Category Archives: Daily News

Mark had to fly to Sarasota last night (without notice) to handle some very difficult, uncomfortable business. As many of you know by now, today the doors to our former school have closed for good. Eviction has finally taken place and foreclosure on the business is soon to follow. It has been a miserable two years for us, filled with heartache and headaches. We have flown to Sarasota nine times since December in effort to help the school, re-negotiate terms to help the new owners through the hard times, and to handle legal issues (once it became clear that the fate of FLEX was something we couldn’t fix.) We are so tired of feeling badly about things we can’t control.  We tried to hold off taking action(at our own detriment and personal expense) so they could have their recital, but when the new owners took the issue to bankruptcy court, they suddenly had to answer to a higher court – to a judge. Now, there can be no more lienency for broken promises or avoiding responsibilities. 

They are only one week from their recital, so they can still have their show if they are as prepared as they should be at this point in the season. As for the dancers, well, we sold the building over a month ago to a former student, and there will be a new, fantastic dance school, patterned off ours, come fall. In respect to FLEX and their efforts to hold on until the end, we chose not to make this announcement, but now I think it is time. (I’ll write about the exciting details tomorrow, but in the meantime, go visit www.SRQdance.com for a sneak peak.)  

But that is not what I am writing about at this time. The point is, I’ve been feeling really low all day. I can work up anger or disappointment, but mostly what I feel is intense sadness. It is compounded by the fact that one of us is here taking care of family responsibilities (with no notice to prepare to leave, I had no choice but to stay) and the other one is down there dealing with the grueling, poignantly sad, task of packing up our past alone. It is a very difficult time to be apart.

But just now, Neva came in and said, “Mom, there is some huge bug in the garage. It is buzzing, and flying around really fast.  But, I’m thinking it may be a hummingbird. Only I’ve never seen one up close. Can you come look?”
Sure enough, a hummingbird was trapped, battering it’s tiny body against the glass door. So I carefully cupped my hands around it and softly lowered it into Neva’s hands. Then, I took a picture for her. This is how small a hummingbird is. Remember, this is in little Neva’s petite hands. . .

 
We only held it for a few moments, then we let it go. Neva marveled at how light it was, how delicate and small. She said, “It is like holding a puff of air.”
I explained that sometimes, the best thing you can do for something very special is to let it go.

I need to remember that today.

Some days, I wonder what the hell I am doing in my life. Like today.
I’ll see a horseshoe lying on the ground, and smile. I think, Gee Whiz. Look. It’s my lucky day.


Then I pause and wonder which horse threw the shoe. Horse one and two look great. The baby doesn’t wear shoes so I don’t bother to worry about her. Then I see it.


Goliath not only lost a shoe, he has torn half his hoof apart. And I panic because I don’t know what this means. Is this a sign of poor horse care? Is it a result of bad nutrition? Is it because I haven’t used hoof oil for awhile? Could it be punishment for having a mucky pasture? I know some horses get Lamitis, where the hoof pulls away from the leg and the animal has to be put to sleep. Does this mean my horse is going lame? Is he already lame? I rack my brain. He did have an odd gate last time I rode him. Did I push, insensitive to his growing discomfort, so that now he is in full-out pain? How long will it take to heal? Where do I start? Or is this normal, perhaps? I am a newbie at all this. I just don’t know when to worry and when to take things with a grain of salt.

He seems OK, behavoirwise. Yet still, I will worry about him all night until I have a better understanding of why his foot looks like this. Our horses have thrown shoes before, but it never looks like this. 

I will call the farrier and get him out pronto. Chris will explain what is going on and alleviate my fears. I will learn something. But that doesn’t mean these lessons are not fraught with discomfort, worry and frustration over my inadequacies. Discovery is exciting, but I also know a lack of knowledge can result in damage for others. I fret about that kind of thing – about my moral and humane responsibility as I take on new adventures.

This is my baby horse, April. She is now one year old. (Sorry for the bad Pix. You try holding a camera out for a blind shot and getting your face and a big ole horse in the frame – it is harder than it looks.)
  
This is her mother, Dixie.

Denver says it figures I’d pick Dixie for a horse because our hair matches so well, and it is so like me to want to be well coordinated. Ha.
Actually, the fact that we match is the best thing I can say about this horse. It seemed like a good idea to buy her in the beginning, because we had all this land and the fellow who set up our fencing had a horse for sale. Dixie was pregnant, and all I thought was how lovely it would be to see a baby horse being born. It took about 30 seconds for me to shout SOLD! But after the baby was born, we learned this horse wasn’t very good for riding, because she is not well trained. I am the only person who can manage her (And Kent on a good day.) And in the end, it costs the same to keep a poorly trained horse as a good one. Of course, I didn’t think about that in the beginning.
We could train Dixie. I’m learning how to do this in the horse clinics. But really it takes more effort and time than I am willing to commit. I want horses for pleasure riding, and if I have to devote hours and hours struggling with an animal just to make her follow basic commands, it becomes more of a chore than a joy. As result, I think we should sell her. We have too many horses as it is. Four? Frankly, we only need two. Any more is too much to feed and worm and shoe. We never saddle up all three riding horses, even when we have a handful of friends sitting around the campfire and we all decide to ride. It seems two people go out together most of the time and people take turns. At home it is usually just Neva and I riding. As result, I am burdened with this feeling that I have to go out there everyday, riding one horse after another to keep them in shape. Everything – grooming, washing, caring – it is all a huge ordeal due to the number of animals to attend to. It is too much for one person to take on. Mark is busy with his interests and Neva is still too small to be much help. With one or two horses, it would be easy to keep them trained and I’d be able to fuss over them for fun.   But four is a trial.

Unfortunately,  every time I mention selling Dixie, Neva has a fit. And we can’t sell the baby until she is old enough to be of use (can’t saddle break a horse until they are two, and they are not good for riding till they are three.) We could practically give her away, because there are people who buy young horses because they are inexpensive, but I feel badly, as if she deserves to live in her birth place. And occasionally, people buy young horses for a song only planning to sell them for meat and you can imagine how I’d feel about that. Then, there is the fact that I still feel drawn to the challenge of learning to train her from the beginning. It would be a great opportunity to develop skill in horsemanship. So, I am not finished with this baby yet – even though she does require work and expense..

The point is, I should have thought all our horse acquisitions out better from the start, but we sort of accumulated these animals as we went. We were shooting from the hip – carried away with enthusiasm for our country life. I hate when I do that. I prefer to think through things, looking forward, and making more practical, educated decisions. It is far more trouble to un-do a mistake than to go slow and avoid making them from the beginning. Lot of good it does to acknowledge that now.

Our best and brightest horse is Peppy. I fell in love with this animal the moment I saw him. We were shopping for another horse. Nevertheless, I saw Peppy and knew he was just what we needed, so I begged Mark to purchase him when at the same time we bought Goliath. Now, I wish I had used this kind of instinct on every animal. We should have two of Peppy. Period. I simply didn’t know better back then.

Two horses would meet our needs and make it easier to afford having horses in general. Not like horses are our only interest. If you want to kayak and hike, to make wine and spin wool, to travel and keep bees and write books, well, drowning in horses just isn’t a bright idea. The problem is, these animals are so much a part of the family now, letting a few of them go is a hard decision to put into action.

This is Peppy, with his happy rider. I adore this animal above all others in our family. He is worth all the work, effort and expense. He is safe, personal, and a joy in every way. And look at the smile on Neva’s face. Priceless! 
. 

But I started this blog talking about doubt.
Horse are not the only thing that make me wonder what the hell I am doing.
Let’s talk eggs.
I can’t figure out how my peacock came so early. I checked my calender. None of my peacock eggs are due to begin hatching until May 29th.  Ducks take a week less to develop, and my duck eggs arrived two days after my peacocks in the mail, so they go a later start on the entire incubation process. Yet one peacock hatched before the ducks. “Early” came almost two weeks early. That is impossible. That means he isn’t just a preemie. It is downright impossible to form a fully functioning fowl in half the time nature predicts – even if you do turn up the heat to hurry the process a tiny bit. The only answer would be that&nbs
p;this egg began incubating before it arrived at my house. But that means it survived being packed and mailed from St. Louis, and standing at room temperature for hours at my house before being settled into the warm incubator. And technically, eggs can’t develop under those conditions, and stopping incubation or heat etc… during the process will kill an embryo. 
How did this bird survive? I have no idea. Drives me crazy trying to figure it out. 
Meanwhile, I have five peacock eggs that still seem active in the incubator (they have weight and they roll back into position when I turn them, as if a bird is inside setting into position to break free.) So when they hatch (IF they hatch) I’ll have birds born a week or more apart. This means I can’t put them together right away or Early will harm the others. What a drag. But in a few weeks, they will catch up and become cage buddies.
Wish I knew what my early bird is all about. He sure is cute, and so hyper there’s no doubt that he certainly is healthy. He is like the bionic peacock or something. Amazing.

I asked donkey what he thought about all this. He just stared at me drolly as if to say, “Who cares? I am your soul-mate and the rest of these animals are just taking up space. Forget them. It should be just you and me, Kid.” Lord, some days, I think he is right.

