Category Archives: Daily News

A few weeks ago, I decided to purchase papaya tablets for my angora bunnies. Since there isn’t a health food store around here, I went on-line to a discount vitamin company to place an order. I found what I was looking for at a great price, though shipping more or less ate away the savings. As long as I was paying postage, I decided to browse a bit to see if there was anything else I might want to include in the package. I ended up buying a bottle of joint supplement for my husband because he is constantly battling arthritis in his hips and knees.

 

When I got home from Boston, Mark mentioned that my package had come. He said, “I see you bought me some pills. Thanks.”

 

I said, “I thought they might help. Where are my rabbit vitamins, by the way?”

 

He hesitated a moment, then said, “What rabbit vitamins?”

 

“The papaya enzymes. You know, the ones I went on-line to get for my angoras. I told you about that. They help the rabbits pass the hair they digest.”  

 

“You told me that? I don’t remember. Well, now that you say it, maybe I do. I did wonder why you bought so much of the stuff.”

 

“Well, where’d ya put them?”

 

Mark shrugged guiltily. “I’ve been taking them. I thought they were for me. I saw the joint pills so I just assumed whatever else was in the box was something you wanted me to take.”

 

It turns out, he put the remaining three bottles in my office. A few days later, I noticed Mark taking his vitamins, and he was still popping papaya enzymes. This amused me.

 

“So, how’s the papaya working out for you, dear?”

 

He cast me a sideways glance. “Really good. I haven’t coughed up a hairball once since I began taking them.”

 

Made me grin, but what the heck. They can’t hurt him.

 

Later that day, we were eating lunch, and Mark looks at me thoughtfully and says, “You look amazing. Really gorgeous. You are going through a fantastic phase.” He has been saying this a lot lately. I’ll be knee deep in horseshit and he will pause and tell me I look fantastic. Always cracks me up.

 

“Thank you dear.”

 

“No really. Every since we sold FLEX you’ve looked ten times better than you use to look. Maybe it is your going to school too. You look different. As if you are at peace or something. I think it’s contentment. That can change your entire look, you know.”

 

“Could be. I certainly scowl less now that I am arguing with chickens rather than dance parents.”

 

He now starts waving his spoon at me, as if he is analyzing my face, pointing to all the parts that make the whole. “Your hair is glamorous. You look like someone going into a beauty contest, not like someone getting ready to go hike in the woods.”

 

“Thank you dear.” (I’m now thinking it is time for him to stop, and I was right, because the next thing he said was..)

 

“You’ve somehow even grown into your nose over the years. Your face is perfectly proportioned now. Amazing.”    

 

Well, for thirty seconds he was almost romantic.

 

It occurs to me that if I am just in a “good phase”, it implies I will move through the phase and come out at the other end as homely as I might have been before. And I don’t have the heart to tell him that my great hair is really just a result of the Georgia water and the lack of Florida humidity. Every day is a great hair day for me since we moved here. I’ve been extremely lucky in that way.

 

 I shrug and say, “I think it’s just that you love me, so I look pretty to you.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure that isn’t the case,” he says. (Now I’m thinking, “Are you a total fool? Do you realize that was your opportunity to gain major brownie points, and you blew it. You better shut up before you dig a hole so deep you wont be able to climb out, buddy.)

 

I point out that I am one of those women who tend to get better with age and he’d be wise to keep taking his vitamins, because by the time I’m eighty, he’s gonna have a wife that’s a knock out and I’d hate for him to miss it.

 

He spends a few more minutes talking about my face and body like I am a car and he is kicking the tires.

 

I occurs to me that he’s been pointing out how pretty he thinks I am a lot lately, at the oddest moments. Like when I am vacuuming the car, or scrubbing a toilet or stepping out of the shower all wet and cross-eyed because I’m so tired. I usually pat him on the head and say thanks, or I just ignore him. He has to think I’m pretty. It’s a husband’s job.

 

Then, yesterday, he starts complimenting me again as we were headed out for our daily walk in the woods. I put my hands on my hips and said, “Honey, I hate to tell you, but it isn’t me. I’m the same as I always have been. Perhaps, now that we don’t own FLEX you’ve gotten around to  noticing me for the first time. The truth is, I think it’s you. You are the one who has changed somehow, and this changes your perceptions. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. But it isn’t me. It’s you.”

 

For a few minutes he contemplates this. “Maybe you’re right. It is me.” Then, he grins and adds, “I am, after all, taking rabbit vitamins.”     

 

Ha. Well, there you have it, Girls. Run out and purchase some papaya enzymes and you can be pretty 24-7 too.

 

So today, I started taking a few papaya enzymes with my vitamins as well. I figure, what the heck. Can’t hurt me. I won’t have to worry about hairballs . . .  and it just might help my husband grow into his big ole ears (which look a bit bigger since he began taking the rabbit pills.  Hummm…)

Whatever works, I always say.

Happy New Year!

Over the years, I’ve watched many things drop in celebration of the calendar turning over. I’ve seen the ball (or the big apple) drop in New York. In Atlanta, they drop a huge glittering Peach that looks like it belongs in Vegas. A few lucky years, I’ve even seen a pair of pants drop, in anticipation of fireworks, if ya know what I mean.

 

How do we celebrate here in the Mountains of Northwest Georgia? Why, we drop a possum, of course. I kid you not. In Murphy, right by the <st1laceName w:st=”on”>Campbell</st1laceName> <st1laceName w:st=”on”>Folk</st1laceName> <st1laceType w:st=”on”>School</st1laceType>, they lower a possum in a cage as the countdown for the New Year. Hundreds of people go to watch this exciting event. They cover the hillside with coolers and blankets. A stage is erected and live bands play. Big fun! And right next door, the folk school has a square dance, live music and a New Year’s Eve party for people who rather laugh and dance in a down to earth way, than wear sequins and get sloshed. We thought the country version of ringing in the New Year sounded like a novel experience. Never a mistake to try something new.

 

Apparently, a year or two ago, the Possum dropping was featured in the Times and received national attention (news must have been slow that day) and now animal rights groups are fighting to stop the tradition. The fellow who began this event pointed out that he catches the possum a month prior and feeds and cares for it well. It’s not as if he throws it from the window, for Pete sake. After lowering the possum to the cheers of droves, he said he then lets it go, but as a side note, he added “and it’s perfectly healthy until someone hits it with a car going home.” He was kidding, of course, but this set off another bout of fury regarding animal rights.

 

 Now, everyone knows I am an animal enthusiast. Heck, I even send money to organizations for pig rights – but for all we know, the possum loves the attention. I don’t see this as unacceptable furry friend abuse myself.

 

Yesterday, it rained all day. Not good possum dropping weather, I fear. And my youngest has been sick. Sure as shoot, at 5:00 she had a raging fever. I wasn’t going to leave her home like that, nor would I drag her out, so we ended up missing all the excitement and opted to stay home. Kent had a friend staying over. I did some impromptu cooking. Made chicken wings, meatball subs, homemade mac and cheese, salad and blackberry cobbler from some of the blackberries I picked this summer. (That was my idea of a tribute to my first year on this land.) The evening was casual. Nice. Dianne and I shared a bottle of wine. We watched movies and reminisced about past New Years. We’ve had years of feast and famine, and oddly enough, it’s the years of famine that are most memorable. Being broke forces creativity. There is good in everything.  

 

When I was young, I always worked on New Years. I was a bartender in New York right around the corner from Times Square, so as you can imagine, it was a big night. Then, when I was performing, they always scheduled a show on New Years, and again, I worked, but the cast would go out dancing or something afterwards. In Florida, the winter break was always the time we would buckle down and work to get the dance season caught up. We were forever remodeling, taking inventory, ordering costumes – working to organize the school to improve it. Plenty of New Years found us in the studio working, my begging Mark to take us home at 11:30 so we could at least celebrate at home with the kids. (Not that I’m complaining, for those years of endless struggle and work did pay off.) He always gave an apologetic sigh and we would rush home minutes before midnight. Funny, I remember those New Year’s fondly.  There is something celebratory in working for a future. One year, when Denver was little and I was single, I hosted a kid party so at least my friends could go out. I spent the night going wild with people under six. Let me tell you, they do the holiday right. We were drunk on chocolate frosting – pots and pans singing out into the night. Good times.

