Category Archives: Daily News

It’s no secret. You’d have to hog tie me to get me into a church. But, I’m thinking I found a church that might just do exactly that to save my soul. Cause this church is “Rounding up souls for jesus!” Yessiree.

While driving to Helen one day, Mark and I spoted this church. At first I thought it was a joke. But it is a real bonafide church. I’m telling you, this is a service I wish I could attend (only it is 1 1/2 hours away, too bad). I especially like the “howdy” on the front door and the nice cowboy decorations. One of these days, should I ever feel inclined to repent for my sins, I’m thinking I’ll join the Cowboy church. I imagine the preacher wears a cowboy hat and the choir plays the mouth harp and the washboard. Whoever knew church could sound so fun?

I couldn’t help it. I had to take a picture for you. We live here. Ha. Scarier still, is that we fit right in, in our own weird way. Ya gotta admit, when you live in a place where even the sight of church makes you grin, well, it must be good for the soul. 

As quickly as I take pictures and get around to having Mark download them (I have to learn how to do this myself one of these days) , the house evolves, making it seem as if I am posting “old”  news. Ah well, it will be new to you. Actually, we have progressed beyond this construction point this week. They are now laying the floors and finishing details that make it all start to look like a fantastic home, rather than a rustic cabin filled with construction. I take pictures with the construction team in view because I like to remember them, though it might seem odd to you. Hey, it is all about preserving the process – remembering the stages that linked to create our new home – NOT about my wanting to capture photos of the cute young, muscle bound builders (ahem) .

But first, I thought I’d start with my chicken house. Admit it, you are dying to see the foolish cage I spent way too much on. This is the scaled down version of my origional plan, but still it cost me over 3 grand. Taught me a valuable lesson – leave the building to the men . . . when they have time to pay attention to what you are talking about. Anyway here is my chicken coup, complete with six scrawny chickens. May be folly, but it is still mine to enjoy.

A side-front view: Note that the chicken coup (the actuall laying boxes) is still in the delivery box leaning against the wall-  not put together or hung. Hummm…… I have to conspire a way to get Mark to help me with this still.
It isn’t easy when I have more egg on my face than in the coup.
 
This is the coup from the back. You can see that I have a bunny cage on the side too – but it is still in disrepar since the bear tore the hinges off. It also has some holes torn in the heavy duty wire that you can’t see. The nesting box is full of teeth marks and paw gashes and torn open in the front too. It is a sad reminder of the carnage. Boo hoo.


I’ve also include a close up of my door decoration. I went on-line and ordered this metal chicken thing-a-ma-bob to mount on the entrance. Mark saw it and said, “You are the biggest queer-bo I have ever met.” (That is his idea of romantic.) I didn’t have the gall to tell him I’ve also been searching for an inexpensive rooster weather vain for the roof. How cute would that be? Mark thinks (now that he is the big shot house designer) that he is the only one with good ideas. Well, I think my smartly decorated chicken coup will prove he isn’t the only one with an eye for classy design!

Now, for the house. As I’ve mentioned, we have 4 fireplaces, so I thought I’d share them with you. They don’t look nearly as good as they will when the construction is removed and they have things on the mantle etc.. And we have track lights to aim at the primary fireplace to bring out the chrysals in the geods and stuff, to make it more a focal point. But this gives you the general idea.


The first is the fireplace in the great room. You can’t see the geods in the picture, but they are all over – to the ceiling. The second fireplace is on the porch. We have nifty holes in the stone to stack wood into. Mark made this mantle from a tree on the lot. Cedar. He carved out the burls and finished it. Cool, hun? He also did the logs above. This floor is being laid today with slate. It is a striking room, more so if you can see the view because it looks down on our creek. I suspect I’ll waste many afternoons reading out here when I should be doing something productive. What can I say, my ambitions have shifted. Now I sway towards “shiftless”.

    
The bedroom fireplace is actually a wood stove. It has a nice leaf pattern so when it is turned on the glow of leaves fills the room. This one is gas with a remote and a timer, because we are lazy and want to be able to fall asleap with it on with no effort on our part. The next one is in the downstairs family room. This is the “kid’s fireplace. Gas also, because they can’t resist throwing things into the fire and messing with it and we now have a house that can be burnt to the ground with a single match and a good wind. We designed a place for the TV on top, thus explaining the hole in the stone. 

This is what my kitchen looks like from the living room. Well, you can’t see much except that it curves around into the room a bit. There are no doors on the cabinets yet. They have since built a wood slab bar to sit at by the sink. I love this kitchen, but you have to wait for pictures, ’cause not enough is done to show it off yet. Next is a picture of my super, collosal, fantastic, wonderful, adaquate food pantry. Think it is long enough? I plan to fill the dang thing with jars of blueberry jam and pickles once I learn how to make pickles. Yep, a pantry like this is aching for homemade stuff, and I won’t let it down. It is the principal of the thing. Across from it is the washer and dryer and cabinets, etc. I’m loath to admit I will be spending plenty of time in this portion of the room. At least it will be neat.


This is our bathroom – well, the guest bathroom that you would use if you stopped by to visit. I haven’t taken a pix of our master bathroom, which is the best room in the house. Next time. I think this bathroom is the kind Fred Flinstone would have had with the stone and all. Ha. Next to that is a picture of our driveway, what I see each time I drive away from the house. Pretty, hun? It isn’t finished yet either, obviously.


Now for the serious stuff. Here are our stairs. Mark and the building boys made these out of huge trees on the lot. They weigh a billion pounds, more or less. This is an origional design, because usually these are done in a different way, though don’t ask me to explain it. The rails are made of smaller trees, and what you don’t see yet is the interesting laurel posts that will be between the rails (Mark is cutting the laurel today at the national forest with a permit from the forestry service).  This stairway leads to his loft office, that opens to a small deck over the front entrance of the house. The stairs also lead down to the lower level of the house where the family room, kids bedrooms, pool table room, guest room and DANCE STUDIO/WORKOUT ROOM are.  The stairs are kind of a focal point in the house, seen from every room since it is an open plan. They are prettier than the picture shows, and when they are all oiled and finished, they will be amazing. (My humble opinion)


I’m running out of pictures here, so I will end with a pix of the path Mark cut into the woods so I can walk (or ride) to my chicken coup. And a picture of our new pasture area that we fenced in for the horse. I think I am missing my horses, because I have had two dreams this week about them. In both, they have run away and I am searching for them frantically and only find the one who is still on our land. Clearly, my psychee is unsettled with this thing we did, loaning them out to the neighbor. Guess you only know if you try. Anyway, I do miss them and I can’t wait for the month to be over so they come home. It is like sending your kid to camp. You are dying to get rid of them, but when they are gone you get all mooney and sad and you want them ho
me where they belong. 