My confusion today wasn’t confined to birds and horses. Lets add bees. A few days ago, an Indian brought me my bees and helped me set up my hive. He has over 250 hives and has been raising bees since 1974. Nice man. He also makes native American fine crafts that he sells in shows and at festivals. (I told him I’d like to see his work for our potential coffee-shop/gallery next season – but that is a different subject).  Anyway, I set up the hive-top feeder with sugar water to settle the bees as you are supposed to do when a new swarm arrives. I am not supposed to check them for ten days, which is killing me because I am so curious. But, despite my desire to mess with the bugs, I am employing discipline. I do go up everyday to watch the workers fly in and out of the hive to know they are busy settling in. I did decide to check the feeder to see if I gave them enough starter syrup. Inside, I see a million tiny ants sucking up the syrup. Now, I wonder if ants will get into the hive. Will the bees kill them if they dare go beyond the feeder? If ants get into the honey it would be ruined? But then again, if ants could invade honey comb, wouldn’t every bee hive be overrun with ants since all these hives are nestled in open fields? 
Another dilemma. Should I worry about ants in my honey? I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. We didn’t discuss ants in the class. So, tonight I’ll look up ants in my bee book. If the answer isn’t there, I’ll call the Indian. 
Another something to ponder and snort about. It never ends.

The thing is, for all that jumping into new experiences is filled with wonder and excitement, it is nerve wracking too. 
I guess that is what makes life a constant thrill ride. It is a roller coaster, like it or not. Unfortunately, I’m a gal who gets motion sick. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to get off a good ride. I’ll just squeeze my eyes shut and hope the swoops and dives don’t ruin the experience.  And I’ll wait eagerly to see where the coaster lets me off as my journey continues. 
     

I hurt my hand this weekend. It was my own fault. I was horseback riding with Neva, and because she hasn’t been on a horse in a few months, (winter and FLEX issues got in the way of our riding time) we decided to stay in the horse ring. Neva is still somewhat nervous on the horses. She is a daredevil around animals, but ON them is another issue. I guess it is a long way down when you are only 4 feet tall, and she is vividly aware that they are stronger than her and posses a definite will of their own. She is nervous because she’s smart. She knows animals well enough to know that unlike machines or computerized toys, they have moods, attitudes, and fears, all of which can be the root of unpredictable behaviors.

It is very important to me that my daughter gains confidence and learns to control her mount well (for safety reasons and so nothing hinders her love of riding) so I watch her like a hawk, giving advice and encouragement and trying to teach her the basics of mastering a horse. I want her to feel connected and comfortable now, while she is young and impressionable. How a person is introduced to a subject often is paramount to their long-term appreciation. If you teach a person to love something from the get-go, let them experience the joy, they will embrace the frustrations and/or painful elements that are a part of the package later. A person is less likely to quit an activity the first time something hurts or they’re disappointed if a solid love for the subject has already been implanted. At least, this was my belief in regards to teaching dance, and I think the principal applies to everything. (Dance is, after all, my metaphor for life.) If you teach youngsters to love something first, the discipline required to excel will be embraced willingly when it’s time to get serious.

Suffice to say that while my eyes were on her, my horse spooked and lunged to the side, catching me off guard. Obviously, while in the ring (a controlled environment) I’m not expecting anything to happen, so I was in a relaxed, unaware state. I wasn’t unseated by the sudden bucking, but taking control meant the reigns jerked my hand in an odd way and this somehow pulled the tendons in my palm. (Do I have tendons in my palm? Well, something muscular in my hand was strained. Nothing broke, but man-o-man, did my hand hurt. ) It was a freak, painful, totally uneventful accident, which left me with a bum hand. My hand felt fine when straight, but I couldn’t grip anything or close my fingers. Moreover, typing was uncomfortable, so I had to keep that to a minimum, which always makes me feel isolated and out of sorts.

While a sore hand isn’t serious, the injury did have serious repercussions. For example, because of my injured hand, I had two bad hair days. Oh the trauma of it all….
I couldn’t hold my blow dryer, so I just let my hair go au natural, which means I didn’t have my usual Break-girl, luscious locks, swirling about my shoulders in soft curls. Nope. It was more a frizzy, haphazard do with that “just rolled out of bed” look. It was a hardship, I tell you. More for Mark than me. He’s the one that had to look at me.

Then, there was the cooking delimma. I couldn’t hold a knife to cut vegetables and such. I couldn’t bang on my chopper. When I made turkey soup, it was a bit more chunky than I wanted. My homemade stuffing lacked the fine detail of well-diced  celery and onion. My English Trifle came out perfect (no-brainer) but that didn’t appease my frustration, considering I had to serve sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes in a simple way. 
Not that anyone really cared but me. I had invited Denver and her boyfriend over for dinner. I said, “It won’t be anything special. My hand hurts so I’m just throwing a turkey in the oven.”
Later, Denver looked at my spread, nudged her boyfriend, and said, “See honey, nothing special. Just a Thanksgiving dinner in April. That’s my mom’s idea of nothing special.” (I have no idea where that girl got her sarcasm. Ahem.)

The next day, my hand was slightly better. It was pie day at the Hendrys. What is pie day, you might ask? Well, that is just one of those things that happens to someone like me. Call it a fluke thematic moment. Must be fallout from years of recital madness.

Because my hand hurt, I had planned to make spaghetti. However, I thought Kent was acting out of sorts, so I changed the menu to homemade potpie, his favorite.  I knew that would put a spring in his step. Always does.

Bravely facing the pain, stoically, I cut up the vegetables and sautéed the chicken, cooking everything in a thick, hearty sauce. It would be easier to make a few big pies that you just dish servings out of, but I like to make everyone an independent pie all their own because it is pretty and offers more flakey crust. I was expecting Denver and Eric (her boyfriend), Sonia (mother in law) Dianne (sister in law), and my still-at-home family for the meal. That made eight – LOTS of independent pies to assemble. I decorated the top of each with something to denote whom it was for. I used my fork to put a person’s initials, a heart, or a happy face on each pie. I am really queer that way. Presentation is half the fun of cooking.

Pot Pie is sort of an all-inclusive meal, considering the meat, veggies, crust and potatoes are wrapped into one pretty package. I thought a salad, some fruit, the leftover stuffing and voila! Instant dinner. However, I needed to make dessert. I ALWAYS make dessert. It is my experimental area and the meal would seem incomplete without a grand finale.

I saw a recipe for Banana  Meringue pie in a cooking magazine and it looked rather dynamic. I thought it would be fun to give it a go, and I had bananas, so I made the crust from crushed vanilla wafers, whipped up the sauce on the stove top,  and put the thing together. Actually, I’ve never made a pie with a meringue topping before, so I was looking forward to this part. I whipped up the egg whites piled it on top of my layered pie filling in a pretty way and popped the shebang into the oven. When it came out, I was flabbergasted.   It was so pretty. It was TOO pretty. Because I knew this was going to go over big, and with eight guests, I may not have enough pie to go around. This certainly wouldn’t do. But I hate to make two of the same thing, because that isn’t any fun. I like making new things. It’s simply more interesting.

I determined that I needed to make another dessert, but I couldn’t go with something too different, like Mocha brownies, because then people would suffer over making a choice. It was too much like offering apples and oranges. Easier to say, “Do you want a Macintosh or Granny Smith?” Then, the choice is easier. Beside which, my family might feel inclined to have both desserts if they are widely different, and then they’d yell at me for making them fat. No, it would be better if I made something similar, yet slightly different, so the options were not so varied. Since the Meringue was so pretty and I was feeling quite accomplished at it’s success, I made a lemon meringue pie too. This required a basic piecrust, not unlike the potpies, (and now I feared piecrust overkill) but I decided, heck, why not? It so happens, my recipe makes enough dough for two pies, and since this was a one-crust pie, I had extra. So, I cooked two crusts, thinking it would be wrong to waste a second pie shell after the work of blending it was done .

The lemon meringue pie was even prettier than the banana pie. I was dancing around the kitchen singing “Go Me, Go Me!  Martha Stewart, Julia Child, Rachael Ray – you are all amateurs compared to me!” (I am a humble cook, as you can see.)

But that third crust stood there, taunting me, challenging my creativity. I had lemon, I had banana. I had an empty piecrust calling my name. It was time for Chocolate! 

So, I made a chocolate Meringue pie. I could have, should have, varied the fare a bit, and made it a French silk pie or something, but I was on a meringue roll. Besides which, there are practically no calories in meringue and I knew this would keep me from getting in trouble for offering all these fine desserts to a family that is always complaining about their weight.

That night, everyone gathered for dinner. Mark took one look at my three perfect pies, chuckled and said, “We have to open that coffee shop. People will flip when they see desserts like this, and, um . .  how else can we unload this much cooking when you go off on a tangent.”  
“Shut up. It’s not a tangent. We are having a taste test tonight,” I explained, as if this was logic that shouldn’t have to be pointed out.
“What’s with all the pies.” Denver said. “Pot Pie, Dessert Pies? I sense a deeper purpose.”
“It is national pie day. How could you have forgotten such an important occasion? I’m only showing my patriotic commitment to pie consuming. I’m ashamed any daughter of mine hasn’t done something to recognize the day.”
“Oh yeah, national pie day. My bad.”