 

When Mark and I prospered, we started doing the things we assumed normal people were doing. A few times, we had a lovely dinner party and friends came over to celebrate. We played games, took a hot tub, opened champagne. That was nice. One year we went to a Broadway show and attended the New Year’s Party with the cast afterwards. We were rather bored. All those overdressed people paying too much for an organized event was not our style. One year we were invited to a neighborhood New Year’s Party. That was weird. All these conservative neighbors gathered and got loaded and started dancing on the tables and making out. It made us snicker knowingly every time we drove down the street and saw them watering their lawns for months afterwards. Ha. They were smart enough not to do that one again.

 

The year we bought our dilapidated  cabin up here, we happened to be hauling trash to the dump, preparing for the remodeling project. The kids were home with Denver. That year, we took a bottle of wine to the drive-in – the first drive in I’d visited since high school. We celbrated by watched movies through a thin sheen of snow, wrapped in blankets in the front seat, going through our cold bottle of wine and then the thermos of coffee we also brought. Good year. I remember Mark saying, “Could you imagine living here?” I think I said something like, “Fat chance for us.” Ha.

 

I guess I’ve never been one to want to go wild on New Years. I don’t like the crowds or the people who drink too much and turn from fun to obnoxious. Driving is dangerous. Restaurants and events are overpriced as they offer New Year’s specials  -really just a ticket to get in the door on a day everyone feels they must go somewhere. I feel as if people try too hard make the evening memorable. Everyone behaves in exaggerated ways, and their expectations are too high to be met. Forced joy ends up seeming contrived. I guess I just prefer watching everyone do their thing from afar. I am all for watching balls, peaches, (and pants) drop at home.

 

But I sure would have liked to share the evening with friends on a hillside watching a possum drop – just once. That’s not something you want to try at home. Ah well. I will shoot for that particular thrill next year.

 

In the meantime, I hope everyone’s evening was memorable, safe and loads of fun. I hope you don’t have a hangover today, and if you do, well, I hope it was worth it.  

 

I also hope you took time to take stock of what was good about last year, and consider what will bring you true happiness this year. When that ball drops, it’s a chance to drop your sorrow over things left unsaid, undone, or untried. It’s a new beginning, an opportunity to bravely step towards what is important to you individually.  

 

I guess the calendar turning over is nothing more than a simple date in reality. But in our minds, we associate so much potential and promise to a New Year.

May all the promise in your heart take shape.

 

Now – go start your diet. I know you made that resolution. Ha. Who didn’t.

And don’t feel bad if you can’t make sense of the last year. You’re not alone. Somewhere out there, a wet possum is scurrying along thinking, “What the hell just happened to me?”

He doesn’t understand how or why, but he was a significant part of something special. Trust me. You are too.

“If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.”
                              – Charlie Parker-

People travel to wonder
at the height of the mountains,
at the huge waves of the seas,
at the long course of the rivers,
at the vast compass of the ocean,
at the circular motion of the stars,
and yet they pass by themselves without wondering.

~ St. Augustine

Tell me the internet is not the most amazing thing invented – I’ll argue the point!

I just got a blog response to “my  big chicken workout” entry, something I wrote some time ago. The response was from Joe at the Big Chicken Pawn. I’ve only been in the place once, remember.

I guess someone read my frivilious entry and forwarded it to Joe. Or maybe a friend of Joe’s did a google search and my blog entry came up and they passed it on. Or maybe even Joe does periodic searches on his business just to see if he has a mention. One way or another, this person, many times removed from me, sent a short thanks for the mention. Ha. I got a hearty laugh over that.  

It is amazing how far the internet stretches, way beyond your intentions or the audience you may be aiming for. Sort of humbling. But it does spark one’s imagination. Ah the possibilities…..

I’ve been absent. Do I need a note from my mother to be excused?

 

There are several reasons why I have not been blogging, but I don’t feel like justifying my absence. Please trust that I have not forsaken my readers lightly. I will say that for ten days during the transition between homes, I had no internet. We went to Florida to teach in our former school for 5 days. There were other circumstances – I felt moody over a blog response someone sent me (not about me, but about a former friend and employee. It commented on issues regarding our former business.) I chose not to post this comment because it was pretty heated. I didn’t want to invite more negativity into my writing world, and I knew this post would undoubtedly stir up some angry rebuttals. This made me feel guilty because I believe everyone deserves a chance to voice their opinions, and I certainly gave other’s that opportunity. I believe the letter was sent in support of Mark and I and the former FLEX mission statement and management style. Not posting it made me feel as if I was being disrespectful to a friend, especially because, in all honesty, this person’s letter was not off the mark, but it did talk about serious issues that touch on legal argument etc. I just don’t want this blog to become a forum for FLEX debate. Yet, if the only people reading it are ex-FLEXers, waiting for the other shoe to drop, what is the point?

 

Anyway, like I said, I don’t want to explain my sabbatical. Let’s say, I needed time alone to think about what this blog is for and who is actually out there reading it. I’ve begun to think my blogging is a fruitless pursuit, wandering further and further from its original intention (being a fun method to keep in touch with friends and a vehicle of free-writing practice) But that doesn’t mean I won’t continue writing. All expended effort makes a difference in one way or another, even if isn’t revealed in obvious ways untill a later time. So, pardon me if I play censor at times and try to keep this blog targeted on “non-dance studio” issues. If (when) I blog, it will be to continue to write about our life transition and life perspective.   

 

Enough disclaimers. For those of you who are friends and who miss the on-line Hendry’s-moving-to-the-country reality series, I will do a quick catch-up.

Gee, everyone has missed so much. Where do I start?

 

We have finally moved into the new house. It’s big.

 

Our last house was pretty, but it was intimate (in other words, “small”.) Our furniture was scaled down, and everything fit in a snug, neat way.  This house is cavernous, with huge ceilings, massive fireplaces, and huge log stairs. As you can imagine, our former furniture doesn’t exactly look made to order.

 

The first night we slept here, no one could sleep. Mark was up all night. He said, “I feel like I am in some of resort lodge . . . one that is too expensive for me to afford!” Ha. You built it, baby. It is simply a huge leap in luxury for this family- especially after a year and a half in that little vacation cabin. We have always been down to earth people, and while this environment is warm, natural and casual, it is also very elegant and indulgent. Different for us, that is for sure.

Neva said she had a “funny feeling in her tummy” all night.

Kent said he felt as if he was in outer space, because he picked this massive room that has no windows, and it gets pitch black at night so you have no sense of time or place.

I kept hearing sounds in the house, which Mark explained was the logs cracking as they dried now that the heat was on. It was all just weird.

The second night, we all slept better.

The third night, we magically felt at home, and what a glorious home it suddenly turned out to be!

 

But, like I said. It’s big.

 

On moving day, I rolled open a rug, which once filled our entire dining room. I couldn’t help but laugh. It looked like a postage stamp. Two chairs that I always considered big and welcoming sat in the corner looking practically delicate now.

 

I said, “Honey, you shrunk the furniture.”

 

Ronnie, our builder, was standing by with his hands in his pockets. In his country drawl, he said “I guess he ain’t been water’in it ‘nough.” Then he grinned. He is mighty pleased to have created this lovely monster house with Mark.

 

We ended up moving that dining room rug to the entryway to serve as a welcome mat. Swear to God. We then had to go rug shopping to get something more appropriate. We chose something very different for us – a woven Indian import thing with vibrant colors that looks somewhat southeastern. With all the natural wood, we decided we needed a flash of bold color. This adds a wonderful feeling of energy to the room.

 

I can’t describe how happy I am to be living here in this house and on this land at last. We have finally come to the end of the difficult transition period of reinventing our life. In retrospect, I can say it’s amazing we lasted as long as we did during the frustrating shift. When my mother visited, she shook her head and said, “Why don’t you just buy a nice house and live in a more comfortable situation. You can afford it.”

 

That is something we asked ourselves everyday. However, we knew we wanted something very special in the long term, which meant sacrifice in the short term. By holding off and living in that small, unfinished cabin, with construction and grit all around us, we reserved more resources to pour into our vision for a certain type of creative lifestyle. Some days, I thought we were crazy, and we even fought about it – not blaming each other or losing faith, but just letting the frustration escape by way of bitching. But Mark and I are used to discomfort in the short term to accomplish something important in the long term, (That is how FLEX was built) so we stuck to the plan and kept bucking each other up on those “off” days . Now, as we step forth into the lovely and creative life we imagined, I am very grateful that we didn’t compromise or take an easier route.