Now, I have homework to do. I promised I wouldn’t blog until my paper was written, and look at me, acting as if posting pictures doesn’t count. Amazing how I can justify something I want . . . . sinful, actually.     

Last night, I made a savory stew, but I also made some homemade, oat bread with pecans –because I knew that would draw the attention away from the main course. I felt this was wise because I was feeding my innocent, unsuspecting family deer meat for dinner. I was careful not to share this truth until they were halfway through their “beef” stew. I wanted to give them the opportunity to consider the taste and texture, after they fully acknowledged that were enjoying the meal. I didn’t want them pushing their plate away and saying, “Pass the salad” at the thought of being a Bambi carnivore – (which Denver did indeed do the moment she found out what it was she was consuming.)  

Hunting season opened two weeks early this year because the deer population is so large. They claim this is important to keeping wildlife in balance (and considering how many deer I’ve seen these past few weeks, I can believe it). Therefore, we’ve been hearing shots in the evening around the cabin.

Denver said, “What is that sound I keep hearing?”

We told her it was deer season.

Incensed, she said, “They can’t shoot them anywhere, like where we live can they? That seems awfully dangerous.”     

I explained that they can shoot them anywhere the deer lived, so they probably don’t shoot off their guns in downtown Blue Ridge or suburban areas where most people dwell. Since we live in the forest, they actually can shoot them where we live. We need to keep that in mind when we take walks this time of year.

Sad, but true.

Of course, I pointed out that no one can shoot deer where we are going to live, because we have claimed our 50 acres as a “Wildlife Preserve”. This decision was made to take advantage of a great tax break, while also living true to our (my) moral ethics. (I should point out here that Mark is more and more open to the concept of hunting now that he has made friends with hunters. I don’t imagine he’ll ever go hunting himself, but he thinks it is fine for others if they eat what they kill. And he happens to adore deer meet.)   Making our land a wildlife preserve means no one can shoot anything on the property for the next ten years. Even if we sell the land, the new owners must accept in advance that it is a wildlife preserve until 2016. Do I need to tell you how much pleasure this gives me? Heck with the tax break – I just love that our land is a safe haven (with lots of goodies set about from the mistress of the preserve) for animals.

Anyway, back to my deer meat dinner. At the end of the season, last year, our builder and friend, Ronnie, gave us several packets of deer tenderloins to try. Venison happens to be low in fat and very healthy for you. Mark has been pushing me to try it. I tucked those neat little butcher paper wrapped packages in the back of my freezer, where I planned to forget them. But as hunting season opened up again, it occurred to me that Ronnie was bound to ask us how we enjoyed his gift last year, and if we wanted anymore from this year’s bounty. I think it would be rude to admit we never even tried his meat– and I certainly don’t want to lie about it.

The fact is (as I explained to Denver) if a deer is shot and consumed, it is really a natural thing. They live a far better (free) life than the cattle we purchase from slaughterhouses, and the circle of life demands that some creatures die to allow others to live. But if we just throw out that meat, then the deer died in vein. What a crime to have the creature killed and then tossed in the garbage. In a way, we are paying respect to the deer by eating it, since it has already been killed.

This was somehow accepted by my children, and we all tentatively sampled the meat, agreeing that it was tender and had great flavor. It’s diety too. I enjoy learning to cook new things, and I have a ton of venison recipes, but honestly, this wasn’t as much fun as thought it would be. Eating a graceful, peaceful animal, such as a deer, doesn’t sit as well with me as it should, considering I accept the logic of the hunting issue. In fact, I am leaning more and more towards returning to my former vegetarian state. I don’t eat red meat much anymore, unless it is a bit of hamburger in a meatloaf, and even then, I use mostly ground chicken or pork. I think of steak and see the soft, gentle eyes of the cows I pause to watch when I run. Can’t help it – makes the bite stick in my throat. I don’t think I’ll ever feel this way about chicken. I have chickens. I like them. But chickens are dumb. I can eat them. Not MY chickens, of course, but other, nameless, faceless chickens are OK for the skillet. It’s a double standard, I admit, but that is how I feel.

Anyway, my family survived the deer meat test – with Mark almost too enthusiastic for my comfort. But to be honest, the best thing about it was my discovery of the new bread recipe.

We must all be open to new things. That doesn’t mean you have to like everything you try, but you should at least experience things before passing judgment.  Gee, does this mean I can pass judgment on the hunters and nag them at every possible opportunity now? Guess that would be a stretch. I’ll just have to let our “wildlife preserve” act satisfy my desire to serve and protect the deer – be happy in the knowledge that they can live out their graceful, gentle lives in peace . . .  with the Hendry’s blessing.   

     Last night our friend, Jessica Smith, called and said; “I had to call. I feel out of touch. Ginny isn’t blogging!”

Wow. Someone noticed.

    I really shouldn’t blog today either – I have a HUGE homework packet due – but I will write a quick overview of what is going on just so Jessica ,and anyone else out there, knows I am alive and kicking. I will embellish upon things tomorrow after I send my work to my professor and can breathe.

    To say I’ve been busy is an understatement. First, my parents came to visit for five days. As Simon, Kent’s drum teacher, said when I sheepishly got around to showing up at the music store to explain why we missed our lesson and even forgot to call, “Your parents came to visit? Say no more. I get it.”

    It was a wonderful visit, however, albeit a bit sad for me. I was suddenly so aware of how fleeting my time with my folks will be, and small signs (evidence) of their age or slowing down seemed glaringly obvious. Clearly, this was fallout from Mark’s Dad’s passing. I found myself feeling grateful for my parents, for all the fun we’ve had together over the years. And I kept looking at them as people; two amazing individuals who set an example of living well that I only pray I can follow. They have the perfect marriage – a relationship filled with romance and consideration, humor and sincere camaraderie that sets the benchmark pretty high for us mortals. They are committed to each other, to keeping healthy for each other (they look great, eat carefully, workout daily – it’s amazing.) They are active, in touch with the world, and have this wonderful mature wisdom that colors how they view life. I admire them so much. We had a cookout on the land, and my Dad took a spin on the four-wheeler. He rode one of our horses. He went fishing on our creek and tried to walk up our killer mountain (but luckily, we caught him halfway up and drove him the rest of the way). My mother spent the week trying to take work off my hands, always wrestling with me in the kitchen over who would set the table or do the dishes. Made me laugh. I kept saying, “Be a guest for once, will ya? I’m forty-seven. I can make a dinner.”  Her energy puts me to shame.