So, we gorged. My hand still hurt so I could barely hold my fork, but I rarely enjoy eating what I make, so that wasn’t a big deal. I think it has something to do with all the taste testing in the kitchen.  I sipped wine (holding the glass awkwardly) and tried to read meaning into every subtle facial expression, looking for validation as a cook in the taste bud reactions of those at the table. I do that. It’s stupid. Not like, they aren’t going to voice their opinions, for or against, any new dish I serve.

Today, I have a refrigerator filled with half eaten pies. I will no doubt throw them out tomorrow. That’s OK, because I have a hankering to try this Raspberry lemonade cake recipe I saw last night in another cooking magazine . I’m convinced I can make that puppy sugar free without anyone noticing. Love a challenge.

Speaking of a challenge . . ahem . . pies may not be the only thing I’m cooking here in Georgia. I just may be hard-boiling a bunch of peacock eggs as we speak. My damn incubator keeps inching up the temperature. If you let it go over 103 degrees, you can actually slow cook your eggs rather than incubate them, so every time I go down to turn them I’m screaming “eek” and turning the dang thing down. It has definitely soared a bit beyond the danger mark, I fear. I read that as the birds develop, their body heat can cause the temperature to rise. That is promising, considering it means they are growing, IF I haven’t cooked my goose (or in this case, my ducks and peacocks). Oh my, the weight of responsibility in this endeavor is daunting.
Neva doesn’t seem bothered. She says, “Well, if they die, we’ll just start over with more eggs.”
I guess that means we won’t be staging any dramatic funeral service for the unhatched fowl. That, at least, is a relief. Nevertheless, I go down to check more often than I should, concerned that I am not serving my roll as mother hen very well. What can I say,  I get motion sickness, ya know. The learning curve sometimes leaves me queasy.

My hand is aching again. I must stop typing.
Hope everyone had a wondering national pie day, and they are planning good things for national raspberry lemonade cake day tomorrow (to be served with lemonade and lemon chicken, of course).

Make life an event!

I want to write an official “thank you” to those who sponsored me for the 3 day, 60-mile breast cancer walk. I also need to voice an apology. I should write everyone a personal thank you, but as yet, I haven’t. The fact is, I’ve been feeling low over all the FLEX business (the new owners went bankrupt yesterday –I can say that because it is in the papers along with the eviction notification – so anyone who wants information can get it through public notices, it’s no secret). And when I am feeling low, I tend to distance myself and become non-interactive. I don’t feel social.

One ex-student and friend wrote me to say he was worried that I might be mad because I haven’t written. Not mad. Sad. Big difference. Every once in a while, I muster up some energy and write something for the blog, like my peacock entry, hoping to focus on the good things in my life and wanting to make my friends smile. I probably come across as flippant or as if I don’t care about what is going on back in Sarasota, but it is just that my dance interests and my backcountry adventures are unrelated issues. I work hard to keep it that way. And just because I am depressed doesn’t mean I want to moan about it in my blog. And then, there is the fact that I am considered a “hot-head” and Mark and my Dad say I “go off” in an instant over the dance school thing. Considering that, it is wiser not to air my thoughts without censorship. I don’t come to the keyboard when agitated. Ha. That explains all those weeks I don’t post.

While I’m on this subject, I want to mention that a few people have sent responses to my blog and I don’t post them. They think this is a sign that I am angry or disapproving. But it’s not. I simply won’t post responses that talk about FLEX or our ex-employee’s new school because I don’t want this blog to be a forum for dance debate. And I don’t want people to come here to grandstand or thinking they need to publicly validate their friendship to us or announce their feelings about others, negative or positive. I simply don’t want to invite these types of discussions here. But I do read your messages, and often, I am very touched. I like to think these comments are written to me, not to the world, and in that case, let me assure you friends, that I appreciate your responses even if I don’t post them.

Now, as for thank you’s – I have to tell everyone that when I moved, I thought I had made a hardcopy of my address list from my old e-mail account, but it was somehow misplaced. When I got my new e-mail account set up and running, I was stunned to see I lost all information formerly saved on the old one. A serious mishap considering my MFA contacts were on that list as well as a way to keep in touch with wonderful friends. Since December, I haven’t had a single friend’s address, unless they’ve written me and I was mindful enough to save the address. I only have about eight addresses in my address book now. Oops. I haven’t been writing anyone for the last 6 months(for various reasons from mood and MFA work overload, to wanting to keep business information private – it is awkward and unnatural for us to censor our conversations with friends.)

Anyway, now that I have an occasion to send a message to privately write and thank friends who gave support , I can’t. (So, George, my dear friend from middle school, who lives in a tree house and grows peppers and is a world winning barbeque king – well, I couldn’t write to thank you even if I wanted to.  So this is my official public thank you. Leave it to you to be the first to donate, and to be so generous it makes my eyebrows pop. Ha, you always had to be the best! If it makes you feel better, I do feel very guilty at this no-address discovery because it shows how lax a friend I’ve been and how long it’s been since I’ve sent a letter. My-bad.)  I am slowly gaining the addresses of past students and friends who occasionally write to keep in touch. If you are one of those friends who are offended that I never drop you a line, don’t take it personally. Just take the first step remembering how forgetful I can be– Vhendry@etcmail.com.

OK, that is my “thank you” and my friendship disclaimer.

Now, on to daily news.
Kathy and I were on TV on Friday night. She looked amazing. It was a lovely interview. I have a huge nose. I am convinced no one watching could possibly pay attention to what we were saying because they must have been focused on my snozzle thinking, “How does she keep her head up with something so big stuck in the middle of her face?” Mark say’s I’m an idiot. Well, that may be true, but then, I am an idiot with a huge nose.

I bought my bee suit today. I didn’t know what size to get. I asked Mark his opinion, saying,” I just want it to be big enough for anyone who might want to use it.”
Mark looks at me as if I’m crazy and says, “Ginny, there isn’t a soul around who is going to be putting on that suit to go visit your bees without you. It doesn’t have to fit anyone but you, trust me. Buy your size and leave it at that.”
I tested that theory. I said, “Hey Neva, they have children sized suits. Would you like to get one so you can visit the bees with me? You’d be protected.”
She looked at me crossed eyed and said, “No way. I’ll NEVER want to go near the bees.”
“Aren’t you even interested to see what they look like up close?”
“No!”
OK, no takers. Not even my nature-loving partner in animal crime. So I bought the suit in my size. So much for sharing the fun. Ah, it is lonely being Eve when Adam is afraid of bugs.

Mark has been back and forth between Florida and here for almost a month now. He was home for a few days last week.  While planting, he got stung by a wasp. He shrieked and pulled his hand back and glared at me.
I threw up my hands and said, “I’m innocent. I haven’t brung home a single baby bumble bee, yet!”
“It was a wasp,” he said, as if I somehow conjured the creature up just by thinking about bees.
“Bad wasp!” I yelled. Gallantly, I killed it for him. Squashed it with my shoe like the daredevil I am. The fact is, wasps attack beehives. I will gladly join his I hate wasps club.

I now have a ten-hive beekeepers starter kit, a smoker, a bee suit, and all the trappings of bee rearing. No bees yet. Soon, I will seek out my queen and lots of boisterous boys to attend to her. Lucky queen.  I have a nifty honey grader to check the quality of my honey, a birthday gift from Mom. All I need now is a bear siren to scare off marauders. Unfortunately, we’ve determined that will be a necessity. Mark made arrangements to buy a gun from a friend. He is using the fact that I am placing beehive bear bait in the backyard as an excuse to arm the family. I better watch my step now, because if I annoy him too much he might shoot me accidentally on purpose. I’m told we will be going out together with Ronnie for a shooting lesson. I have no idea how I feel about that.

My peacock eggs arrive tomorrow. Fun.
Mark comes home from Florida tomorrow too. Relief.
I checked the post office today to see if my eggs arrived early. There was no slip in my PO box, so I went in just in case to ask if I had gotten a package. I told Vicki, the postmaster, that I was expecting eggs.
She said, “I have eggs here today, but they aren’t yours.”
I thought that fascinating. Someone else is the neighborhood is buying fertilized eggs for incubation? I told her I was expecting peacock eggs and asked what kind she was holding for the other person. She told me it was quail eggs.
Hey, quail was my other consideration! I’m so jealous.
The idea that a package of eggs was back there (not mine) made me grin. The fact is, I feel as if I am trying unusual and unique things nowadays, but to be perfectly frank, my interests are common – nothing I do is unique around this neck of the woods. The funny thing is, when a friend went downstairs into our workout room and saw all our dance pictures, he whistled under his breath and said, “Wow, I’ve never known anyone who could do that. It’s remarkable.”
And I thought, “Heck, Everyone I know can do that. . . but I haven’t a single friend that can milk a cow or trap a raccoon the way you can. Now, that is an interesting talent.”
Just goes to show that nothing we do is really original except when it sits in contrast to the world around us. “Normal” is a relative term. Anyway, what counts is that my interests, while mundane and common around here, are interesting to little former-dancer-New Yorker-suburban me. I am having fun seeing life from a new perspective. My only regret is that life is so short I’ll never have time to experience all the grand diversity that’s out there. But I’m determined to see and do what I can with my time from here on.