 

This new life is work. My mother also said, “Not many people would take the money you and Mark earned, with a chance to reinvent your life, and chose a lifestyle that is so physically hard. You could just as soon have bought a cushy home on a beach somewhere or taken it easy for the rest of your life.”

 

I guess that is true, but leaving the dance empire wasn’t about wanting to escape work. I love work. So does Mark. We especially enjoy the sort of effort that is attached to this rustic world. He loves chopping down trees and zipping along in his tractor, (He’s shifted from the sporty dance guy in a baseball cap to a GQ Paul Bunnon sort with flannel shirts to match his dusty beard. Suits him, even though it is an adjustment for me to get used to.) Neither of us is inclined to become the spoiled type who is attracted to ease and luxury.  I love wearing jeans and seatshirts (with glamorous earrings, of course. I’m practical, but I’m not dead) walking this land and taking care of my ever-growing ranch/farm/ whatever you want to call it. I don’t mind slipping along the mud or dragging tree branches out of the path to get to my horses. I love taking care of the animals and picking berries, building bonfires, hiking hills, and trying to figure out the complex puzzle of living in harmony with the natural world. It’s a great adventure, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve always appreciated contrast as a vehicle to experience something fully. This world is a direct contrast to the suburban (or New York) existence I’ve experienced most of my life.  

 

The day after Thanksgiving, my horses returned from their visit to the trail-riding ranch. We bought Dixie at 5 months pregnant, so I always thought she was just a sweet horse with a rather dumpy body. Now, I see she is lean and muscular. She’s in the best shape ever, as is Peppy, my white horse. They’ve been working daily with the tourists, which means their behavior is at its best, as is their health . I have a very powerful affinity for my horses. Everyday, I stop my work at around noon to visit and feed them. I love walking through the trees to bring the four horses, the donkey and llama treats and to groom them. I work with the baby, April, teaching her to lead. I tenderly pet the donkey. I have lively intellectual conversations with them all. They follow me about like dogs, (our real dogs at my heel), whinnying and snorting in response to my commentary. They stick their noses in my pockets looking for sugar or cookies. They even run towards me when they see my bright yellow jacket, making me feel loved in the most obvious way. The donkey has this loud, silly bray that he lets out whenever he sees me. I love it! I just absolutely adore these animals with a passion I can barely describe. Being with them soothes my soul and makes me feel connected to God or the earth or whatever it is that makes us feel centered.

 

I’ve always loved animals, and having no limits to keeping them, other than the self imposed boundries of how much work I want to take on, is a particular thrill. I still have fun with the chickens. In fact, we have done some serious scientific research in the area of chicken treating. Neva has concluded that our poultry’s favorite food is powdered donuts, followed closely by McDonalds French-fries. I thought the birds were just pecking away at anything you tossed into the cage, so one day, I brought them some bread to prove my point. No. They didn’t want that. Neva knows her chickens. They really want those sugary, white, powdered donuts. Preferably stale ones.  Go figure. The chickens are Neva’s favorite pets now. She sits in the pen and pets them, plays games with them, and talks to them about their behavior. It’s cute.  But still, we haven’t seen an egg. Chickens don’t lay much in the winter, so it will probably be spring ’till we have that thrill. I imagine there will be a major celebration upon an egg discovery when it comes to pass. We plan to add ducks this summer. Ye haw!

 

As the season changes, we are up to new challenges all the time. We just finished dealing with the endless mud, which made feeding the horses a perilous drag. I would sink ankle deep into the muck no mater what I tried to do to combat the ick, but I have my sexy muck boots, so I deal with it with my own sort of sad glamor attempt. Lately, the water in the chicken feeder has been frozen each day. Damn. Neva and I take a gallon of hot water out there every afternoon, chip away the frozen water, and fill it with hot water. Mark points out that hot water freezes faster than cold, but we find it blends with the ice in the jug to make it all tepid. This chore sounds like a drag, I know, but it’s actually fun. I spend an hour a day with my daughter caring for the animals, and this tends to set the tone for great conversation. We talk about school, life, and the natural world. We laugh as we share this mutual interest in animals learning together how to care for them well. We handle the animals, picking up chickens and comment on their changing feathers as they shift into winter dress, getting to know their individual personalities.  This kind of easy time together is better than any of our former “quality” time, because in the past, ot was awkward working to create intimate experiences together. Planned time together always felt somewhat construed. Now, meaningful moments happen naturally. 

 

Living in this house allows us to fully enjoy our 50 acres as we dreamed we would. Out of every window, I see trees and the creatures that dwell within. A deer came to my office window the other day. Suddenly, his ears pinned back and he took off. Mark was watching. He thought, “What got into him?” Then he saw our dogs shooting off behind, giving chase – not like they can catch anything, but they have fun trying. Everyday is a party for the family pets living here. The dogs bound along the land all day long, barking at the llama, eating horse turds, wrestling in the fallen leaves. I put a deer block out on the hillside outside my office window, hoping to attract some wildlife. About killed me carrying that heavy thing up the steep mountainside. Don’t’ ya know, my dogs discovered it ten minutes later and decided, “Hum, my master put this here and it looks like something one of those leggy creatures would like, so we better protect it.” Damn dogs lay right beside it half the day. Nary will a forest creature get to enjoy that block now.

 

Our cats think this house is just a huge playground built to amuse them. They walk along the beams fourteen feet up, jumping to the high window ledges and sleeping in nooks of log and rock. This house brings the wilderness inside, which feels good to them. They have never been so gleeful.   In fact, everyone seems filled with spirit and joy as we sprawl out in this big personal space. There is such a sense of serenity and contentment here. Honestly, I’ve never felt that before in my life. Not living in New York, even though I was there pursuing my dreams. Not living in Sarasota, even though we prospered, had a comfortable life and did what we loved for a living. Only here have I learned true satisfaction of the soul. My personality is such that I’ve never slowed down, always felt driven, needed to accomplish more – be better. Here, I am relaxed. I feel more alive. Younger. The world is filled with humor and joy. It is remarkable.

 

Huge windows in the breakfast nook of our house look out on the pasture and creek. I’ve learned things about my ark, thanks to the view. For example, In the mornings, I stand at the window with my coffee and watch my animals greet the day. My llama lies in the center of the pasture in the exact position every single day. He raises his head in this majestic manner to greet the sun every morning. I marvel that he never moves or changes position. At first, I though, “Hey, llama’s are a middle-eastern animal. Perhaps he is a Muslim (they face east in part of their worship). Then I thought, “Naw, everyone knows the dalai llama is a Buddhist.” I guess Dalai just loves to watch the sun come up just as I do – because it is glorious. He’s my llama, after all.

By the way, he is taking cookies from our hand now, and he has gotten very natural around usl. Sweet.

 

I watch the donkey and our baby horse play in the mornings when they are feeling frisky. And our dogs wrestle and bound like the overgrown puppies they are along our hillside. I can even see the cats sneak through the grass as if they are lions on a hunt. Looking out my window is the best show on earth.

 

I cannot hear Joe, the rooster, from the house, at least not in the winter now that our windows are closed. That is a disappointment. But we have a few crows that have taken on the task of waking us up every morning. They caw in a God-awful loud way as the sun comes up. Their song is not nearly as joyful as a rooster’s crow. One of these big black birds keep walking to our glass door and tapping his beak on the glass as if he wants in. At first I worried that he was looking in at one of Mark’s logs and thinking, “Hey, there’s my missing house. Let me in, Buddy. . . I don’t know what this huge box is doing in my forest, but it consumed my tree!”  But Mark assured me he didn’t steal any wildlife homes when he was selecting trees, at least to his knowledge. I guess the crow is simply seeing his reflection in the window. But his incessant tapping is kinda spooky.

 

My kitchen is finally set up and I have begun cooking again. It is fun to have the space and the tools to make whatever I am inspired to try. I have signed up for a wine making class in the spring. I imagine I might do some serious calorie damage with that hobby – I confess, I tend to cook things I don’t like, such as chocolate brownies (I’m a fruity person –um…  no cracks). This way I combat potential weight damage because of what I bring into the house, but I still get to cook. But, wine? Forget it. I’ll be grinning in my kitchen, flirting every time my husband walks by if I start making sweet nectar at home. Nevertheless, homemade wine sounds too fascinating not to try. I even have the room to plant grape vines if I feel so inclined. Fun. Anyway, I’m experiences a cooking renaissance now with a real kitchen. Yippee!