    We celebrated my dad’s 79^th birthday while he was here, and toasting another year of life was fun, yet I feel a bit like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It is only a matter of time until one of my parents succumbs to age. I can’t imagine one without the other, and I can’t imagine life without them. Anyway, for all that we laughed and enjoyed a nice visit, inwardly, I wrestled with all kinds of poignant melancholy. I know that doesn’t make sense, because it is silly to worry about things that have not yet happened. But the fact that life does come to an end is suddenly very real to me, and it made me so aware of all I have to be grateful for. I was very lucky in regards to the family heaven assigned me.

     When they left, I was inundated with “catch-up work”, both in the area of MFA homework and housework. By housework, I’m not talking about cleaning the cabin or doing laundry, though I had my share of that too. I’m talking about being out at the land to answer questions and do my part of the tasks of developing our new house. We are in the last stretch now, and there is so much to do. But I must say, the house is spectacular. Mark and I often stand there after everyone goes home, our jaws dropped, and we say, “Do you believe we are actually going to live here?” It surpasses any dream we ever dared have.

    Our house, thanks to Mark’s artistic genius (and his shopping talent) is the most original and remarkable house the worker’s have ever seen – and these guys work on multi-million dollar homes on the lake all the time. It is the talk of the town, and everyone, from the electrician, the stone layer, the plumber, the grader – you name it – comes in and remarks that it is the most original house they’ve ever worked on. They shake their heads and say, “Ya’all really outdone yourselves this time.” Then, they return later with their wives to show it off. Now, strangers keep showing up – builders or workers from other jobs wanting to see this house everyone is talking about. It is quite a nice thing for Mark.     

     He keeps saying, “But what does that mean for me? I wonder what it will lead to.”

     He admitted to me that  somewhere along the line, this house became more than a house for his family to live in. It became the vehicle where he poured a year’s worth of artistic energies, a chance to see what he was capable of. He has always wanted to build – designing things like our school in Lakewood ranch, or remodeling our home in Sarasota or the cabin, only wet his appetite to build. He wanted to start from scratch and do whatever the spirit moved him to do, and this house gave him the opportunity for exactly that.

    Our builder has talked to Mark about a future partnership. He said, “All we have to do is recreate this house on the lake and we could make half a million dollars, easy.” But later, Mark said to me, “What they don’t realize is, I don’t have to recreate this house. I can do it again with all new ideas. I could design five more houses and they would all look totally different and be just as artistic and remarkable. My mind is bursting with ideas. I think I could be really good at this.” Duh.

    I just smile when he talks like that, because I know that great things happen when you let instinct take over and you trust your inner voice. He wants to build. All I have to do is encourage him – TRUST his talent – and I know he will be successful. Behind every great person is a person who believes they are great. I believe the thing that stops us from being all we can be is not ourselves, but the subtle messages our loved ones send. I plan to send messages that will propel him forward.  This kind of work requires a big investment, and that means risk. But the way I see it, everything great we have ever accomplished in life, and the reason we are where we are today was simply because we took risks. No reason to stop now.  

     Anyway, I will post some pictures soon. The fireplaces are all stoned and remarkable. The workout room, a perfect little dance studio all our own, was finished yesterday. I can’t wait for that!  My body craves movement, though I might keep my eyes closed or away from the mirror for a month or two, considering how out of shape I must be in the dance department.

    My kitchen is in and it has a place for everything. Especially me, ’cause I’m gonna plant myself there and cook till I can’t stand any longer. If you knew how much I miss access to a fully stocked kitchen . . .  I have a huge pantry. The workers say, “You can’t possibly fill that with food.”  Ha. They haven’t met the real me yet. I even have an outdoor fridge to hold leftovers and a separate freezer I plan to stock with things yet to be made, or already made and waiting for those busy days when writing takes precedent over cooking.  I could go on and on about this house, but I’ll wait and devote a special blog or two to it. I’m supposed to be making this short . . . Let me just say we are awfully excited about this house and finally closing this transitional phase of our lives – getting settled so we can decide what direction to take our life next..

   What else has been going on? Oh yea. Two of our horses went on a working vacation. We live near a popular trail riding company called Blanche Manner stables. Peggy, the owner, has become a friend. Neva has taken some lessons at her ranch. When we couldn’t find a decent blacksmith to shoe our horses, Peggy turned us on to her Ferrier, Chris. Anyway, Chris was at our place shoeing our horses and we were talking about the house and how busy we were and he asked if we were riding much. I told him it was tough finding the time to even care for the horses, much less ride, this month. I was also talking to him about my plans to separate our mare, Dixie, from her baby, April, asking him advice about weaning. He said Peggy has her biggest month in October because tourist come to the mountains to see the leaves change and to enjoy the fall festivals (Of course, we know this – that is what we did for fifteen years before moving here.) They always want to go on a trail ride to enjoy the scenery, so Peggy’s business booms in fall. He said she could sure use the loan of a horse or two if we were interested in letting them go for a short while. She would take care of the shoeing and feeding for the term, and the horses would get ridden everyday, which is very good for them. It would be especially good for separating the mom and baby, because out of sight, the transition would go smoother. (We were told that even the whinny of the colt can cause the mother to lactate and make the process take much longer.) On top of this, we really wanted to keep the alternate pasture empty so we could lime it and prepare the soil for spring. (This is ranch talk, ya’all)  So, I talked to Mark about it, and he called Peggy and offered her a loan of some horses. She took Dixie, since removing her was our first priority and she is the gentlest of our horses, and then asked if she could borrow Peppy, as well. Peppy is a perfectly trained horse, neck reined or doubled reined, and he obeys any command well. But he has developed a few bad habits of late because I spoil him too much. So, we thought, why not?

    Peggy came and took them away last week. They are only down the street at her ranch. We thought April would be distraught without her mother, but in the end, she acts as if she doesn’t even notice the others are gone. She is most connected to Donkey anyway – probably because they are both young and like to romp in the field together. They were both so much smaller than the horses, only now April is passing him up with her long legs. It was Mark’s horse, Goliath, that seems disturbed by his missing friends. He keeps whinnying and trotting around, looking for them. Agitated. We always make jokes about this horse, because he is so like his owner, Mark. He is this big, harmless lug that is obsessed with eating. His behavior is like Mark now too. These boys ignore their family when they are around, but if their loved ones are removed, suddenly they get all lonely and pitiful. They eat more too. Ha. Can’t hurt to remind them appreciate what they have.