When I told my mother about my peacock eggs, she sighed on the phone and said, “You’ve always had to do everything firsthand.”
I don’t think that is true. I always enjoyed reading about lots of things, but I don’t think of myself as someone who jumps in to try everything. Some things. But not everything. For example, I’m 48 and I’ve never mowed a lawn. I’ve had lawns and a lawn mower but I never felt inclined to crank the machine up to try it myself. I don’t know how to use power tools or jump-start my car. There are lots of things I’ve never bothered to try.
But she said, “Even when you were a kid, you were always doing – wanting to learn for yourself what something was really like. I taught you to sew, but the next thing you know, you were learning to quilt, embroider, tat lace, knit, crochet and everything else connected. You dive headfirst into something that intrigues you.”
I was surprised to hear myself described that way, but maybe there is some truth to it.
I don’t know if this is a new element of my personality or a latent one I have unleashed in a midlife crisis explosion, but I am in a state of doing now.
After years of wanting – doing feels good.
Enough about that.

Some animal grabbed one of my chickens through the bars of the cage and ate it yesterday. I arrived to find an empty feathered carcass with one leg attached pulled halfway through the fence. I took a shovel and discarded it, racking my brain to consider what I should to do to protect the pen from more attacks.
I called Mark in Florida to tell him what had happened.
He said, “Wow, you have really gone country. Remember when you used to cover a dead mouse with an upside down bowl, waiting until I got home to get rid of it because you couldn’t face dealing with anything dead?”
Sure, I remember. Good times.

I walked 7 miles on the treadmill today. Gotta begin training.  I never believed I’d say it, but I love my treadmill. I watch movies while I walk – probably the only time I stay put long enough (and awake) to watch TV. Today I watched, “A very good year.” With Russell Crowe, my new best ever dream fella. Gosh, he’s cute. The movie is about a guy who inherits a wine vineyard. Made my heart go aflutter, I’ll tell you, and not just because of Russell Baby. I went to visit my own grape vines after the movie. They look downright dead. Probably are. Ah well, we can’t all inherit a dream. Some of us must work for years, overcome the learning curve, and wait to grow a dream from scratch. It’s a long haul from my five dead grape vines to a vineyard. But it is fun to imagine. . .

I’ve been reading a great deal. Like a flood when the reading-barrier-damn gives. You might wonder just what a girl will pick when she finally gets a chance to read something that isn’t mandatory for an MFA. Don’t ya know I ended up reading a collection of short stories called “Where Love is Found” -Literary stories – formerly published in America’s leading literary magazine, Glimmer Train.  Literary stories? What the heck!  They ruined me! Brainwashed, I tell ya.

Here I wanted to pick some smutty, casual romance novel with absolutely no merit, lots of sex, a few corny clichés and pages and pages of bad dialogue, but alas, I found myself unable to follow through. I’m reading what turns out to be the best writing ever about human connection, profound and beautiful, all the while thinking about how each story is  constructed. That isn’t brainless entertainment!  What’s happened to me? I’ve evolved as a reader against my will!

Since the concept of my becoming a sophisticated reader is so opposite to my self-definition, I also picked up a memoir written by a columnist who moved from New York to the country. It’s called “It Takes A Village Idiot” and it is filled with wry humor about both New York and rural USA. Since I can relate to both, it makes me laugh. That is better. However, this book makes me consider a memoir of my own and I start thinking about writing again.

I remember how, when I was young, I loved to watch dance. But when I was older, I was always watching it differently, analyzing, critiquing, studying. I guess that is to be expected after you study an art and become involved. You can never be just a spectator again.

I am also reading a book on beekeeping and a collection of thoughtful essays called “If I live to be 100.” These are more in tune with relaxing, but I only read them in small doses, like when I am killing time waiting for appointments or something. For quiet reading, like at night, I keep returning to that literary book. Sad but true.
Nevertheless, freedom of choice is a very inspirational thing. I am enjoying everything I read, grateful for the diverse material in the world and my ability to cross over between interests and genres.

Time to go. I’ve got animals to feed and a house to clean before I can turn to a book to enjoy.

Again, thanks to my friends and sponsors. I’ll think of you today when I walk.

Monday, I sent the first copy of my thesis out to my professor. She will respond in a few weeks, allowing me to make corrections before sending it to my official “reader”. Then I will get that professor’s response and make final adjustments before having it bound and formally turned in. I will plan my public readings from that final copy.

It was an amazing feeling, printing those 150 pages (they don’t want the entire novel, only this exact number of pages) and finally packaging it off. Relief. Concern. Thrill. I understand that the thesis is a formality- just a monstrous assignment designed to establish a certain level of writing proficiency required to graduate, but deep down, we all want to be proud of the material too.

I’m happier with it than I expected. Three days before finishing, I had an epiphany about just what the book needed to make it work. I was so bothered by the fact that I had to kill all the commentary about dance (which I believed drove the action ) that I just couldn’t stop rolling it over in my mind. Then, it came to me. I could change the essays into blogs and write reader responses from other dancers! This would make the book more contemporary in regards to cultural influence and also allow me to keep what I love by introducing fair argument on the dance issues as other dancers put in their two cents in a response format!  And if that isn’t enough to make the idea fester– it ties in my senior seminar (the class I teach the other graduates) because I chose a topic centered on blogs as writer’s aids, and books born of blogs. Now, the entire MFA final project is connected.

Mark has been reading the different versions of my book, and with this last copy he said, “This really makes it all come together. It is more compelling this way. A far better book.” Just goes to show that it is right to follow your instincts, regardless of outside opinion. I had to stay up two days straight to get the entire manuscript rewritten. But I did it.

Dianne and Mark both read my final copy and agreed I have improved as a writer. They liked my early books – but mostly they thought the stories were fun. The writing was average. Now, they say the writing is remarkably professional – ten times better. (Ten times? Gee, I must have sucked before.) They aren’t as jazzed by this literary story as they were by my swashbuckling historical romances, because a literary story is sometimes obscure and moves more slowly. But that response is to be expected. Commercial fiction is entertainment. Literary writing is for quiet contemplation.

I’ve come to believe writing is like dance or any art. Talent is all well and good, but what really makes it come to fruition is training, training, training. I am proud I’ve done what I needed to do to grow and improve. Of course, I still have a long way to go, but you never want to come to the end of learning. It is just nice to know I’m meandering along.  Stumbling a bit, but at least moving forward.

Anyway, my thesis is done. I am happy. I am now going to read a book . . . any book that is NOT literary or a writing craft book. Do you know it has been two years since I read a book just for fun??? Considering for me reading is one of the great pleasures in life, you can imagine how delighted I am with the freedom to choose once again.

I guess everyone imagined I stopped blogging last week because I was neck deep in homework. I wish that had been the case. I had a heck of a time getting my thesis ready by the deadline, because I was called away to Florida the week before the due date. I had counted on this time at home, clearing the week to be immersed in writing. All of a sudden, I had to leave and even though I brought my computer with me, I was too distracted and agitated to work on homework. Needless to say, it had me stressed out on every level.

We were in Florida because my former business is on its last, final gasps as it clings to existence. (We were there for legal issues connected to eviction and possible foreclosure.) Needless to say, it is a messy, poignantly sad, complicated endeavor. Mark is still in Florida and must be there again next week as all this comes to a final conclusion. I could say a great deal about what happened and why, but I don’t think it’s important. As one good friend and former employee said, “It is what it is.” And who knows, there is always the long shot miracle that might reverse things.

I expected to be an emotional wreck, but strangely, I wasn’t. I’ve been grieving over the inevitable FLEX finale for two years now as I’ve watched things go askew from a distance, powerless because it was no longer ours to fix. And during that time, I’ve been through all the classic stages of dealing with death: denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and finally, acceptance. Coming to the final stage is, in a way, a great relief; however, that does not mean I am not deeply saddened by everything. Oddly, I’m not depressed about the school potentially closing, so much as I feel intense empathy for everyone involved. I feel for the students, the staff and even the couple who bought FLEX in hopes that they would make their dreams of being successful entrepreneurs come true. For all that we can make accusations or cast blame in anger, the fact is, everyone is losing here. And any “I told ya so’s” or “Ha, ha, that’s what you get” ‘s is  just ugliness- a residue of disappointment.

It has been an emotionally trying month as we wrestle with what to do in the face of the problems. We have tried to find creative solutions for the new owners. Then, when that wasn’t working, we discussed moving back, but that would not be in our family’s best interest and frankly, what seems like a simple solution is far more complicated than anyone would guess.