 

 Unpacking  the kitchen was embarrassing. I had about fourteen boxes labeled “Kitchen appliances.” I kept saying, “This can’t be. What could possibly be left that I haven’t already unpacked?” Then I would see yet another batch of cooking paraphernalia. Now, I must admit, most of this was acquired as gifts. When people know you cook, gift giving is a snap. They just buy you the latest gadget on sale – the more obscure the better because then they assume you don’t have it. I have steamers and rice cookers and pannini grills – blenders and choppers and food processors and mixers – crock pots and ice cream makers and food sealers and fondue sets –  electric skillets and electric roasters and smokers and chafing dishes  – smoothie makers and juicers and blenders and electric tea makers. I unpacked my super duper coffee pot at last. Yippee. The only thing I imagine I don’t have is a deep fat fryer – but that is because I don’t fry food (health reasons), so thankfully, no one would presume give me one.

 

I wonder where I kept it this stuff. Fact is, it was all piled in the garage or in a deep storage cabinet. I never could find things or they were so hard to get to I rarely used them. Now, I have everything on a long shelf in sight. It is like dwelling in cooking heaven (if not a bit gross in regards to indulgence – but what ya gonna do -have a kitchen appliance garage sale, then give everybody a chance to start buying that stuff again next Christmas? No thanks.) I just have it on hand for occasional food-play now.

 

This week, they are building Mark’s new workshop, a big wooden two story work space to go with the metal building he put up months ago to store wood and finished furniture. Next week he will be setting it up, then I suppose I will become a wood widow. I doubt he will exit the building often once he finally gets his lathe and tools set up. Well, at least that means I’ll get a dining room table and a few coffee tables. We are sadly sans tables and chairs now. I only have  the upholstered furniture to live with now. Yes, I live in a house with just a couch and my two delicate chairs from the last home. But I’ve learned the best stuff is the stuff you are willing to wait for.  This means Mark and I are both excited about this workshop finally being built!

 

What else? Oh yea. Kathy is doing very well, and our lessons are continuing. She is such an earnest, great student. Working with her is rewarding on so many levels. And fascinating. She is speaking at the high school this week (to the problem students) about drugs and how they destroy a life (she is a success story and people are starting to notice) I am going to go to watch. It is fun being her mentor and friend. I feel good knowing my efforts are making a difference. But I am going crazy trying to decide what to give her for Christmas. More on that later. Kathy deserves a blog devoted just to her, I think.

 

We went to Florida to teach in our old school. It was a great experience – the kids still enrolled are the best of the best. So focused, respectful and filled with good attitude. Mark and I both thought that if the school was like that before, we probably could never have left. Dancing with those kids was a joy, and it was satisfying to step into our old roles again for a few nights. I’d forgotten what good dance teachers we are. Sounds conceited, but we both looked at each other and smiled knowingly during the class. The material we touched on was signifigant. Later, we talked about how easy it is to fall back into teaching mode – how much we wish we could pour all our knowledge into a kid’s head in a single moment. We could see the holes in their training, and for us, the problems would be so easy to fix. We have a gift for teaching dance in a solid way, and for creating earnst students without ego problems or bad attitudes. Sometimes it is very difficult to leave what you are good at. You feel guilty and out of sorts over it. Anyway, I think our visit deserves a full independent blog too, so I’ll wait to comment on that later. Or not. Just let me say that we appreciated the opportunity to dance in our old school again and our fondness for the students there is tenfold.

 

My own school has been trying this semester. I’ve actually had a very rough term. I am hot into preparing for my last residency and preparing my thesis now. I won’t go into it because I have to close this blog and get to work, but let me comment that I am progressing and feeling very glad that I chose to get my MFA. Nevertheless, I am ready to get it over with. All my teachers, those that were very hard on me and those that seemed to love working with me, have said I am a very good writer and my work is “publishable”.  Humm. Now, I guess it is all up to me. It is never about talent, ya know. It is all about what you do with your gifts.

 

I have a new confidence now. My formal writing education is a bit like Dumbo’s feather – it was probably not really necessary, but very good for making me feel equipped. In other wards, it was necessary for me, considering my personality. But now, I am ready to stop doing homework and ready to attend to my writing as a professional. Two years is a long hiatus from my love of writing historical romance or sending out material.  I inherently believe I will be successful when I return to the books I love to write and I try to get published. Noveling is a hard profession to break into, but I have confidence I will be recognized. Maybe more than anyone expects. Anyway, my writing, while I don’t talk about it too much, is progressing (painfully). My mind is swirling with characters and plots (historical) I am dying to get to.

In retrospect, I think writing a dance book was a big mistake during school because this was a period I was trying to break free of dance. Writing about that subject mater has been difficult, an element of the project which interfered with my heartfelt commitment ( I am usually very prolific and sticking with this project has been like pulling teeth) but it will all be over soon and I will return to romance and history and creating a world of my own making (rather than writing about a world I know too well personally, a world which distresses me). I’ll write now my flavorful historicals with more trained skill now. Can’t wait.

 

My writing room is a thrill to have too. I have a big oak desk and a black leather recliner to read in – a classy library environment – just as I dreamed. The rest of the room is just going to be lined with bark-edged shelves filled with the books I love (now sitting about me in boxes – sigh). My spinning wheel arrived from Australia and that is sitting in the corner too. All the things I love and cherish are around me, gifts from former students, handmade craft items from our adventures in Appalachian arts, mementos of trips or experiences. I have my dolls that I collect (I buy period dolls that look like characters in my historical novels – a tribute to my beloved characters, sort of, and in this room Mark can’t complain that they are “staring at him” now.) My Eckerd college BA degree, so painstakingly earned at age 39, is on the wall, with a spot for the soon to be had MFA. It is inspirational for a gal that moved to New York to dance so young, who was told she would “never be educated or have anything” if she dared choose dance over college and a practical career. Ha. My office is a grand “Told ya so” to the naysayers now. Not that that is why I love it, of course. I’ve never had my own personal space. It is splendid.  

 

I must go. I have so much to do. Boxes to unpack. We are rooting through not just a household of moving boxes, but years of stuff that was stored at FLEX too. Everything happened so fast when we sold the school we just threw it all in boxes for later. Now, “later” has come. It is daunting, sludging through eighteen years of living. We really believed when we put the school up for sale, that it would take two or three years to find a buyer. It was a specialized business, after all. Then we believed we would be asked to stay on for a year to help the transition. We were sort of aiming for leaving when Kent graduated – that is when our most believed dancers would have graduated too. But the school sold in 5 days, for our full asking price. Not like we could have hemmed and hawed the decision then. And the new owners said they didn’t want us involved – they were ready and excited to take over without us. It was a stroke of luck, but at the same time, a shock. We were sort of forced to jump into the cold water of the new life before we acclimated to the idea. Not that I am complaining, only that it took a long time to get over the feeling it was all unreal . Now, we are facing the aftermath of the quick shift. It is emotionally trying and a load of hard work to go through all this dance stuff, life stuff and household stuff – all crammed into our garage in poorly labeled boxes.   

 

Ah well, with the right attitude, this can be an adventure too, so I keep trying to view it as such.

   

I have more to say, but I am feeling guilty now for spending the morning blogging.

Balance. Must maintain balance.

Anyway, happy holidays to all.

It is nice to be back.  

 

 

 

 

Good Morning,

My husband says it is odd when I start a blog in this intimate fashion, as if I am talking to someone. He says, “Who are you talking to?”

 

I shrug and say, “It’s just a different writing technique. It feels good to approach entries different ways.” Which is true. But it is also true I like to think a close friend is on the other end, instead of a critical audience, so sometimes I rather write in close, first person narrative.

I think Mark likes my blogs more formal because they make more sense to him that way- like the purpose of my being here is to practice a writing exercise, rather than something that feels exploitive of the family as I share funny exchanges of our day. (It is just that real life is such a great spring board for thought, don’t you agree? Most family stuff is universally true.) But I have enough formal writing in my world that I don’t necessarily want a well-constructed  blog. It’s more enjoyable to write as if I’m talking to someone I share a bond with.  I guess I am like a kid with an imaginary friend, only my buddy isn’t playing beside me, invisible. My friend lives in the circuits of my computer, kinda like in the movie Startrek, when the captain started talking to the space ship and it talked back in a sexy woman’s voice. (Of course, if I imagine my blog talking back, it sure as heck won’t be in a sexy woman’s voice. Something more along the lines of Mandy Patinkin’s deep, intimate tone would be more my style.) This confession makes me sound lonely. Ha. Maybe I am.