     Our horse family will be reunited just as we are moving in. I miss them, but I feel good knowing two of my darlings are getting a crash course on good behavior, and a little hard work will be good for Dixie getting her figure back. I just hope that the dingbat amateurs riding them do not give mixed signals or kick their soft bellies – stuff which will make their stay away from home uncomfortable. Well – maybe that will make them appreciate me more when they come home. In the meantime, I am spoiling April, Goliath and the Donkey horribly. I bought a huge sack of apples for my equestrian friends at the orchard the week before we made this decision (apples are so cheap this time of year) and now I have to disperse them ultra generously so they won’t go bad.  I’ll get back two lean, fit horses and have some big, slackers at home – perfect evidence that the reason my horses are spoiled isn’t them, but me and my treats. Eesh.    

       The chickens are extremely happy in their new digs. But they look a bit skimpy – only six birds in that big facility. I keep eyeballing some new chicks, but I promised Mark I’d wait for spring. Sigh. Took him two hours to pressure wash the porch once I got those baby bird cages out. I think he would have a fit if he came home and saw some little fluffy tuffs of chicken peeping out there again.

    But I get to mess around with my starter chickens now, even if they are sparse. No signs of eggs yet. I plan to throw a big celebration the day I see my first homegrown egg. Can’t wait. I think it might be awhile. They are still babies, under six months old, and my rooster is a squirt. Tiny and not very loud. I still need me a big, fat, colorful LOUD rooster that struts and flaps and acts like he rules the roost, even though it is all for show, cause the girl chickens are doing all the real work. (I’ll name that one Mark junior). Yep. I will put a fat rooster on my Christmas list.

    We went to the national storytelling festival in Jonesborough Tennessee this weekend. It was great fun. But I won’t write about that now. I have to write a paper on that for my non-fiction professor by tomorrow, so perhaps I’ll just post it later. It was a very different experience, so I want to share it with you. I so love stumbling upon something new.

     
   Kathy is doing well, and she won an award for “most determined” student in her AA group. She is a model of inspiration – a true reminder that our lives are what we make them. Anyway, I’m quite proud of our friendship and the work we are doing together. She is reading some preschool books now. It is a delight to see her progressing.  She is getting teeth too. But I’ll talk about that later as well. 
 

    OK. Enough rambling. I have to get to my homework packet. I’ve lost four pounds this week. Cool. Think I’ll keep at it and see how svelte I can get throughout October – preparation for the upcoming holiday lack of control gluttony. Kind of like buying canned goods and water when you know a tornado is coming. Early preparation makes the damage less tragic.

   I missed being here. Nice to be back.

Sunday, I had a morning date. Well, it was a chore, but I decided to pretend it was a date. (“Pretending” is the only way I’ll ever get asked out by my house-obsessed husband.) We drove to Helen GA, a quaint Bavarian tourist village in the mountains. There is a wonderful rock shop there, with an owner who will make you a deal, if you smile sweetly and buy more than a few rocks.

On Saturday, the workers showed up (yahoo) to finally begin doing the rock on the fireplaces. We have been collecting geodes for this project, hoping to embed all kinds of beautiful, natural stones into the river rock to make this fireplace a work of art, not just a traditional, pretty fireplace. And so, they began. The rock-layers don’t exactly have much artistic sensibility. You can tell this when you hand them a lovely nine dollar crystal amethyst and they slap mud on it and put it in backwards so all you see is the outside, grey rock. Um… I was hoping it would go in the other way. . . . They shrug and react as if you are slowing down the job. Jeeze.

Anyway, Mark stood at the bottom of their scaffolding, picking out rocks and gently recommending they insert them in special places. He is careful not to come across as “a high maintenance prick” and yet, he wants desperately to get what he wants artistically from these laborers. It is a delicate line to walk. The fireplace slowly began to take shape, featuring all kinds of geodes and interesting natural stones. The workers said, “We are saving these nice ones for right up here in the center.” Mark points out that there will always be a piece of art hanging there, so anything in the center is going to be covered. “Please, just keep to the places I tell you to put them,” he says casually. Meanwhile he is gritting his teeth, wanting to shove them off the scaffolding so he can climb up to do the job himself. He would, if it wasn’t such a huge job demanding experience he doesn’t have.

He couldn’t leave the project, which turned out to be a problem because, as they were putting our carefully collected special rocks in backwards, downstairs the other laborers had used the wrong stone for the second fireplace. Instead of the pretty round river rock with amber, pink and light grey tones that we bought especially for this stonework, they used rough, square, black jagged rock that was bought for outside. Mark pulled me into a closet to point out his frustration, but said he was going to let it go because if he kept making them re-do every job, we would never get in this house.

 I said, “Can you live with it” This is an important question. I will consider the house pretty and special no matter what. Heck, I’m just thrilled to have all these fireplaces. But I know my husband, and he will stare and snarl every time he goes into a room with something he doesn’t like– it will eat away at him, until one day, he will walk in with a sledge hammer and a glint in his eye. Because he won’t be able to stand something that he feels is “not right” from a visual standpoint.

He insisted he could live with it. It is just a family room after all, and we have the super fireplace upstairs. And he is so tired of all the stress of building this house – he just wants it done. He can live with the black rock downstairs if it saves us money and time.

I’ll hold him to that (as I hide the sledgehammer.)

At day’s end, with half a fireplace stoned, we realized we were short on geodes, and now that the project was underway, we also realized we needed rocks that were slimmer to fill in small cracks with something more interesting than mortar.  So, Mark planned a trip to the rock shop and asked me if I wanted to go.

Sunday out? You bettcha.

We are good rock shop customers, because we want all those rocks no one else would ever want. We do not reach for the shinny, sparkly rocks that most people want to rest on their mantel or to use as bookends. We like the ones that, when cracked open, only have bits and pieces of crystal and geode showing. We want rocks with live edge, the more oddly shaped, the better. This assures the fireplace will look natural, and we want people to have to sit with a glass of wine staring, to take in all the interesting detail. A bunch of wildly colored polished rocks stuck in with weathered stones would be too obvious – draw too much attention to one area rather than a blended whole. We also need geodes with crystals that do not sink in too deep because I don’t want sparkly pits to collect dust in areas I can’t reach to clean. It is all more complex than it sounds. We want subtle beauty.

