be done.  That is how you make a difference in the world. For you and for others.

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The bounty at home

Posted on July 7, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

The day we got home from Boston, we didn’t pull into the driveway until 10PM. Too late to have a look see around the homestead. As I’ve mentioned before, every time I leave home, something dies, and in this case, Denver had already told me one of the ducks went mysteriously missing the second day we were away. I suppose a opossum got ’em. Denver was diligent about protecting the others however, and I was happy to see all five remaining ducks in the headlights of my car as I passed by coming home.  


At 6am the next morning, while Mark was happily snoring, I popped out of bed to visit my much missed animals and to check out how things fared in our absence. It was a rather exciting walk. First, I went to say hello to the ducks and to determine which one was gone. They had completely feathered out now, and looked like entirely new creatures. They have black heads and a white ring around their neck.  Their bodies are beautifully decorated, looking not unlike leopards. Their voices have all dropped and they have this raspy quack in place of the former peeping. Cool.


I next went to visit the chickens. I didn’t think to tell Denver to look for eggs, because my one surviving egg-layer is sitting on some eggs now. But my other eleven chickens are expected to begin laying any day now. Every day I check with anticipation to see if anyone new is laying. I went into the chicken house, and don’t ya know, I find 8 eggs – and THEY ARE GREEN. They are super green, like in “green eggs and ham” green. I am  beside myself with glee, both because it means that after months of raising these chickens my egg avalanche is now on it’s way, and because I am fascinated by the color of these eggs. When Easter comes, I won’t even have to dye this lot. They are gorgeous. I can figure out who is laying by the color of the prize in the nest- several of the chickens lay white eggs, others lay brown. The green egg layers are Ariel, Oreo and Casper. Finally, they are doing their job. Good girls!


The problem was, I didn’t know how long those eggs had been there, considering how busy I was the days before I left. So, I brought them back to the house and told Neva we could put them in the incubator if she wanted. That is where they are now, cooking for the next 21 days and then we will see what hatches. Once we get some birds, depending on if they are red or black or white, I’ll have a good idea of just who the mother is. The next day, I collected some fresh green eggs for breakfast. For the record, green eggs taste exactly like white ones, only I consider them even better because I have personal knowledge of a home grown egg’s higher health quality and I am partial to the shell color. 


Next, I took a spin on the four wheeler through the garden. It is overrun by weeds. Eeek. But, there on the ground was something huge. I thought, “Gee, is that a zucchini or is that plant happy to see me?’ Sure enough, there was our first homegrown vegetable. It was 14 inches long (not that size counts – but hey, what girl isn’t impressed with something that prominent poking out at ya?) I also picked up a yellow squash, a more normal sized zucchini and some banana peppers and zipped home to show Mark. He wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was, insisting lots of zucchini come that big. Well, none I’ve seen in the market. I don’t care what he says, I think this big veg is special. 


I know lots of people garden, but this is a first for me and gosh, but I was delighted to be outside picking the bounty of the earth in my own backyard. I couldn’t help but prance around doing the “I grew a veggie” dance. Then I sat down at my computer to visit epicurious.com and spent a half hour looking at the 271 zucchini recipes available. I ended up putting my first round of produce into a veggie chili that day – dieting, don’t ya know.  But it felt as if that chili was rather special due to the origin of the contents. I suppose people who grow things all the time would laugh at my romanticism over this normal phenomenon, but honestly, it is remarkable to be intimately involved with the production of your food source. Makes you feel connected to the earth.

(The eggs don’t look nearly as green lying on the oversized red plate  beside the green zucchini, but they are. Furthermore, my veggies don’t look nearly as big as they look in real life – but try to consider them in relation to the eggs. Whatever – trust me, this may not look spectacular, BUT IT IS.) 


Next, I gave a carrot to the horses, patted donkey on the nose, said hello to the angoras,  and went to visit the peacock. He is looking bigger – splendid actually – but I must say his chicken buddy is outgrowing him. For all that peacock eggs are bigger than other eggs, the actual bird that results is rather delicate. My ducks and chickens are all more robust and remain faster growing. Ah well, sometimes a masterpiece takes time to grow into itself. But Early does spread his tail, which looks somewhat like a hand spread out behind him, a hint of what’s to come. I can’t tell you how much I adore this bird.