I am off the point.

Today, we will begin the long, laborious process of moving into our new home.
We are starting by moving things we don’t need for daily survival from the cabin to the new house, then we will take the things like beds and such, that will signify the official change over (we will start sleeping at the house) – then a moving van will take our furniture from the storage unit (where all our true possessions have rested for 1 1/2 years) This will probably occur next Tuesday or Wednesday. We have lived a long time without lots of “stuff”. I am guessing half of what we packed away will be discarded when we unpack it, because we now have a different perception of what is important in life. Downsizing is all the rage, and while our house is upsized, our neediness for “things” has definitely been downsized.

 

Moving is exciting, in an exhausting sort of way. The house is remarkable – I need to post more pictures so you get the entire scope. People keep reacting to it is such funny ways. The other day, the electrician asked if he could walk through with a video camera because he said, “There will never be another house like this one.” Mark and the builder exchanged a funny smile, because they are already working on plans to build another one like it – or probably better, if Mark has his say. But as far as I’m concerned, they can build a dozen houses like this one, and none will be as special. Copies never have the heart and soul of the original. There are details that are distinctly “us” in this house, things you would never do in a generic house made for resale. I love those details the best. I always hated that concept of doing things to your home for “resale”- as if all the decisions you were making were for the next guy. I personally, rather paint the place red if red happens to put me at peace. Beige is for sissies. 

 

(Holly Molly – another bird just hit the window of this cabin. See what I mean? That is so freaky!)

 

Anyway, someone also made an offer for our house and land that represents almost twice what it cost to build. Whether or not that offer would take serious shape is one matter. But the theoretical concept was out there now.

Mark’s eyes bugged out of his head and he said, “What do you think about that?”

I said, “The house would come furnished, of course. WITH A WIFE AND KIDS! Cause if you think I’dl live in a temporary situation for another 1 ½ years while you build another house for us (and probably have a heart attack in the process) you are insane.”

“Um… yea, I agree totally.” He said.

Like he had a choice?  The thing is, you could spend a lifetime building things and selling them to people who do not have a vision to create a remarkable environment themselves and probably make a fine living of it. But that is like devoting your life to enhancing everyone else’s quality of life.  I think it’s important to live in the here and now, for you, and no profit margin is worth putting  that off. Tomorrow never comes, ya know, so you can’t afford to put “living” on hold for sometime in the future.  

I do love our new house, but the fact is, it is only a house. I keep reminding my husband that a house can be a prison if you are not careful to keep life in perspective. He sighs and promises me life will slow down and we can focus on non-material things as soon as we move. I’ll hold him to that.

 

Nevertheless, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled and breathless over the place we will be living. The house is cool, but even better is the setting with all the glory of nature outside the door. I have everything I’ve ever wanted in a life-environment now – a beautiful office for writing, an amazing kitchen (complete with some pretty cool ovens that are both convection and regular, along with other perks to delight a cooking enthusiast), a private dance studio as big as our former children’s dance center just for us –not for work, but for dancing for the joy of it (ah, bliss), nature trails for walking or running right outside the door, horses and llamas as part of the landscape design,…. a fire pit, a workshop for my husband’s junk, and even a big hot tub AND a Jacuzzi tub to soothe my old bones when I dare try using any of the afore mentioned perks.

 

For all that I might say a house is just a house; I have to admit this house is a slice of heaven and it is worth the sacrifice of alternate experiences, and the long wait, to get it.  I wasn’t as enthusiastic as my husband to build something so grand and so permanent – but I am glad now that he did. Moreover, it has given me further proof (not that I needed it) that my husband has some amazing gifts that only need a bit of encouragement and support to flourish. It is rewarding to see your spouse happy, doing what he loves.  Above all else, I think that is the best thing about the change in our life. Happiness isn’t a house, but it sure is being able to build one if that is your heart’s fondest desire.

This weekend, some friends from Sarasota came to visit. They are shopping for some land up here. They couldn’t pick a more awkward time to visit, because I can’t entertain while we are between homes in the midst of moving, but they said they will be busy scouting land, and they are cool with our being distracted. I am just hoping they find some land they want to buy, because that will assure they’ll come back later to close on it. Then, I can take care of them properly. Stuff them and take them out to play. I did manage to make them breakfast today, an egg, ham and hash brown casserole, crusty whole-wheat biscuits and a German apple pancake covered with sautéed apples. (This was more about killing off the last of our huge apple supply than about cooking something nice. In the past week I’ve not only been pushing sliced apples as a snack and put them in fruit salad, but I’ve made apple cobbler, warm apple cake with caramel sauce, apple gingerbread, and now a German apple pancake.  I’m taking the last few sad little fruits that look ready to turn, to our horses. I will finally be apple-depleted. Whew.  Using all those apples we picked was a challenge.)

New subject: Yesterday, I wrote my final assignment for my non-fiction professor. I hated sending it, because this concludes our work together. I enjoyed his tutelage so much that I chose to work with him for two terms (one full year), which took some groveling at the school director’s feet. I have learned a great deal from this professor. He is a good teacher, because he is encouraging and inspirational, yet he pushes students to expand their knowledge and abilities. He gave me great leeway to explore my interests, which allowed me to venture into creative non-fiction following the path of my own enthusiasm. When I graduate in June, I have every intention of writing a memoir or two – one about life transition and country living, the other about how a dancer is made (which would involved retracing my steps as a child with certain eager expectations – through to New York where the reality of dance was discovered, and into the world of making a stable living at the art, i.e. compromise (studio stuff). Finally it would explore why a dancer leaves the art – circling back to the childhood expectations and ideals and the life lessons learned along the way – it would be an interesting, albeit difficult, project to undertake).  Then again, I’ve kinda written this book already. It isn’t a memoir, but a fiction accounting that begins at a dancer’s retirement .  Through a series of flashbacks, diary entries and other such nonsense, the story of how art can become a powerful factor in one’s self image is unveiled. This is my thesis book, but I’d bore you to tears if I talked about it any more than this. Hopefully, you will read it someday – as an act  of friendship if nothing else.

 

I am also considering writing a regular non-fiction book (how-to) that outlines studio management and dance education practices. I’ll call it the Million Dollar Dance studio. Catchy, hun? What studio owner wouldn’t want that book?  I know I have an audience for this because I am still hired as a studio consultant and seminar guest fairly regularly. My reputation lingers even though it has been years since I was a New York name, go figure. Having managed a supremely successful studio (with Mark, of course, I don’t mean to omit his part in this success), I have real-life evidence to draw upon to support the theories this book would present. I must say that when it comes to running a dance studio, we know our stuff, and so much of our process was unique from other schools, that a case study would be a nice offering for others who could use some practical guidance on how to make a living teaching dance.  I’m told that the combination of my experience and reputation along with the literary training I’ve now acquired, would make this an easy proposal to sell to an editor. Non-fiction book deals are sold before they are written, unlike fiction or literary manuscripts. And I have actually learned all about putting together this kind of proposal, thanks to my new degree. The problem is, while I could write this book in my sleep, I don’t know that I want too. It would be an easy way to be officially “published”, but I am thinking I need to step away from the dance school mentality and dive boldly into something I am less familiar with (and less qualified to do)-  just as a means of stretching the Ginny envelope.   I need to let go of what I know and take some risks (and some falls) as I tackle the things I have less confidence in. . . Gotta take your first steps sometime . . .

 

Funny – I have a little wooden sign over my computer that says, “Boldly Going Nowhere.” Ha. I think that says it all.

Anyway, you can make me eat my words later when I get all mopey and depressed and feel like a failure because I can’t sell a manuscript, so I resort to writing the dang dance management book as a way in ease into the publishing world. I am never as confident as I sound, ya know.

I wrote my last creative non-fiction essay yesterday, at least the last one that will be critiqued by a teacher.  Any further attempts at this kind of thing will have to be done on my own. Hate to lose the motivation to produce – but no one can stay in school and have a teacher hold their hand forever. Now, I must turn my attention back to my fiction book. I have to have it all finished in about three months, for that is when I turn in the thesis for review. E-gad. Then, I must prepare a graduate level seminar for the final residency. Haven’t picked a subject yet. Have NO idea what I want to focus on. However, unlike many of the students, I’m not dreading this element of the degree. I am very comfortable teaching. I don’t find the idea of standing up and lecturing intimidating at all. Once I pick a subject, I am confident I will do whatever research is required and I’ll present the information in a solid way. For some people in the MFA program, teaching is a new (dreaded) experience – but not for me. Teaching is teaching, no matter what the subject, and I’ve been addressing crowds for a lifetime. Actually, I look forward to teaching a writing concept rather than a dance concept. It will be a nice challenge.