Anyway, we bought about 6 dozen geodes, many of them smaller, but a few big raw crystal pieces for up high. And we bought enough to embed them in the 18 inch rock that will be going around the ceiling too. Might as well make it all match. The rockwork has turned out to be remarkable, and probably one of the most interesting things in the house. The workers stare and say, “How did you ever think of this? We’ve worked on hundreds of houses, some worth 5 million dollars, and no one has ever thought of these different ideas. They’re amazing. Beautiful.” Then they point out that they will do this at every other house they work on for now on. Gee, that’s nice to hear. So much for our having an original home. But they say copying is a sign of flattery. So, I will take it as such, proud in this unique home we are building.

Back to my date. We picked rocks in the pouring rain for about an hour, then Mark says he has to get back because he has to return to the house to keep working. I point out that it is Sunday and since we’ve driven 1 ½ hour to get to Helen, maybe we should browse and share coffee or something. I got him to agree to stopping in the sweet shop for a couple of chocolate dipped strawberries (my favorite), but that was it.  No time to play. No time, even for breakfast – had to drive through and eat on the run. It wasn’t much of a date, but I have ROCKS to be proud of– that’s for damn sure.

I figure, eventually this house will be done. I’ll then be able to demand my husband sit down with me for at least an hour, in front of our pretty fireplace with all those pretty rocks, to touch base and get reacquainted. For now, I just turn the drudgery of our days into dates through the acrobatics of my mind. It is all in how you view a thing, ya know. If all ya got is a rock to amuse you, make it a geode, see the beauty within, and give that rock a fun association. That is how you make something lovely out of something plain. Don’t do this, and you’ll go crazy.

Speaking of going crazy – my son filled my car with Diesel gasoline last night. Yep, even though the hose doesn’t fit a normal car, he managed to force it in, hold it just so, and pump 24.00 of death into my engine. The car promptly died. We had it towed to the shop where they will have to drain the engine and hopefully, after a thorough cleaning, it can be saved. My son insists this is my fault because I drove up to a tank that offered both sorts of gas and I didn’t watch what he was doing. The fact that he has pumped gas a hundred times isn’t to be factored in. I did ask him to pump, true. (It’s 15-year-old boy’s job, in my opinion.)

I figure there are worse things that could go wrong in a day. It’s just a car (albeit a fairly new car, whose warrantee has just been voided due to this error.) Ah well. It will give me something to tease him about for years to come. Kids. Can’t kill ’em. What ya gonna do? Complain for eighteen years, then miss them, that’s what.

 Today, I am cleaning because my parents are coming to visit on Wednesday. Last night, I started by going downstairs to put in some laundry and “eek”. I jump a foot. Something ominous is there, waiting to “get” me. Turns out it is a pair of elk antlers as big as me. Mark is working on the computer a few feet away. I say, “What are these monstrous things?”

“That is your new coffee table.”

I check to see that these antlers are naturally shed, and they are. “What kind of deer grows such huge antlers?” I ask, imagining some poor animal toppled forward because his antlers are as big as his body (like the dog in the Grinch cartoon).

“Elk.”

Ah, that makes sense. “How much does a pair of elk antlers this huge cost?” I pry.

“Less than a coffee table.”

Ha. That depends on if you want to factor in the workshop, tools and opportunity costs (which, in this case, is the time I will have to wait for this alleged coffee table to actually show up in front of my not-yet-maybe-never-to-be-acquired couch.)

“Cool. Can’t wait to see what you do with them.” I say.

I don’t suppose there is a coffee table in the world I’d like more than one made with my husband’s hands from a pair of monster elk antlers. But, I rather they didn’t sneak up like that and scare the wits out of me. Sometimes, I wonder about that man and the things he is playing with.

Men. What ya gonna do? Can’t kill ’em. Complain for eighteen years, then . . . complain for eighteen more, that’s what.

October 18^th is National Cupcake day. I’m not making this up. I belong to “the Good Cook” book club, and this month, they pointed this “holiday” out with a suggestion to order a cupcake cookbook. I guess this is so we can prepare for the celebration.

I have never celebrated National cupcake day before, but I am thinking, for now on, I might just make it a yearly thing. Do it up right. I happen to feel a bit of an emotional slump in mid-October; a feelings funk that counteracts the feel-good flow that comes on the cusp of fall leaves. This melancholy is already in the air, swirling around me, making me melancholy of late. Perhaps it is a pre-holiday thing. Or an “I can’t stand waiting for my house anymore” thing. But I think it is more a feeling that comes to balance the joy of fall. Contrast. It’s how we stabilize, I guess.

 It occurred to me that having national Cupcake day to look forward to might reprogram my brain; make Mid October something to anticipate with positive enthusiasm, rather than my wanting to crawl under the covers. So, here it is, my official announcement. I am going to go hog-wild with the National cupcake day thing. I will begin by purchasing this recommended cupcake book. There has to be some fun experiments inside to distract me. Cupcakes are supposedly cheery, reaching down and tap the kid in all of us. And for those who like to control proportions, cupcakes are practical. I’ve always been a muffin girl myself, leaning towards the thin thread of healthy alternative (which is a fallacy, to be honest, because my muffins are gigantic and stuffed with all kinds of delectable ingredients that no one could claim as “good” for anything other than satisfying a craving.)

Anyway, I am thinking of cupcakes today. And fall. And wondering if there is a solution to my funk. And the description of Pumpkin-filled spice cupcakes, or Caramel Apple cupcakes or Sunflower cupcakes in this book might just do the trick.

It is all a matter of controlling your how you perceive a thing . . . associating good where you need it. Cupcakes. Why not? I could use a little “sweet” in my life.

I was supposed to take a class at the Campbell school on how to make wooden books this week. But I bailed. I am so far behind on my homework, I decided to take the week off from “life” to buckle down and get some serious computer time in. I had cleared my schedule for the class, even canceled Kathy’s tutoring. Determined to make progress, I decided not to reschedule appointments. That way I wouldn’t have any excuse not to get some serious writing done. Of course, I haven’t been as productive as I had hoped. I am having a very hard time keeping focused on my work – I just don’t enjoy working on this book. I keep telling myself I should just plow thorough and get it over with, but that is harder in reality than in theory.