Besides which, we just don’t have the heart for it anymore.  So much has transpired to make us see just how volatile and ugly the dance business can be – we have witnessed such spiteful, ego-driven, disrespectful actions in e-mails and other forms of interaction between former students, parents, studio owners and staff. Some of this was targeted at us, some was slung at other people. Either way, my respect for everyone involved has steadily declined. Rather than focusing positive energy on their own aspirations, certain individuals are hell bent on actively hurting FLEX (and the people who, with good intentions, purchased it). These individuals are on some kind of vendetta, lying, spreading rumors, passing damaging information, and doing all kinds of things to stir up problems and cause more distress. They have this David and Goliath delusion-  an attitude that they are bringing the great FLEX down for the righteous cause of dance. Ha. The problems with our former school have nothing to do with a crop of disgruntled patrons leaving and one or two opportunists taking advantage of the school’s financial difficulties. That kind of thing is so common in the dance biz it doesn’t merit attention. It’s the lack of sensitivity, the pettiness, which shocks me. Why be hurtful to people who are obviously going thorough serious personal hardship? Dance is a noble pursuit, but heck, humanity (respect) comes first.

I won’t go into details about the things that have transpired – now or ever. It would be focusing on the negative, and I am not willing to devote any more of my emotional energy on petty dance wars. I have learned there is nothing more precious than stepping back and going to a place where the aggressive edge slips away, because it helps you to see things clearly. What I’ve seen in the wake of our leaving is not admirable, but it sure makes me happy with my choices in life – both those I made as a studio owner and the choice to no longer be one.

As we were driving to Florida, Mark sighed and said, “Guess what today is?”  Then he reminded me that only two years ago to the day, we put our business up for sale. It took eighteen years to build, and about nine months for it to turn south. We were just exploring the possibility when we went into that broker’s office, and five days later the business sold. Our counsel was not wanted, and so we wound up moving to Georgia years before we had expected or planed. Everything happened so fast – we are only now getting our bearings.  “Can you believe so much can happen in such a short time?” Mark said, “Look where we are now. Look at how the people we cared about changed. Look at how different things can be in a snap. Who’d have thought life could take such unexpected twists?”

I keep thinking about that. It’s a good reminder to savor what is good while you have it, and to prepare at all times for potential change. Life can shift in an instant. Be flexible and at all times, remember what really counts.

That is all I want to say about the sad situation at FLEX.

Instead, let me talk for a moment about my current life, sans the emotional upheaval going on in Sarasota.

Today, when I met with Kathy (who is still learning so much, by the way, despite all the missed appointments due to my travel) the local TV station showed up to do interviews of students for a feature on the college. We were both interviewed and our clip will be in the program. Kathy was thrilled. I was thrilled too, (mostly I was thrilled because I put make-up on this morning and didn’t show up looking like a total shlump. E-gad, talk about luck!) I mentioned in the interview that I’d written a piece on my teaching experience for my MFA. Later, the director asked if she could put it in the newsletter. I explained that it was too long, and not really appropriate. Therefore, she asked me if I’d write a piece that would be good for the newsletter. I agreed.

Now that I have turned in my thesis, I hope to get more involved with the college and the literacy program. I hung around today watching the people being interviewed. Mostly, the students are simple country folk who quit school early and are now returning to get their GED (which is no easy process for a working adult). I was filled with respect for their commitment and aspirations to get an education. I suddenly felt compelled to be a motivating force – an activist for people who want to better their world. It is easy to write a check and tell yourself you are making a difference, but far more rewarding to roll up your sleeves and be an actual catalyst for change. Anyway, I believe I will soon be doing more for literacy in our quiet county. I recognize that subtle churning in my gut when an idea starts building in importance in my heart and mind.

Next subject: We got Neva an incubator for Easter. We’ve done the raising chicks thing – loved it – now it’s time to dig a bit deeper. She is gathering fertilized eggs from our chickens and plans to hatch them herself. The eggs are nestled in a square, foam incubator that she hovers over as if she is a brood hen herself. Twice a day she turns the eggs and checks the temperature and humidity. (It takes 21 days to hatch a chicken) She draws little faces on the eggs so each egg has a personality of its own –this allows her to know which side is up. When Mark is in Sarasota, I invite Neva to sleep with me, and we stayed up last night, lying in bed, reading all about the science of hatching chicks. It is educational fun, a science lesson but with the excitement of gaining a new pet too. I will share more on this later. I think hatching eggs with your kid deserves a blog all its own. We went on E-bay to purchase some different poultry eggs too. Amazing what you can find on E-bay. We have bids on exotic duck eggs, a goose egg, and some colorful rare pheasant eggs. You know us Hendry’s – give us an idea and we drive it over the top! It will be fun to share later.

Speaking of poultry, I hate our neighbor’s dog. He’s an ugly hound dog that the owners only feed once a week (up here, that is common. They say keeping dogs lean makes them better for hunting, but I just think its lazy and cruel ownership). The case of my occasional chicken disappearance has been solved. This dog is the culprit. He killed three for sport, then while I was in Sarasota, he tore open a small cage and killed seven Americana babies. Worst of all, he also got a hold of Joe and tore him up. My big ole rooster fought back so he wasn’t killed, but he is terribly injured. He has been sitting in the corner of the roost for a month, head down, trembling. He hobbles around with a limp because his leg was mangled. His tail was torn out. His back has open wounds that look like hamburger. He sure as shoot isn’t crowing.

I said to Mark, “OK, I’m ready to get a gun.”
Mark lifted his eyebrows and said, “Really. I never thought I’d see the day.”
I said, “Yea, I was thinking along the lines of a super soaker.”
“A water gun! Heck, that won’t do anything but take the smell off that dog, and he’ll still eat your chickens. We have to really shoot him. I’ll dig a hole with my tractor and cover him up and no one will know what happened to him. You know, once a chicken killer, always a chicken killer.” (He is always full of these country sayings nowadays. I can’t take him seriously.)

I should point out here that in Georgia, there is a law that allows you to shoot any animal on your property doing mischief. It’s designed to control nuisance dogs that bother livestock. Nevertheless, I would never do harm to an animal, even if it is a total annoyance. For all that the dog (Lady) is a pest and I’m hating her right now, I also know she is just following instincts. It is not her fault she’s grown up untrained, left to wander where she doesn’t belong. (I am all in favor of shooting her owners, however, if that can be arranged.) Our friend Ronnie offered to come shoot her, as if that loophole would make me feel less guilty. Um… no. Then, he advised me to call animal control to pick her up. The problem is, I know they would put her to sleep within seven days, which would be just serving her the death penalty too. I think that is a harsh end for an innocent (albeit monstrous) dog that doesn’t know better.

In the end, Mark and I agreed to a compromise. We are going to buy a rubber pellet gun. They sting like the dickens. That will deter any dog that dares mess with my flock. Mark plans to get lots of target practice because Lady is always on our land, chasing his truck, eating my chickens and attacking our dogs. Shooting rubber pellets is a rough way to train a dog, but what else can we do without hurting her more? I wish they would tie her up.

Meanwhile, Joe is convalescing. I am a good chicken nurse, if I say so myself. Day by day he is getting stronger, but I wonder if he will ever be the robust crowing wonder he once was. Ah well. Love is accepting that the object of our affection won’t always be perfect. I still love him, flaws and all. In fact, maybe I love him more now that he isn’t so cocky.

Another subject: Today, I see Mark bought me a bee starter kit. The company sent me an e-mail that it is on the way. Most be a birthday present. Ten hives, the works.  I’m so excited. I am ordering a bee-suit myself, a birthday gift from my Mother-in-law and Dianne, but they don’t know it yet. They said, “Pick something”. Therefore, I did. It’s a crack-up. It looks like a space suit. Very sexy in a potato sack kind of way. But if you are turned on by girls that spit in the face of pea sized danger and wear head to toe canvas, gloves and a veil, well, I’m your fantasy, Babe. The bee thing is unique – I believe it deserves a blog of its own, so I will speak more on my bee interests later. When I saw the bee suit, I thought, you gotta be kidding. All those years I was putting little three year olds in bee costumes and I was making flower or bear suits for the assistant dancing with them, and I could have gone the bee suit route for only 65.00???? If I’d only known (Not only would that have been a cute and trouble free costume, but I’d have a free bee suit in my closet today. Ah – the opportunities we miss in life.)

Last subject for now:
Beware! Denver and I have signed up to participate in a three day, 60-mile walk for breast cancer in Atlanta in October. I’m excited because we will train together and have a unique camping experience (they erect huge tents and have campfire and such to house the thousands of walkers and provide food, housing, evening entertainment, camaraderie, etc.) and we’ll have lots of miles for down to earth talks.  Mostly, I want to participate because my mother is a breast cancer survivor. Denver and I will walk in her name. But  we must each fundraise 2200 bucks for the charity to participate, so I’ll be hitting you all up for a sponsorship donation later. Heck, I don’t know many people here, so who else can I annoy with a plea to support the cause? Denver works at the coffee shop, so she has access to potential donations. I will have to get more creative. If you sponsor me, I promise to make it worth your while with future commentary that describes the torture, the glory and the blisters. But I’ll address this another day too. Tonight I am tired.

I must go to bed. First, I’ll pick out my book. I’ve been having nightmares all week, so maybe that will allow me sweet dreams for a change. For all that I can control my attitude when I’m awake, I fear I’m less positive in my sleep. The anxiety can’t last forever, can it? I’m ready to feel something else for a change.