Speaking of which, I was asked to teach a writing class at the Appalachian College where I work with Kathy. I told them I have to wait until after I graduate. Still, this is something I will seriously consider later. I was also told one of the writers at the local newspaper office keeled over dead from a heart attack at his desk last week. Sad. They said, “They could seriously use you over there. Interested? We can give you a recommendation.”  Again, I said that until June I can’t consider heaping anything more on my plate.

 

All these little things make me feel there is promise for a new sort of future for me. When you are brave enough to open a new door, it leads to many other doors. I love nice long hallways with lots of doors to chose from! But I also don’t want to bury myself in responsibility that isn’t required. I sort of want to keep myself free to write the book of my heart. I pursued my MFA to prepare myself for just this. How many people can pause life to follow a dream? Not many. I must cherish my opportunity and not throw it away. It is easy to let the most sacred opportunities pass us by when we are not brave enough to venture out of our comfort zone. Comfort is lovely. But discovery leads to an even greater comfort level.

Anyway, I must clean the cabin today, because friends are visiting. I thought I’d share my final MFA assignment essay here for anyone interested. I know Jamie will read it if no one else. (And send me a few corrections as only an English teacher can…) It is about something that happened to me this week that made me look at myself a new way . . . . . Save it for later if you’re not in the mood now. I know some people do that – save things for later. Just be careful how much you put on hold – good things get forgotten or lost that way. Enjoy! 

Pretty is as Pretty Feels

 

      Since I woke up a few minutes later than usual this morning, I skipped taking a shower. Instead, I tied a lovely, new scarf around my head and garnished the look with some complimentary jewelry. I like fashion. I like accessories. It just so happens, I liked my “look” today. The scarf I selected, a muted grey, yellow and coral design, made my eyes “pop” in an attractive way, and it brought out the blush in my skin. Most importantly, my stylish (somewhat dramatic) ensemble was proof that innovation can change a morning from “frantic” to “creative”. 

     I went downstairs, smoothing out my matching grey sweater  while glancing around the room, searching for my favorite boots to complete the overall fashion statement.

     My fifteen-year-old son looked at me and said, “Halloween is over, Mom. You don’t have to go around looking like a gypsy.”

     My first impulse was to pinch him. My second, was to remember a kid wearing torn jeans and a faded T-shirt with a commercial logo blazing across the chest, would never be editor of a fashion magazine.

    “Your jeans have a hole in them,” I said, just to remind him I’m the ultimate authority on appropriate dress.

    He grinned, poking a finger through a frayed hole that suddenly seemed strategically placed, because it sure wasn’t in an area where jeans get realistic wear and tear. “You bought them like that. I think we paid extra for the hole.”

    Just as I opened my mouth to make a retort, my nineteen-year-old daughter breezed into the room. She said, “Good Morning, twenty-year-old-Mommy.”   

   Was that a compliment? Or a crack? Every forty-seven year old woman would like to look twenty, right? Or, is she saying I am not dressed age-appropriately? No forty-seven year old woman wants to look like she wants to look twenty, especially if she is missing the mark by about seventeen years. E-gad.

     “Am I too old for this scarf?” I asked, as I reached up to tug on the rim checking to see that my bangs were tucked in. I fingered the tails of the scarf, making sure they were still draped softly around my shoulder as well.

     “It’s cute. Can I borrow it?” my daughter asked.

      I considered for a moment my daughter’s love for zany hats and vintage accessories, the kind of brave articles that only overconfident, young adult’s wear as a public display of their individuality. I glanced at the clock. Less time than ever to take a shower now.

    I decided to ignore both my children. They are, after all, just kids. What do they know?

    My husband walked into the room. He saw the scarf and paused for a moment as if contemplating how best to react. “Cute,” he said, then proceeded to pour himself a bowl of raisin bran.

    “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

     He looked at me innocently. “That . . . is . . .  a . . . cute . . . scarf,” he said, as if slowing the comment down would help me process his opinion and take it in the polite manner with which it was intended.

     I narrowed my eyes. My husband is no fool. He wouldn’t dare tell me if I looked dumb in this scarf. It’s his duty to make me feel good about myself. Besides which, what does he know? He thinks I look cute in grubby jeans and a paint-splattered T-shirt. Not to mention that it’s hard to respect the opinion of someone dressed in a camouflage undershirt and work boots, not what you’d call “fashion savvy” by any stretch of the imagination.

    “Thank you,” I said, crinkling my nose at my son in an “I told you so” way.

     I motioned for the kids to head to the car, privately discrediting my husband’s generous compliment. Love is blind, ya know. But I like it that way and it’s only fair that the “unconditional attraction clause” in marriage works two ways. Therefore, I didn’t make a comment about his yard-work outfit and instead, kissed the top of his head, careful not to let my chic scarf touch his goofy baseball cap, lest it get dislodged from its perfectly jaunty angle (The scarf, that is, not the baseball cap. That was already crooked, my husband’s hair sticking out bozo-like around the edges.) 

    Trying to retain my usual laissez-faire fashion attitude (no small feat when wearing something that now feels like a costume), I dropped my kids off at school and stopped by the coffee shop to get a latte. I visit this store every morning at ten past eight, and so I share a friendly report with the girl working behind the counter.

     She smiled as I entered and said, “Morning. Nice scarf.”

      I paused, trying to decipher her tone. She couldn’t very well say, “Morning. Weird look for you,” now, could she? Therefore, what exactly did she mean? “Nice scarf for a twenty year old” (which she is) or “Nice scarf for a gypsy?” (Which I’m not) or, “I’m polite so I will say ‘nice scarf’ to make you feel comfortable, even though you’ve come in here this morning wearing a get-up so odd it can’t be totally ignored“?   

       “I didn’t have time to shower today,” I said, feeling the need to make a disclaimer.

       “I have days like that,” she said. “But still, I like the scarf. I picked those same colors for my kitchen.”

       She thinks I look like a kitchen? I headed back to my car, holding what had become a rather tasteless latte in my cold hands. Two women smiled at me from across the parking lot, no doubt glad to be standing downwind. I imagined they were thinking, “See the scarf. That woman must not have taken a shower today. Why else would she go out in public wearing that outrageous scarf on her head? Doesn’t she remind you of a kitchen?”

     I quickly drove home, instantly jumped into the shower and took great pains to do my hair just so.

    So much for my brave fashion foray.

     When I think about my response to everyone’s reaction to my scarf, I feel a bit sheepish now. I pride myself on being a trendsetter and a free thinker. Since when do I care what other’s think? I liked the way I looked in that scarf. I believe the colors made my complexion glow and covering my vibrant red hair brought attention, for once, to other features. But the fact is, every woman wants to be perceived as pretty, and while we recognize (on a intellectual level) that it’s only important we feel good about ourselves, deep down, we like to think other’s share our positive opinion. Even though I personally thought my scarf was pretty, I simply didn’t trust my “look” was perceived in a positive way by others, and as such, it ruined the pleasure for me. 

     “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” my mother use to say. And, “Beauty is only skin deep.” That may well be true, but why is it that every beholder has a different ideal of what is skin-deep-pretty? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that what is pretty to each individual has little to do with our natural gut reaction to a visual image.      We are taught what is pretty, just as we are taught to be prejudice or taught what religious or political affiliation is right and good within our intimate family circle. 

      Fashion changes. Botticelli women were all the rage in the 1460 but in 1960, emaciated Twiggy was the ideal. In each case, a healthy, non-excessive body weight wasn’t receiving the admiration it deserves.  Cultural style mandated what body type was perceived as beautiful.

     Historically, we look back on those trends and shake our head at the absurdity of public opinion. But knowing beauty has been established by social attitude in the past still doesn’t stop us from allowing our concept of what is and isn’t pretty to be influenced today.     