The good news is, I’ve attended to all kinds of other “busy work” in a concentrated effort NOT to attend to my homework. I paid bills and cleaned the house, did laundry and sent out a few literary contest submissions. I wrote blogs and went horseback riding. I watched the chicken coup get started and had the horses shoed and poked around the house site because the kitchen is going in this week Yippee. I took things to the dry cleaner (as if we need dry cleaned clothes living in the woods?) and did some cooking. I even went to Martha’s yarn shop to say “hi” and give her a copy of my spinning essay. I timed this so I could take her Monday morning beginner’s knitting class, thinking two hours for fun wouldn’t kill me.

I used to knit when I was young, but I haven’t picked up needles for about 25 years (other than occasional crochet projects, which is far different). The last time I knitted, I was making a pair of leg warmers in New York. If you consider how long ago leg warmers were in fashion you’ll understand just how long ago that was. But knitting is like riding a bike, and it only took about ten minutes for me to be knitting and pearling a nice sample square again.  I learned a combination of the two stitches, which creates a seed stitch. Pretty.

When I got home I showed the sample to Mark and he held it up to his chest and said, “Is this the beginning of my sweater?” (The man thinks he has a right to lay claim to each and every thing I make. Not that I’m complaining. It’s a wonder to me he would want anything that smacks of my handiwork. )

I looked at his 3XL size chest and my little tiny knitting sample (that took two hours) and said, “Not likely. You won’t be seeing a sweater from me until NEXT winter, if that. I need to practice first.”

Hearing that I was not beginning a project for him, he lost interest in my knitting talents. I suppose that makes sense. Knitting isn’t the most attractive hobby, associated to little ole ladies as it is. I can’t imagine I come across as all that sexy sitting around knitting (in my polka dot glasses). Maybe I should only knit naked, to defy the stereotype and assure this new interest doesn’t dampen my sex goddess image. Naw. That might get itchy. (And thank you for not saying, “What sex goddess image?)

Anyway, I bought a bunch of natural brown and grey alpaca yarn from Peru, and began a scarf (for me). It’s really just an excuse to practice. As you can gather, the true purpose of this is another great distraction to avoid homework.

I bought a spinning wheel this week too. I found one on E-bay that I thought would be a great starter wheel. It is a reconditioned wheel, 25 years old, with four bobbins and a freestanding skein winder. A great deal. It’s coming from Netherlands, so I’ll have to wait 4-6 weeks for it to arrive. Apparently, many people spin in the Netherlands. What else would explain why so many of the wheels offered come from that area of the world? The wheel I purchased is not a brand they manufacture anymore, but it is in great condition. I was so tempted by the many antique wheels for sale, all dated around the early 1800’s (my favorite decade of history to write about, so I tend to covet things from that period). However, I knew this wheel was for practical use, not for collecting, so I resisted the older ones. Until I know more about spinning wheels, I don’t trust that I could fix anything that might be wrong with an antique. Someday, I’d love a real old wheel just as a decorator piece.

I will let you know how it fares when it arrives. I have ordered some fiber and I’m ready to make yarn. Next project I knit I’m hoping will be out of my origional two-ply. Anyway, my spinning wheel is made of lovely walnut, it is a nice design, and if nothing else, it will decorate my study and give ambiance to my personal space. I figure if it doesn’t suffice, I can sell it on E-bay and purchase a newer, more modern one. Actually, when you are doing something as old fashion as spinning wool, high tech modern technology doesn’t seem all that imperative.

I am signed up for a 5K this Saturday. I had intended to do some running this month to prepare, but I haven’t had a chance. So, weather permitting, I’ll go and make a fool of myself and plod along weakly. Gee, nice when you have some entertaining humiliation to look forward to for the weekend. 

I received some beautiful comments from my non-fiction professor on my spinning piece this week. He felt it was my best attempt so far and suggested I try to get it published. I was thrilled because Mark didn’t particularly like the piece. He commented that he will be glad when I move past this “literary stage” and return to some mischievous romance writing. He thinks it suits me better. I guess that is a compliment, but considering I am in school struggling with the literary stuff now, it was depressing.  I do not feel all that talented anymore, and I struggle with a desire to quit all the time. Mark always smiles at me when I voice my frustration, because I’ve never quit anything in my life (at least since he’s known me), so he thinks I’m just blowing off steam, but really, some days, I wonder why I am torturing myself. My response from my fiction mentor this month (on my book) were harsh (but true) and served to squash what little enthusiasm I have left for that project. However, for all those ex-students of mine out there, let me point out that I am still plugging away, waiting for this frustration to pass. Growth is painful. But to achieve a higher level of proficiency, some degree of self-doubt and discomfort is normal. I will hang in there, as should they with whatever dream they are pursuing. (That’s my responsible pep talk for today.)

My mentor, AJ, told me to use the search mechanism in my word program to discover how many times I use the word “move” or some divertive (Movement, or moving) in the text. It came up as 107! That is one “move” every other page. Um… I certainly wanted a moving book, but that is absurd, even for a book about dance. So I am taking all the “moves” out this week. Sigh.  She also pointed out that I have an issue with reputation. I also say the same thing more than once (grin). It is as if I have to beat my readers over the head with a concept because I don’t trust they’ll get it. So, I’m fixing this too. But discussing this is depressing. So, never mind.

The weather here is so beautiful it is amazing. I went riding all alone yesterday, just looking up through the trees at the dappled sun, feeling the cool breeze caress my skin, and thought for one moment, that this particular moment was perfection. I try to hang on to moments like that. They sustain me.

The new owners of our business have been sharing some of the stressful situations and the endless grief that accompanies running that establishment, and looking at it now with distance, I wonder how we lasted as long as we did. We deserve what we have today, that is for sure. I earned my dappled sun and cool breeze. And I swear our past years devoted to that school is what makes me appreciate it as I do

I must go. Blogging is one of those things I do to avoid the homework too, and I am really starting to feel guilty. Guilt is probably the emotion I handle the least well.

It is not a good week for boats in Hendryville.

    I’ve been checking the “bargain trader” magazine for a year now, seeking a used, one person kayak (actually, I want two). I have a kayak, but it is a two seater, so heavy that I can’t even drag it two feet myself. So, I’ve been wanting an easier boat to handle, so I can go off and play without it being a big ordeal that requires man-muscles. But people don’t sell used kayaks, or so it seems. You simply never see them advertised.