Happy Birthday, Jessica Smith!
I should have called you today, but Cory only told me tonight at 1 am. He was withholding information.
I thought of you today. I hung a picture in my workout room with you in it. Made me smile. Must have sensed it was your day.
A lot of good things came out of my years at FLEX, but my friendship with students like you – so much more meaningful as you all evolve into admirable adults, has to top the list. What a kick it is to see the directions you all take as you find your niches in the world.

Hope it was a great day and your fondest wishes came true. And I hope your gift came with a ribbon tied around him – oops, I mean it.

With Love,
Your pen pal forever.

Friday, I had what you would call a “fortitude meltdown.” This kind of thing doesn’t happen often with me. I tend to store inner resources so I can muster up the energy to face a bad day when I need to. But I just couldn’t face Friday.

I was registered to attend the AWP conference in Atlanta, a huge conference for writers and writing program directors and administrators – a very academic literary event. Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to go. But because I paid for it, and because they featured a few classes that would provide beneficial research for my senior seminar this June (a graduation requirement) and because I always plug away and face whatever is uncomfortable when I know something is good for me (particularly in regards to accomplishing grand dreams), I dragged myself out of bed at 5AM to go.

It was raining. Hard. And the forecast was rain for the entire day. This put me in a funk. Then, there was the fact that the night before, one of my chickens had been murdered – ruthlessly, by my beloved Joe. You see, I had decided to introduce my smelly teenage chickens to the coop so I would no longer have to clean up after them in our basement. They are getting big, almost the size of drumstick (they will eventually be real big egg layers), so I thought they must be ready for their true habitat. I put them into the pen and watched all the birds interact for a while, until I determined everyone was getting along. Joe was slightly aggressive, but chickens always scrabble a bit when the dynamics of the flock change (pecking order, ya know) and I could see the spry young ones running away when he approached them, so I figured they would all adjust and get along fine. An hour later, I returned to check on them and one of my Lucys had been killed. The other four were cowering in a corner, frantic with fear.  I felt horrible. Responsible. I’m still not talking to bully Joe.

On top of this, the night before, Mark mentioned that we needed to talk about an important business issue. Feeling so blue about my chicken, I asked if we could hold off until the morning. He said sure. I thought he might wait until I got home, but he surprised me and got up at 6am to attend to our short official meeting. We just had a few decisions to make that really didn’t require much discussion, but we always make decisions together in respect to our family business. (Can’t blame anyone when things go poorly that way, I guess) This particular issue depressed me, and trust me, I don’t throw that word around easily, I tend to describe my down feelings as “sad” because “depressed” is serious stuff, and people tag themselves with that as flippantly as they use the word “love” (which I am also very selective in using). Anyway, I can honestly say, in this instance, I was depressed.  I knew the whole business ordeal was inevitable, so there is no logical reason I should react so strongly, but for some reason, I just wanted to crawl into bed and cry.

But, I didn’t. I got in my car and drove through the torrential rain to my conference.

The problem was, I simply didn’t want to go. I felt so low. I actually turned the car around four times, planning to drive home, but each time, I talked myself out of it and turned back towards Atlanta. Finally, one hour and fifteen minutes from home, I turned around, this time with true resolve. I was going to bail on my day. I even called Mark to announce I was coming home, thinking that if he were expecting me, it would surely stop me from going in circles like a ping-pong ball that keeps flipping back and forth.

I said, “I’m not up for this writing thing today. I’m coming home.”

He said, “Are you sure? That is not like you.”

“I’m just not in the mood.”

“It might make you feel better. It will get your mind off the business issue. “

“Not possible. Besides which, it isn’t that. It is something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just feel low.”

“Then come home. But let’s meet in town for coffee first.”

(I guess this is like a inviting someone into a holding space for potential quarantine. He didn’t want me back home until he had a chance to give me a checkup.)

So we met up at the coffee shop. Mark said, “You OK?”

“I just feel bad.”

“Sick bad?”

“No. Bad bad.”

“What about?”

“Everything. Business. My writing. My chicken. The weather. You didn’t kiss me this morning. Everything.”

He gave me a little pep talk (and a little peck on the cheek ), then proceeded to remind me of everything good in our life, telling me that we still had the power to make different choices if life wasn’t making us happy.

I told him I was happy. I just wanted to take a nap.

“Then, go home and do that,” he said.

So I did.

I went home, put on my pajamas, and crawled back into bed. A few hours later, Mark comes home and sees me in bed.

He laughs. “It’s that bad, is it?”

“I’m not getting up. Ever.”

“OK. I’ll pick up the kids from school.”

And God bless him, he did. Life went on without me.

I stayed in that bed, eating a gross amount of crap (yes, I felt bad about that too), listening to the rain and trying to imagine what nuggets of wisdom I was missing by not going to the conference (which is only held in Atlanta every ten years. My bad.) I didn’t get up. I didn’t want to cook dinner, or check my e-mail, or write a blog, or care for my animals or be a good parent, or read anything, or . . . well, you get it. I didn’t want to do anything. I think I mustered up enough energy to take a bath and read People magazine. That exhausted me, so I went go back to bed.

I wouldn’t say I was feeling sorry for myself, because I am logical enough to remember that my life is charmed and I have all the ingredients for happiness. I also know that we live the life of our own design, and for everything lost something is gained. I must take responsibility for whatever negative things are in my world. Like my dead chicken, or the fact that I rush around in the morning and forget to pause to kiss my husband to start the day right, or that I don’t work to be more detached regarding business, or the fact that I will now have to do more research later on for my senior seminar because I didn’t take advantage of this cushy opportunity to get some info now. The fact is, I may have missed something great at that conference, but I also know I should respect my inner voice and accept that if a meltdown is eminent, it has a purpose. Therefore, I chose to embrace my inner slug. Perhaps my batteries needed a re-boot. I just needed to shut down.

Anyway, I watched about seven movies that day. Ate 7984 calories. A few hours later, Mark joined me. Now, there were two of us imitating slugs. At least I wasn’t lonely. We ordered pizza. The kids were happy running amuck without guidance. Life did not collapse. No one died. I did not fail out of college. None of my problems were solved, but then, none got any worse for lack of attention either. It was just a mislaid day. A rainy, lazy, depressed mislaid day.

And honestly, I don’t regret it. I have to tell you, on a rainy, gray day when your heart hurts, the covers of your warm bed feel mighty good. And the most mundane movies somehow qualify as splendid entertainment. And even cold pizza tastes gourmet good.

Mark did ask me if anything was wrong, or if there was anything he could do for me, or if I wanted to talk, about a dozen times. I guess when a girl doesn’t have a fortitude meltdown very often, it is alarming to witness. I assured him I was fine.

And obviously, I was. The next morning, I got up at 6am and drove to Atlanta to attend the conference – confirming that I really didn’t miss anything all that important. I listened to a few lectures, sessions about writing endings and how to portray mid-life characters with realism, and I heard a few readings. I walked around the bookfair with over a hundred small press publishers and literary magazines represented, and picked up free issues of literary magazines and little chocolates used to solicit potential supporters for their nonprofit presses. All I could think was, “Who reads this stuff except the people writing or teaching it?” The literary world is really just another special interest subculture that perpetuates itself by its own membership. It seemed like a lot of indulgent hubabaloo to try to impress one’s intellectual peers. I guess it makes great contributions to the world, but it seems only the literary folks notice or care.

I got this really strong gut feeling that I was not supposed to be there. I suddenly knew that even though my degree prepares me for it, I don’t want a career in academia. Who wants to deal with all the university politics? And I don’t crave validation by being published in a small literary magazine that only other writing students hoping to get published might read. I looked into the faces of the thousands of writers there, amazed that so many people write – thinking they all looked stereotypically literary minded. They all looked intellectual. Broke. More cerebral than physical. They were people who portray life on paper so poignantly, yet most of them do not have the wherewithal or personality to live a life of their own with gusto. They will work for years at perfecting their ability to construct a sentence and fine tune research just so they can portray the thoughts of a mountain climber with dramatic authenticity – and yet, I much prefer to read a story written by a mountain climber who tells his real story, sans the literary genius. The literary writers take themselves awfully seriously, and I simply can’t do that with my personal view of the world. What can I say? I guess I’m silly.

Looking at the titles of the publications was like staring into the notes of a therapy avalanche. There was very little there I would look forward to reading. Where is the humor that lurks in every aspect of life? The celebration of living?  Who determined that good writing couldn’t be based on uplifting subject mater? I know, I know, life is tragic, but it can be a hoot to with the right attitude. I suddenly felt as if the literary world was a dark place, and I just wanted to step back into the light.

Who knows. Maybe I was still in my former day funk and this cast a shadow on my impressions. Probably. I just didn’t feel like belong in this literary world. I am at a point in life where I crave laughter, adventure, and romance. These elements are sadly missing here.

I called Mark and said, “I’m coming home.”

“It’s only 1 o’clock. (The seminar went until 8 that night) Stay. Enjoy yourself.”

“There is nothing to enjoy. I’ve seen what I needed to see and now, I am ready to come home.”

He was silent a minute. “O.K.”