      I don’t suppose I will ever consider the women of Ubangy striking, no matter how large the plates they use to deform their natural lip line may be. I can’t imagine I’ll ever feel envy over their stretched earlobes, deformed by wearing massive iron rods where I would wear delicate jewelry. These forced physical adjustments are considered beautiful in the Ubangy society, but not in mine. And no matter how long I stare at pictures of these women, seeking an understanding of their concept of beauty or attempting to appreciate the originality of their fashion trends, I can’t seem to get past the fact that their ideal doesn’t look attractive to me personally. Would I feel differently if I saw the same style on the cover of vogue magazine? If the stores I frequent began pushing displays featuring a similar look, condoned by designers I admire, would I find myself trying to enhance my features unnaturally, because my perception of beauty will have been altered as social acceptance becomes the norm?

     I sponsor a child named Muliken, in Ethiopia. I not only send monthly support to enhance his life, but we exchange letters. One day, I sent Muliken a large, eight by ten picture of me so he would have a face to connect to the person he was talking to across the sea. He wrote back:

My dear sponsor,    

            Thank you for the pictures. I see you have marks all about your face.

I am sorry. What sad thing has happened to you?

     

    I thought his response endearing. I wrote back a long letter explaining that, what he perceived as a malformation, was simply freckles. I explained skin pigment and told him that lots of people in America have these markings on their face, like leopards from his world. His honest reaction to my looks didn’t bother me. In fact, it made me chuckle, for I understood he had probably never encountered anyone with my complexion before. Muliken didn’t consider me pretty; he actually saw me as deformed in some way, but I wasn’t perturbed by this, because I recognized and respected the huge cultural difference between us. The fact that Muliken didn’t find me pretty didn’t make me question my self-image at all.

    Since I understand the power of cultural influences, why does it disturb me so much when my own society passes beauty judgment? Knowing, intellectually, that beauty is influenced by cultural (and sub-cultural) attitudes, I should shrug off public opinion and not allow it to shake my confidence. Yet, it does. 

     My son is fifteen, enmeshed in a culture where standing out from the “in” crowd often results in being ostracized. He and his friends all dress the same, speak the same, and think the same. They spend hours studying the internet and TV in a mad struggle to keep abreast of what is “cool”. They believe they must comply with the unspoken code of what is “in” to earn coveted peer approval. In his eyes, my wearing a funky scarf when no other mothers are wearing them will set me apart from my “peers”. Therefore, it’s a fashion risk my son simply cannot approve of. To him, how the scarf actually rests against my face, bringing out the color of my eyes or enhancing my skin tone, has little to do with whether or not I look pretty wearing it.

     My daughter, on the other hand, is a bit older, of an age where flaunting social norms is considered daring and independent.  She not only applauds the possibility of her mother standing out, but she wouldn’t mind borrowing the scarf herself, since it attracts attention. To her, how the scarf actually rests against my face, bringing out the color of my eyes or enhancing my skin tone, has little to do with whether or not I look pretty wearing it.

     My husband doesn’t see much beyond my face or figure. As a busy man who skirts many of the cultural influences in the media (he has no interest in fashion magazines and rarely shops) fashion evades him completely. He does like me in a tight sweater; a pair of clingy jeans, maybe even a pair of come-hither boots, once in a while. However, his taste in a woman’s dress has nothing at all to do with fashion and everything to do with reminding him just what is under the clothes. To him, how the scarf actually rests against my face, bringing out the color of my eyes or enhancing my skin tone, has little to do with whether or not I look pretty wearing it. 

     Unlike my family members, my friend at the coffee shop has no personal stake in how I look. No one is going to think more or less of her simply because one of her customers looks like a twenty-year-old-mother-gypsy. I sincerely doubt she notices how the scarf molds the shape of my face or enhances my coloring either. She sees a lot of faces in a day, and I bet the only faces she considers pretty, are those wearing a smile. Yet still, when she said, “Nice scarf,” I didn’t trust the comment.

      I did my laundry today and after I washed my scarf, I hung it up with a dozen other beloved scarves and wondered whether or not I will wear any of them.

    My gut instinct is to purchase a new alarm clock so I will never wake up late and be faced with the “no-shower” dilemma again. This would dissolve the motivation for donning a scarf. But perhaps that is the wrong attitude. Perhaps I should begin a campaign to parade my individuality for all to see. I can wear a different scarf everyday for a month as a matter of principal. The problem is, when people get accustomed to seeing me in scarves, the “look” will fail to make a fashion statement. If I abruptly change my image, people might even feel badly for me as they wonder if I have cancer or if I can’t pay my water bill as they try to figure out why I am dressing out of the ordinary. Besides which, I’d get awfully tired of the same old look, no matter how nice an experiment it is to draw attention to parts of my body other than my hair.

    I could always just wait until wearing scarves becomes fashionable again. It is only a matter of time until the mussed hair look will lose popularity and a sleek, colorful scarf will take center stage. A scarf fashion trend would increases accessory sales and anything that increases revenue will eventually prove popular, thanks to economical world forces. I just have to sit tight, and wait for that to happen. Then, I can don a scarf and when people say “Nice scarf” I’ll trust they mean it, for they will no doubt be wearing a scarf too. 

    I could always listen to my children’s opinion and save the scarf for next Halloween. Or wear it when I am feeling particularly old and want to pretend I am twenty again. I can even wear it for my husband with nothing else, just to see if he notices (he won’t.)  

     But the truth is, whether or not I wear the scarf again has nothing at all to do with how other’s perceive it and everything to do with how I perceive other’s perceive it. (Complicated, but true.)

     I have to decide what is pretty in my estimation. And that means I have to stop second guessing remarks that are probably nothing more than earnest recognition of my walking into a room looking different than usual. 

   The truth is, this morning, no one said my scarf was unattractive. I decided they didn’t like it because I read something into each and every comment made about my “look.”  In the end, it’s safe to say the only person who didn’t really think the scarf looked natural on me was me.

     “Pretty is as pretty does,” my mother would say.

      So the question really is, “Does wearing a scarf make me feel pretty?”

     Looking at the wide array of scarves hanging in my closet, I have to admit, I like the color, texture, and multitude of style options that scarves offer.  So, tomorrow I’ve decided to get back on the horse and try wearing one again. I’ll consider it an experiment.  It may be wise to tie the fabric tightly around my ears to block out the sound of other’s voices. Then, I won’t be influenced by anyone else’s opinion of what is or isn’t pretty.       However, for this to work I have to understand that to be really comfortable wearing something different, there is only one voice I must silence.

      My own.

Sunday, we went apple picking. It was a glorious day, and walking through aisles lined with dozens of trees laden with a variety of apples was good for the soul. Mark and I needed a day focused on something nice, so I think the simple act of picking apples had special poignancy. It certainly felt like a tender, uplifting day.

 

The ground was littered with hundreds of fallen apples in various states of decay. Some were still fresh, lying on the ground – ripe, perfect gifts that simply experienced bad timing, falling before being selected by a visitor. Knowing people were not bound to stoop over to get these unlucky apples made me somewhat sad for their fate. There were so many yellow and red globes on the ground I swear it looked like the ball pit at a children’s play place.

 

Mark said, “Wouldn’t you love to ride through here and just let the horses have a grand old picnic?” Ha. They would come out looking like elephants with short, pointy ears. However, riding through those open spaces would be a thrill, I agree.

Mark kept picking apples and taking a bite, sampling the different species. I told him that didn’t seem kosher, considering we only pay for the apples that fill our bag, but he laughed at me and pointed to the ground. “They write this public grove off as a tourist activity and I’m sure they just hope people will deplete the apples the best they can. Look around. We can’t make a dent in the ripe fruit here. Eating one more simply saves it from rotting.”

 

He was right, of course, so I began eating too. In fact, after that, I noticed everyone we encountered was munching away. OK, it wasn’t cheating after all. It was actually a way to give poor, unloved fruit a purposeful end.

 

We were aiming to pick two pecks. Not that we need that many apples, but we wanted to prolong the fun awhile.  Kent insisted that all the good apples were the ones at the top of the tree – which wasn’t at all true, but it give him an excuse to climb. We did a tag team thing where he worked his way up the branches and threw his selection down to me to bag. I was being plummeted by apples, like Dorothy in the wizard of Oz when she teased the trees. My son kept laughing, apologizing, but honestly, I know he was aiming half the time no mater how he denies it.

Mark reached up to grab a red delicious and the one next to it fell and bopped him in the nose. Once he discovered that picking overripe apples was dangerous, he developed the “hold Neva up in front as a shield, all the while getting credit for helping her reach the highest apples” technique. However, Neva is no fool. She said, “Hey wait a minute, now they are hitting me!”