    I could ask for a new boat, I suppose, but I prefer used toys. That way, since it doesn’t involve a huge investment, I won’t wrestle with guilt when I’m too busy to use it, (a spouse can’t say, “See, you really shouldn’t have bought that, you almost never take it out”) and I just don’t want to get all persnickety about keeping an object of entertainment in a new condition. I prefer some scratches at the get go, so you don’t have to yell at your kid for bashing the toy into a rock or spilling a coke on the seat. I think toys are meant to be played with, and when they are broken in, and they come at a reasonably (used) cost, you can enjoy rough and hearty use with a light spirit– especially in the beginning when you don’t know what the heck you are doing with the thing and you learn by making mistakes.    

     Anyway, this week I saw an ad for two used kayaks. Precision brands. A Pro-line and a slimmer model called The Dancer (I’m thinking, with a name like that, God wanted me to have this boat!) So I made arrangements to go see them.   I invited Denver to drive with me the 1 hour and 20 minutes to Dalton to see these boats. I took the work truck because I was determined to come home with them.

    Mark calls and says, “Why are you in the truck?”

     I say I am going to look at the two kayaks I mentioned the night before.

     SILENCE.

     You see, “silence” has specific meaning in our marriage. It is our code for disapproval. We don’t say “you can’t do that” to each other and we don’t nag or try to police each other – because we want to respect each other’s wishes and interests. Therefore, when we are annoyed or disapprove of something, we just keep quiet. Silence says a great deal, because it is glaringly obvious that enthusiastic support is missing.  The person who is doing the questionable activity has two choices then. They can respond to the silence by saying, “Is this a problem?” (This alleviates your guilt for doing something without asking, and it opens up room for discussion about the issue, thus inviting fair debate), OR you can just choose not to recognize the silence. (This is a way of saying, “I feel strongly about this, and if you love me, you won’t try to stop me,” without having to say those exact words. You just act as if everything is OK; as if you never dreamed your actions would be a problem because you know the spouse would want this for you.)

    In this case, I pretended I didn’t notice the silence and said, “Have a great day, Dear, I’ll call ya when I get back in about three hours, love ya, bye.”  You see, I did mention the boats at dinner the night before, which I believe was an opening for my spouse to say, “Do you really think we need kayaks now, rather than a new couch? I’d rather you didn’t do that.” or he could say, “If you want boats, I should go with you to look at them,” or whatever he was thinking.  In other words, he had his shot and he didn’t say anything, so I could, in a technical sense, assume that was his way of giving me approval.  

     But ten minutes later, I felt guilty. I called back and said, “I noticed you were silent when I mentioned I was going to look at the boats. Is this a problem? Would you rather I didn’t buy them, because they are really a great deal and you know I’ve been wanting them for several years, but if this isn’t the right time, I understand.”   

    Of course, given the freedom to voice his disapproval, Mark then says, “No, of course you can get them if you really want them. I just need to transfer some money and, you know, I need to be prepared if they will be in the driveway when I get home.”

    This fixes everything. I didn’t go off and do something without spousal approval (which is totally unacceptable), and he gets brownie points for being supportive.

   When I hang up the phone, Denver says, “Why do you always take me with you when you are going to do something that gets us in trouble?”

    “I don’t do that.” I say.

    She reminds me that I took her with me when I went to the pound to save the dog, which made Mark flip his lid. Ha. She is right. I like an accomplice to crime.

    Anyway, we drove an hour and a half, only to find two of the most miserable, falling apart kayaks you can imagine. They were all scratched up, with a crack in the hull and the seats were held together with duck tape. They were NOT worth the 475.00 asking price. Damn.

     Disappointed, I said, “No thanks,”

    The woman said, “Make any offer.”

      I thought, I wouldn’t buy them at a garage sale for 75.00 each, so I said I just wasn’t interested.

    It was a long drive home.

     The next night, Mark comes home and says, “Stop cooking (I was making apple gingerbread) we are going to look at a boat.

     I said “The kind you paddle or the kind that go vroom”.

      He said, “Vroom”.

      Cool beans. I’ve been in a boat mood. The kayaks were a washout, but maybe this was why. Perhaps the vroom was meant to be.

    We go see a speedboat that the sister of our builder is selling. Apparently, my boat escapades were discussed at work, which brought up the subject of boats. It was nice, a six  seater, with a small cabin for sleeping. It was getting dark when we looked at it, but we decided to come back the next day to buy it. We’ve been wanting a used pontoon boat, because they are perfect for the lake up here. You can swim off a pontoon boat, pull a tube, or even barbeque on deck. However, a speedboat would be fun too.

Today, we go to look at it again, thinking we will bring it home and be out on the lake tomorrow. But when we see it in the light of day, it looks a bit more beat up than it looked at sunset, and we discover that it is actually 16 years old.  Well taken care of, but still old. We began questioning how it will hold up. We don’t want something that is breaking down all the time. So, we pass.

Like I said, this is not a good week for boats.

I grew up with a father that loved boating. We were forever going out in canoes or in whatever boat Dad had at the time, a cabin cruiser or speedboat. I miss being on the water, and I’ve hoped, now that we have weekends to enjoy with the family, that we would take advantage of this wonderful lake community by getting some kind of boat. Mark didn’t grow up around boats as I did, but he is game to try owning one. We’ve wanted a used something, so we don’t feel as if we invested too much during times, like in the winter, when it is in storage or we don’t go out on the lake for a month. It is no fun to have a toy that you are always thinking, “Was it worth the investment” as you calculate the price per hour of real-life use. ( I know that you shouldn’t do that, but you can’t help think about it, because of the alternate things you might have invested the same discretionary income on, like a trip someplace cool or a different kind of toy.) I also don’t want to worry about learning to pull into the dock (oops) or running aground in an expensive boat. Give me a boat that already has a few scratches, please, so I can take chances with it for fun. But I do want something that is reliable, because going out in a boat and getting stranded isn’t the best way to convince a family that boating is fun. It is a fine line, I guess. You want one that is new-ish, but not new.

So, this wasn’t the boat for us either. Becoming captain Mark or co-captain Ginny will have to wait. Sigh. (I would have looked cute in a captain’s hat.)

I guess, when the time is right, the perfect boat will just be sitting there on the side of the road with a “for sale” sign in the window. Till then, I’ll just keep checking the paper. Winter is coming anyway. 

But I did get a new toy today. Sort of. We hired someone to build a chicken shed/coup. And he will also build us a portable shelter for the llama. I know we need to focus on building our house, but the animals need houses too. My priorities do tend to shift about depending on the weather, and the rains are coming. My furry friends need a roof soon! We went with a big chicken house because I have been thinking I might just try the egg-collecting thing. Just think of all the soufflés, omelets, and quiches I would have to make if I was overrun with eggs. Yessiree, Bring on the chickens!  That might float my boat (and since I don’t have a tangible one to do the job, I’ll take what I can get.)