Later, I told him how I felt at that seminar. I explained that for all I now understand and appreciate fine literature, I don’t want to make a career of it. I don’t want to have to work to build a reputation, or “play the game” to fit into this world so I can be dubbed “the real thing”. I did all that with dance. I did the conventions, the teaching, and the career building. I made a name- even made a humble fortune while I wasn’t noticing. And now, I am tired. And I sense that I might kill what I love about writing if I force myself to treat it like a business. The truth is, you can destroy what you love when you make it your livelihood. I know. When art becomes a job it strips the magic away. You start making compromises to “produce” generically so everyone will like the work. You make choices for security rather than following your artistic instincts for growth.  I don’t want my writing to be railroaded into what it “should be” or “what will sell” or “what proves I’m good.”

I don’t know how many real heartfelt passions I have left in me at my age, and I surely don’t want to squander those that burn hot. I love to write. I love to compose books and blogs and clarify my thinking with an essay now and again. I want to preserve that core premise. I have to preserve it. My writing must be for me. I do want to publish, and maybe teach and share the joy with others – I’d love to work with senior citizens to help them leave memoirs for their families or something like that. But I want to be an active writer without feeling pressured to achieve. I don’t like the idea of being a professional writer nearly as much as I liked being the owner of a dance empire who wrote books on the side. That was more remarkable by far.

I asked Mark if he thought this was a copout, that perhaps I’ve lost my edge, was burned out or had self-defeating issues or something. Fear of success? Was this a reaction to my feeling inadequate in this arena?

He chuckled and said, “You? Hardly.” Then he said, “It is like the song, there is a season, Turn, Turn, Turn. A season to work, a season to play, and a season to do nothing. I think you have spent years working and driving yourself to accomplish big things and now, you need to just stop. Not do anything. Don’t feel bad about it. You’ve just never experienced a time of non-doing, so it makes you uncomfortable. But it isn’t forever. Trust me, you are still you. One day, you will wake up and be fully fueled with an idea and nothing will stop you from making it happen. It will be writing a book, or publishing a new magazine, or opening a coffee shop or something else. And your time for rest will be over. Then, watch out world. For now, just embrace your nothingness. It’s OK. You’ve earned it.”

“But it feels wrong. Out of character.”

“How would you know? You’ve never experienced this particular stage of life before. It might be the exact right reaction at the exact right time which will lead you to do exactly what will make you happiest.”

“What about you?” (Actually, Mark has been rather a slug too. It is not like us, and I wonder what it means. Is this a sign that we have lost something important, the very thing that made us tick .  . . and tick so well?  )

He said, “You know the general store they are remodeling?”(This happens to be a building near us in the middle of nowhere. It’s been for sale for ages. We often mention how much we like it – how it would have made a great dance school, but it was too secluded to be good for much else. But years ago in Sarasota, we would have gone crazy for a building like that. We don’t think it’s good for any of our potential purposes now, but we still find the building fascinating. Anyway, someone bought it and they are remodeling it into a small convenience store with a coffee shop now. We watch with curiosity and a touch of envy. But we still think location will be a problem for them.)

Mark said, “I drive by and watch the progress and I am jealous. I wish I had a project like that going on in my life. I’ve been thinking how much I miss having a business, and how much we learned in the years we ran one successfully – how I want to put it all to the test again. I want to dive in and face the challenges without all the business history serving as bad baggage. I’ve been thinking a lot about an art gallery, with or without a coffee or wine shop. Maybe not now, but soon. I feel like I am getting ready. Not yet. Someday. For now, we will rest. And wait for when the time is right to swing the bat yet again.”

I think he is wise, and he has admirable faith in the both of us. I’m grateful. His confidence alleviates my concerns a bit. So, I’m waiting – not in bed like the big meltdown slug I became the other day, but not what anyone would call a real life action figure either.

In the meantime, I am following my instincts, and they tell me to preserve what I love about writing. I will fight the pull of ego and remember that no person’s opinion or public acknowledgement truthfully validates one’s efforts. I believe success is knowing what you need and where you belong. What is important is loving your life; however you might feel compelled to nudge it to unfold a certain way.

Most importantly, you can, and should, wait for a lot of things, but you should never wait for happiness. Take responsibility for that, above all else.

The good new is my llama is fine. In fact, the vet said he was the nicest male llama he has ever worked with, and this man is the resident vet for a nearby llama farm so he’d know. He attends 160 llamas a month. He did have to cut away six of Dalai’s fighting molars that pose potential risk, which meant he had to drug my poor llama. By the time I got there, he was leaning against the fence, his chin on the upper post as if the bar was all that was keeping him upright. He was smiling this slurred llama smile, never taking his eyes off me, as if he just consumed a pint of Jack Daniels and I was looking better to him all the time.  The vet, laughing at the animal’s moony grin, told me where I could purchase a female llama for breeding, if interested. My birthday is coming up….. how did he guess?

I was thinking my animal concerns were all behind me, until I found out I’d lost my only chicken. Damn the luck!

Mark was quick to point out that I have five new chickens in the pool table room downstairs (no pool table yet, so I guess it should be called the “chicken raising” room for the time being). But, what I have peeping downstairs are simply baby chicks. I don’t think little fluffs like that qualify as true chickens.

Yesterday, I noticed the door to the chicken pen was opened. I wasn’t sure why or how, but all the roosters were digging in the dirt and eating worms and everyone was sticking close and looked happy enough. I thought I’d let them enjoy freedom for an hour while I de-haired my white angora. It’s cold, so you’d think a thick wooly angora coat would be nice this time of year, but my rabbit is overdue for shedding and all her scratching and licking have me thinking I better get to it. Bits of fluff are blowing about the cage and her coat is starting to felt. Gotta remove some of the excess fur now if I want to use it and it will make her more comfortable – besides which, I want her to look dapper for her upcoming date. I’m going to mate her with Nimbus this week.   I took Cumulus to the house for a bit of hair pulling, and an hour later returned. The roosters had moseyed back into the pen. But my one and only beloved chicken, Pot Pie, was nowhere to be found.

Mark said that with five roosters, she was probably getting more action than she could handle so when she saw the door open, she thought “I’m getting the hell out of here!”

Ha. Not any chicken of mine!

Pot Pie is tiny, a little white bannie chicken. I’m thinking she got picked off by a hawk or opossum. Maybe a neighbor is making chicken soup – I heard a neighbor talking about a chicken soup reciepe just this morning. No one is beyond suspect!  Perhaps a dog decided she might make a good chew toy, but there were no feathers anywhere to suggest a tussle. It’s as if she just disappeared. I took a walk around the area through the woods looking for signs – feathers, a bird crouching in the trees – anything. No chicken leftovers anywhere. I even visited our resident owl in his little cove in the tree. No chicken breath coming from up there. Pot Pie was simply gone, like a chicken twilight zone episode.

So, after school today, Neva and I are going chicken shopping again. I figure, I’m bound to lose another chicken here or there until I get the kinks worked out in this chicken raising thing. We need more future egg-ammo if I’m ever to progress from the raising period to the egg laying period.  I plan to buy another six or seven chicks today, providing the feed store has some interesting breeds for sale this week. I’ve also read about Guineas (which were originally called Ginny Birds – talk about a match meant to be). They’re funny speckled (freckled?) round game birds that eat the ticks that bother horses. I need a gaggle of those, don’t ya agree? So I’m on the lookout for Guinea chicks too. I’m thinking some other game birds would be interesting, like pheasants or peacocks. Turkeys are dumb, so I don’t want those hanging around. But ya never know what will suit you until you try, so I never say never.

My husband is gone for the weekend. He has been invited to be an assistant teacher at the Campbell Folk School for an antler basket class. He is developing quite an artisan’s reputation already, and his natural gift for teaching made it a pretty good bet they would phase him into instruction once they got to know him. He’s gone off to spend the weekend at the school. He is excited because he gets his materials, his meals and a room, as well as a small stipend for his assistant efforts. He could come home, but he’s decided to try the full Campbell School experience. By staying, he can work late into the night and accomplish more (artistically), and he can enjoy the company of other students (and great cooking) at breakfast. He also has made fond friends of the teacher, and I am glad he has the opportunity to foster new friendships. We all need buddies with similar interests and humor. Anyway, it will be a mini paid vacation for him.

Kent has gone to stay with a friend. That leaves me and Neva to do what we fancy. We will buy some chickens, then we are off to by a 5 foot used rabbit hutch in a place called Ringhold (something I saw in the bargain trader that I want to purchase as a backup house for our baby rabbits in a month). We will gorge on Chinese food, and later we will go to a movie, just us girls, and eat popcorn and candy until we pop. I told her she could sleep with me in my soft bed in front of the fire, and she can even take a long soak in my Jacuzzi bath (this is all very exciting, because Mark doesn’t allow our kids to step past the threshold of our bedroom –never – not even to borrow a brush or to say goodnight. They must talk to us from the doorway. He is all about protecting his adult domain from child-cooties. I think it is silly, but if the man wants his own space, a cozy corner of the house for us only, who am I to question it?)