All things were in order, so I stole off to pick some blackberries. I’ve discovered it takes 30 pounds of blackberries for one batch of wine. Eee-gad, that is a lot more than required for cobbler or jam. I laugh when I think of how people living in areas without wild blackberries must pay 3.00 for ¼ pound.  I once did. That would be an expensive wine! Feeling gratitude for the massive free fruit available to me, I spent the day picking. First I went alone. Then I convinced Neva to join me, and in the afternoon I even talked Kent and Mark into offering a hand. You can bet my fingertips will be blue all month. I won’t stop until the berries are gone and the larder is full.


I am in cooking mode now, sort of as if I want to celebrate my liberty from school in the kitchen. I made pickles today for the first time from a bunch of cucumbers I bought at the farmer’s market. I’ve decided that I don’t have to wait until my garden is thriving – especially since I’m not sure everything we planted will grow. Why not just pick up the local produce from my neighbors and support small American farms and help fight global warming by cutting back on the fuel use required to ship produce from California just so we can get it out of season? (Soapbox from my current read, don’t ya know.) Pickles are so easy to make I can’t help but wonder why I’ve never tried it before. I got rather excited looking at various recipes.


I called out to Mark, “Hey honey, want to try picked watermelon rind? I can make that, ya know. This book explains how, and I have a watermelon in the fridge as we speak.”
“I don’t like watermelon rind,” he said.
“Even if it is pickled?”
“ESPECIALLY if it is pickled.”
“When have you tried it?” 
“I haven’t tried it. But I know I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea of it. Don’t go there, please. Stick with pickles.”
“You can’t say you don’t like something if you never tried it.”
“I can. I just did. I won’t try it. But I do like pickles. Make lots of pickles. Go pickle crazy, I’ll keep up.”


Well, so much for counting on your spouse to be a palate guinea pig. Just goes to show that love has its limits.


After browsing my new preserving cook book, I’ve found about a dozen things I want to pickle – none of which I will probably like or have ever had a hankering to try. But I can’t resist the recipes, because they are all so unusual. Like garlic dill carrots. Or pickled beets. I hate beets. But that doesn’t mean I can’t play with them.  I think I will pickle some beets when they go in season and force feed them on unsuspecting family members.


I am making several batches of wine this week and some jam. I’m producing gourmet (diet) dinners, and my kitchen counter is filled with whole grain baked bread and muffins. Someone slap me –  I can’t stop cooking. I think it is the influence of this remarkable book I’m reading, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Makes me want to celebrate locally grown foods and the bounty of the season. Makes me proud to be a cook in a world where people are slowly moving towards convenience foods too. Great book. A real eye opener. Kind of unnerving, however, because you see yourself in all the unbecoming descriptions of how people unwittingly harm the earth today.


Anyway, I’m happy to be home. Happy to be in the kitchen. Happy to be experimenting with new cooking techniques, flavors and food concepts. If it’s something I’ve never made it before, all the better. Discovery is fun.


Amazing what great adventures can be had without having to leave your own kitchen.  


  


 

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Water wit

Posted on June 25, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

When you make homemade wine, you must use bottled water to assure there is no bacteria or chemical in the base fluid, or it might ruin the batch as it ferments.
So, the other day while we were at Walmart, I decided to pick up a bunch of water for my winemaking escapades. They sell water in big 5 gallon  or 2 1/2 jugs.

I filled my cart with as much water as it could hold, about 8 of the huge jugs and pushed it to the checkout. Mark and Kent were there waiting for me with the things they had picked up in the store.

Kent looked at my cart and said, “Heck Mom, what do you need all that water for? Are you going to start giving bottled water to your chickens or something?”

“Of course. And I’ve decided only to give perrier to my peacock,” I said with a lifted eyebrow.

“Well, it’s a lot of water,” Kent said.

I patted the plastic jugs. “You see, son. I am going to turn this water into wine.”

Mark grinned. “I happen to know someone who got really famous doing just that.” he said.
And he and Kent laughed, and slapped eachother five. “Good one, dad.”

I’m so glad my interests are such a source of such amusement for this family.

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