“Oops,” he said innocently, winking at me as apples plummeted around him, knocking his daughter silly.

But my kid is a brave soul, willing to do battle to get the best apples. God forbid her brother accomplishes something she can’t.

 

After we had filled our bags and eaten enough apples to keep the doctor away the rest of the month, (and polished a bag of hot boiled peanuts), we left to drive on down the road to Burt’s farm. This is where we go to buy our pumpkin every year. We did this even those years we didn’t live here, for we often visited in the fall, and you can’t go to the mountains this time of year and not visit Burts. It’s a huge farm with thousands of pumpkins set out among haystacks and scarecrows. Country music is piped in and the scent of pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread wafts from the kitchen all day. Burt is famous for BIG pumpkins. Many are as big as a one of those Barbie cars kids drive. The farm has about a hundred wheelbarrows that you use like a shopping cart to bring your gourds and pumpkins to the register. We chose a 33-pound pumpkin – huge – and a smaller five pounder for Neva to carve herself. Of course, we had to get a piece of pie, three bags of popcorn, hot cider and other delights too. Going to Burt’s is not about the pumpkin. It is the all time fall kickoff event!

 

When we got home, we watched a dumb movie (Ultra violet – yuck), and I began planning for my next lesson with Kathy. She is getting cooking homework this week. I’ve put together all the ingredients for homemade chocolate chip cookies and I copied the recipe in words she can read. Tomorrow I will give her this basket of goodies, complete with flour, sugar, vanilla and a measuring cup and cookie sheet (just in case) and I will help her to understand how to read recipes. Fun.

 

One of the reasons I dreaded going to Sarasota last week was that it meant I’d be missing our reading lesson. I am committed to my dance students, true, but Kathy is my student too, and a very important one in my opinion. Last Friday she was scheduled to have her first assessment to see how much she has improved. It killed me to miss the pre-test lesson, when we would have done a review. I called her from Sarasota and asked if she wanted to postpone her test, but she said, “I am here studying my words right this minute. I’ll do OK. You just take care of what you have to take care of. You’ve already done your work, now it is up to me.”

I was thrilled. It’s encouraging that she feels confident and that she understands that my role in this kind of test is determined by what was done in the days and months before. I thought of dancers I’ve sent to competition who tended to take it so personally if I wasn’t in the room when they danced. I believed then too, that my work had already set the stage for what would happen. The actually test (or judging) was all about luck and their performance at that point. I don’t care how she scores officially (just like those dancers I sent to competition) I know my student has worked hard and I am proud of her.

Anyway, she did it without me. I can’t wait to hear how she fared. I guess my cookie homework is a sort of celebration.

 

I am also behind on homework, thanks to the impromptu trip. Not that that is anything new. But I will get my work done by staying up nights so I can send it in on the due date November 6^th.   Then, I AM ON A BREAK! Yippee. I have two months off, just when we will be moving into the house (next Monday). I don’t have to tell you how much I need this MFA break.  I love to write, but my mind is swimming with literary mumbo jumbo and it needs to fester and lay dormant a bit. And other things are distracting me.

 

Halloween is tomorrow. No pumpkin buffet at my house again. Boo Hoo (not to be confused with just a boo) But I have a moon lighting the sky without competition from streetlights or suburban spread, and I have real coyotes and owls howling in the background to set the mood. Yep, Halloween is different here, but it is still good. Genuine.

 

 

 

 

While reading a nutrition magazine this morning, I learned that one ostrich egg can feed ten people. Damn, I knew I should have made my chicken pen taller.

 

The average hen will lay 300-325 eggs a year. My big slackers haven’t dropped a single egg yet. Losers.

 

Apparently, Americans eat 350 slices of pizza a second. Every single second? I guess that is possible considering all the college kids in the country who wake and take a bite of stale, cold pizza left from last night’s orgy. I know that Kent can definitely drive up the piece per second number when we take him to the “all you can eat” pizza buffet.

 

It takes 7-10 days to make one jellybean. Now, this is awfully interesting. Why, I wonder.  I’ve never made jellybeans from scratch. I don’t even have a single jellybean recipe. I’ve been thinking I’ll make wine vinegar from scratch when we move into the new house, because I’ve read about the process and it sounds cool . Wine vinegar takes a few months to ferment and is a little like keeping a crock filled with sourdough starter (another thing I’ll be doing) because you add to the original starter for years to get the best, heirloom flavor. But jellybeans are apparently a slow cooking delicacy all their own. I’d like to try it, but it might be over my amateur cook’s head. Would hate to attempt something that would shake my cooking confidence. Besides which, I might piss off the Easter bunny if I infringe on his monopoly and we can’t have that.

 

Forty percent of the world’s almonds are used in chocolate bars. Amazing. Obviously, Hershey’s with almonds are more popular than Chicken Almandine. Sad, that.

 

And I wonder how I survived all these years not knowing that 6000 BC was the approximate year that soups included hippopotamus bones. I haven’t tried that recipe either. Here I thought I was an adventurous cook, and I find out I’ve barely scratched the surface of dish possibilities.

 

That is about all I gained from this “Nutrition for the Active Woman” magazine, a collector’s issue from “Oxygen”. The recipes are all a bit too organic for me – I like healthy cooking and all, but when every recipe calls for soymilk, mirin, yazu citrus juice (I don’t even know what that is) and juice from pomegranates, I figure the end result will not be worth the effort. It goes against my “use what is in the cupboard” rule. Not that this rule imposes any particular challenge for me considering, like most enthusiastic cooks, I have such a diverse and overstocked cupboard. But I am almost certain I am out of yazu this week.  Actually, there is one recipe I cut out from the magazine, but only because it was a diety winter broccoli soup that looked appealing. I had to make my 4.99 investment pay off in some way.

 

By the way, the magazine didn’t include a single recipe for Ostrich eggs, which is sort of a tease if you ask me since they bothered to point out how far they stretch.

 

I am procrastinating, obviously. It is raining again and I don’t want to do homework again. But I must. I can’t keep avoiding my book, even though it has become torture to revise recently. (Revision still puts me to sleep.)  If I ate with better nutrition, perhaps I’d have more energy to face my endless homework pile. In fact, perhaps that means I should make myself a cup of coffee and sit on the couch and re-read this Nutrition magazine for another hour . . . in the interest of getting my homework done, or course. . . .

 

 

 

It’s been raining for two days straight. What’s a girl to do? Certainly not homework.

 

I made chicken soup, of course, with a new recipe for “Country Cornmeal Buttermilk Bread”. It contains all the ingredients I have on hand. I am a very lazy cook in that way – I like to see what I can make out of what I have in the fridge or pantry. It is like a personal challenge to make something extraordinary that doesn’t require my going to the store. I made a sugar free pumpkin pie (without crust) for my dieting husband too. Then, I added a pork roast and veggies with my secret low-fat recipe broiled potatoes. As that was all simmering, I cleaned my cabin so it would smell nice and look welcoming when everyone got home. I changed our sheets and set the table. I went to the post office to pick up the mail, knowing we would have another Net Flix movie in our box. Rain calls for a good movie, I think.    

 

Did all this stuff stop the rain? Never does. But it does make the world cozier when the family gathers at the end of the day. Comfort food, a clean house (with a fire going, of course) and the sound of rain pounding the roof is the perfect recipe for a nice evening. Food isn’t the only savory thing I know how to cook up, ya know.   

 

But, before I can enjoy any of this, I still have to go visit the land to feed the horses. I will be standing out there under the dripping sky (more like buckets of water than drips) grumbling because my donkey and llama eat so slowly. I will visit the chickens, at least feeling good that they have a nice dry nesting place. Then, I will visit the house and see what small progress might have occurred today, sighing because time is passing so slowly as I await this coveted move. I then will go back to the pasture to unhook the horses, which will now be finished and getting all pushy for an apple. I’ll give them each two, blinking through drenched bangs as I consider how my muddy sneakers are going to grubby up the car again.

 

At last, I will return home. By then, I will be cold, wet, and hungry. The heck with the family – I think I cleaned the house and made a nice dinner today for ME, knowing what the rain really means to my day.

 

Mark will come home and feel all snuggly and happy after a good meal and a movie. He will sit by the fire with his coffee and start thinking of those clean sheets upstairs. So, he will lean over intimately and open his mouth to say something suggestive, but just as he does I’ll sigh and say . . .  “See ya. I have homework.”

 

What’s a girl to do? It’s been raining for two days now . . . I had to make soup.