Anyway, I will have a few leisure days alone with my daughter, and I hope to enjoy them by doing nothing with a full commitment to laziness. I have homework, but that can wait. I have some reading I want to do- The 2007 America’s best Essay compilation – but I’ll do that while she sleeps.  We will eat what appeals to us, (Maybe go to dinner at the restaurant Denver works at and leave a huge tip). We’ll do only what we feel like doing, and it’s a sure guess that we will talk. No one can carry on a more vivacious conversation than Neva. I guess we’ll name chickens too.

Valentines Day was fun for her. She got a stuffed rabbit and a box of candy from a boy named Cody that has a thing for her. She was thrilled. Another boy wanted to be her valentine too, but she turned him down – told him “No way – I’m taken”. I reminded her that it is an honor to be liked and I expect her to always be kind to people who like her. She has to remember that others have good intentions even if she doesn’t like them in the same way. She rolled her eyes and said, “I’m nice, but Steven is pushy and he won’t leave me alone. He grabs me sometimes too.”

Pushy? He grabs you? Then, by all means, put him in his place. Want me to show you how to sock a boy in the nose?

All I could think of was how quickly she is growing up and how much others enjoy her company as much as I do. It won’t be long before she will lose her interest in hanging out with me.  So, this weekend, with the inevitable fleeting quality of our time together on my mind, I will enjoy my daughter. Life is short – its blessings are sweet. Gotta enjoy those meaningful moments as they come and treat them with the reverence they deserve. 

My husband’s horse, Goliath, got his foot stuck in the fence yesterday. I had the horses tied up while I was filling their buckets with sweet-feed, and he must have pawed the ground, because the bottom wire of the fence got wedged between his hoof and the horseshoe. The more he pulled, the deeper embedded the fence became.

This is not a good thing for the horse or the fence. Frankly, I cannot afford unnecessary vet bills, or fence repair bills. I swore under my breath and went to free him. However, for the life of me, I couldn’t get the wire out from under his shoe. I ended up climbing under the horse and wedging my shoulder under his leg to keep it off the ground so I could use both hands. I pulled and pulled, but to no avail. The horse was busy eating his feed, so he didn’t give me any trouble, but he didn’t help either. The big lug. Meanwhile, my dogs found the entire situation arousing, so they stood just out of reach, barking and doing their best to agitate the horse so he would stamp and shuffle about. They apparently thought it would be amusing to see me get squished. Damn dogs.

I tried using a horse pick (a device used to clean rocks and dirt out of horseshoes) to help dislodge the wire, but that didn’t do a thing. I cursed, but that didn’t do a thing either. My fingers were frozen, my temper hot. I called my husband (who was on a trip to Wal-Mart) and explained the situation. It is his dumb horse, after all.  

He responded with his usual sensitivity regarding my animal dilemmas. He said, “What the hell do you want me to do about it? I’m 35 minutes away.”

“Where are the wire cutters? I will simply cut the fence away.”

“I don’t have any.”

Baloney. I know he has wire cutters, because he used them to cut away the fence when the baby horse was stuck in it last spring. I reminded him of that. He was silent for a minute and then said, “I don’t know what you are talking about. We don’t own wire cutters.”

Now, I’m assuming he is just saying that because he doesn’t want me touching his wire cutters. He is very possessive about his things. God forbid I ever touch one of his tools, or use his toothpaste or shampoo, or dare leave my girl cooties on any of his clothes. Trust me, when my husband was in preschool, he was the kid who never got the concept of sharing, always hitting other kids over the head with a block if they dared wander over to where he was building a tower.

I told him that since he was at Wal-Mart, then to please buy a good pair of wire cutters for me to keep with my tack for this kind of emergency. He said, ” Wal-Mart doesn’t have any.”

Now, I’m pretty sure our Wal-Mart has basic tools. They even carry riffles at our Wal-mart, therefore, I assume he is saying this because he doesn’t want me to have the ability to cut the fence. Ever. As if I am going to go around destroying it to avoid sweating on occasion.

Mark then said he’d call the fence guy. Maybe he could run over and help me, because if the fence did need to be cut, it would have to be repaired anyway. Meanwhile, I can see the horse getting more and more agitated, pulling at his leg. Snorting. I can tell that waiting is a really bad idea, and there is no guarantee the fence guy is available anyway. This makes me even more frustrated, so lovingly, I hang up on Mr. 35-minutes-away-and-no-help-whatsoever. I return to wrestle with Goliath some more. I don’t accept defeat easily. I try moving the horse from side to side to get a better angle on the snag. I put my foot on the bottom of the fence wire so I can yank harder. I try slamming a piece of wood against the wire. Nothing. The horse is now finished eating. He is interested in what underwear I have on, which apparently is showing as I bend over. I know this because he takes a nibble and gives me a serious wedgie. I am now so pissed I could scream.  Therefore, I do what any resourceful, independent girl would do in a situation like this.

I cry.

I stomp out of the pasture thinking I’ll walk up to the workshop and ransack the place looking for the alleged wire cutters that I know are there. And just then, I turn around and the horse is no longer caught on the fence. His foot is now simply stuck in the weave, but the wire is no longer under his horseshoe. He is stronger than I, so it is possible he just pulled the correct direction and it came out, but I think what really happened is that I loosened it for him, like I do with the lids of jars that are stuck. That is how my husband opens them, you know.

O.K. A horse that has merely stepped into the fence is something I can handle.  I run over and get Goliath loose before he jams his foot into the fence again. He lumbers away nonchalantly. The dogs bound away to find other mischief. I call my husband and say everything is fine now. Don’t fret. I saved the day. I know you are worried over there at Wal-mart as you avoid the wire cutter aisle. He told me he had called my daughter’s boyfriend for help, so he had to get off the phone to call off the posse. Since I am no longer a damsel in distress, I agree.

Next, I’m off to feed the chickens.  On the way, I push and pull to straighten the wire of the fence so that particular issue won’t happen again. I now notice there’s quite a racket going on over in the bird pen. Crowing. LOTS of crowing. I walk over and peer into the fence and don’t ya know the silkie’s are crowing. I blink, as if I didn’t trust what I’m seeing. No, that crowing IS coming from those would-be chickens. Great. Now I have five roosters and only one measly, non-egg-laying chicken. That is so like my life. I want a little cabin in the woods, and I end up in a gigantic personal lodge on 50 acres. I want a nice singing rooster. I end up with a half dozen squawking boy birds. I am the model for the be-careful-what-you-wish-for poster.

With everyone fed and cared for, I return to the house to make dinner. I invite my mother-in-law and sister-in- law to dinner once or twice a week. When I do, I go hog-wild and make a big fancy meal. Not that I have to, but company gives me an excuse to cook. Everyone thinks it’s pretty wonderful that I consider my own family such special guests that they deserve top of the line fare. For example, last week I made soup followed by scallops in champagne sauce and grilled salmon, followed by three layer coffee brownies a la mode.

I’ve told them the truth is, I just like cooking, but if they want to think I labor because they are special, well who am I to burst their bubble? Anyway, this week I was making a Mediterranean chicken dish, sautéed in wine with olives and cinnamon.

Mark hates olives. My mother-in-law hates cinnamon. My kids hate everything that isn’t McDonalds. Obviously, I’m not caring enough to pick my meals determined by my family’s likes and dislikes. For me, it is all about what recipes I run into during the week that look fascinating or offer me something new to try. To appease my guilt over my menu choice, I also made a nice caramel apple crisp. Then, I made a casserole of stuffed shells as my “backup” dish. A back up dish is something you make so people don’t complain all through dinner about your cooking, which can happen when you’re experimental. Granted, Italian shells absolutely do not go with Mediterranean Chicken and a pasta broccoli sauté, but it was what I had in the house and it was a no-brainer.  

Turns out the chicken was a big hit after all. In fact, I’m told it was one of the best things I’ve ever made. Even the kids had seconds. Wow. That’s nice, but those shells are still sitting in the fridge, and I think they will end up in the garbage by tomorrow. We are not much for leftovers, and that is OK with me, because leftovers means I don’t get to play in my kitchen. Whatchagonndo? That is the price of food insurance if you are someone who needs approval at the dinner table.

My mother-in-law loved the Apple Crisp. It is loaded with Cinnamon. She said, “There isn’t any Cinnamon in this, is there, because if there is, I won’t like it.” She said this with her mouth full.

“Of course not,” I said, batting my eyelashes. I shopped for this meal at Wal-Mart. They stopped carrying cinnamon at the same time they stopped stocking wire cutters.

Anyway, it was one of those days. But that night, it snowed. It was our first snow of the season. A whopping two inches. School has been canceled for two days. Gotta love laid-back Georgia. We sat around watching the kids sled down the hillside by the house through our big windows. Neat. Meanwhile I made sausages wrapped in biscuits, fluffy parmesan eggs and steaming white chocolate coco. Snow is a very good excuse for cooking too.

What is the point? There is no point. This is the meaningless drivel that makes up my days. Most is good.  The bad is interesting. And I never run out of excuses to cook. What more does anyone need out of life, other than maybe a pair of wire cutters hidden in the hen house? (Note that is “hen”, singular. You can’t have a hen’s house when you don’t have hens.) But, don’t fret. I am wishing for hens now, which means it is only a matter of time until I am complaining about being inundated with girl birds.

I’m thinking, when dealing with me, fate has a sense of humor.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

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