I have MFA overload, so I will write one more blog to avoid my work.

I spent the morning shopping. Probably not shopping for the kinds of things you or your spouse shopped for today. No, I was shopping at home- browsing my favorite publication, The Northwest Georgia Trader. This little book can be picked up for 99 cents at every gas station near and far – I buy it every week. The publication allows people to place ads for free and just about anything you think of is in there, even kitchen sinks. It’s like a countywide garage sale on paper.

I like to see what people think is worth money. I laugh when checking out the “miscellaneous” column because of the odd, eclectic items featured. Everything from toys and tires to wedding dresses and army helmet planters sit in tiny-boxed ads to flag a potential customer. They have an animal section. I always marvel at how many dogs are for sale, and sadly, just as many are “free”, one-step away from being dumped on the side of the road or put in a sack and thrown into the river with a rock. There are tons of cars and boats and cabin rentals in designated columns. However, what I am looking for is always found in the “Farm animal and supply” category. Good stuff there.

Two weeks ago, they had a chicken house. I got excited, until I saw it was a huge chicken house – the kind that houses over 1000 chickens. Um…. I’m not that much of a hobbyist. There are dozens of horses, cows, rabbits, chickens, peacocks, and you name it for sale or trade.

However, what I am looking for today is a llama. Dahli is lonely and needs a companion. Last week there was a llama for sale, but it was male. Two males will fight (unless I get Dahli nurtured), so I am looking for a female. And you know what that means – Dalhi’s woman will probably be a mama llama by spring. Fun. I am also hoping for a white llama, because I am an equal opportunity llama employer.  

This week, someone is selling a set of llamas, a male, female and their 5-month-old baby. I told Mark it was a shame they weren’t just selling a female. I asked if he thought they would break up the family.

He said, “Probably not, but they might sell the baby. Is it a male or female?”

Duh, I hadn’t considered that possibility. Would be perfect though, because a young llama is easily trained and I would have time (while it matured) to prepare for little llamas popping up all over the place.

I commented that perhaps we should do some research before we buy a female because we don’t exactly need a herd of llamas taking over our pasture. Of course, after we had one baby, if we didn’t like it, we could have Dahli nurtured.

Mark said that we could simply sell future offspring, which would offset the cost of keeping the animals. I could start a little llama business to support my interest.

I suppose that is a possibility. I mean, I would have to have an in depth interview with potential adopter’s and check their home facility, their financial position, their temperament and ask their long-term intentions. I’d need a yearly report, with pictures, of course, and the new owners would have to endure spot inspections should I wish to make them to assure the on-going well-being of the llama youth. Yea, I could sell Dahli’s babies under these conditions. No problem.

So, I just now called and left a message on the person’s answering machine inquiring about the baby llama’s color and sex. My message explained that I am looking for a companion llama for an un-neutered  male, preferably a light color. I figure that way, they can consider selling their female independently, without being put on the spot. I’m hoping they call back and say the baby is a white female and to come get her.

Now that I’ve put that potential acquisition in motion, I must move on to my next shopping task. I need to hire someone to build a llama shed in the field (because the rains are coming) and a windbreak for the horses (because I can tell it is going to take a while before we get to this barn project – and the rains are coming) and a chicken house (because my cute baby chicks are now big ol birds with Perdue sized turds and I need to get them out of the cage, off my porch and away from this cabin. . . even though I do love the sound of that crowing – and this particular endeavor has nothing at all to do with the rains coming.)

But I don’t have much more time for shopping. It is “early release day” at school. The kids are excused at 1:00. I will pick them up and take Neva to the land to go riding. We finally have a ring set up so she can practice safely. Today will be the first time we use it. Of course, it looks a bit like rain. Drat.

Tonight we will all be going to the football game. My son is in the marching band. Ha, it figures that I’d be one to go to the game for the music instead of the sport. This is the first time we will hear him play, other than loud practices on the field that we’ve heard from our car whenever we show up early to pick him up. The band is great – this school has won the state championship for 16 years in a row, and the band director has no intention of breaking that winning streak anytime soon. Kent is a percussionist, one of the stronger ones in the group. I guess a year of private drum lessons has paid off. (He is also talking about organizing a rock ‘n roll band with some friends.) and of course, he can march in any formation without faltering. All that dance training was bound to come in handy one way or another.

He loves band, and I love it because he loves it. I just took a run this morning specifically so I can eat a hot dog tonight without guilt. Of course, it looks a bit like rain. Drat.

Kent will wear his uniform for the first and last time tonight, because they are getting new uniforms next week. If it does rain, well, at least we will only be soaking an old suit. . . and me in the stands, I guess. One more “Drat” for that.

Time to go. My riveting (maybe wet) day, four hungry horses and one lonely llama, need my attention. My homework needs attention too, but I’m ignoring that particular whine today.  

Here are Mark’s chairs. Nice, aren’t they? I threw in a picture of us too, even though I look like a serious porker in this shot. I swear, I’m cute-er than this in reality. (Can’t have my friends thinking I moved to the mountains and turned into a Buddha look-a-like. Eesh) 

I think, in the interest of accuracy, I need to make a few retractions.

I never saw two pheasants on our land. They were, in fact, two wild turkeys. We keep seeing them, always crossing the road at the same place between Mark’s workshop and the pasture where we will be putting a barn.

I said, “Look! There are those pheasants again!”

Mark explained that they were wild turkeys.

I said, “How do you know?”

He said, “Haven’t you ever seen a bottle of wild turkey? They are classic examples, just like the picture.”

Of course, he is right. After all those years as a bartender (when I was a young dancer struggling in NY), I should have recognized the birds that graced that famous whiskey bottle. I must have lifted and poured from it a million times. Yep. Them there birds is wild turkeys.

I said, “Why do you think we keep seeing them here?”

He said, “Are you asking me why the turkey crossed the road? Cause you know what I’m going to answer.”

Smart aleck.

Anyway, I do not have pheasants. I have turkeys. I am of a mind to trust that any area that supports turkeys will also keep pheasants alive, so I am still planning to raise some pheasants. In the meantime, I will pray our two turkeys stick around until Thanksgiving. NOT because I want to cook them, but for the ambiance. In fact, I am wondering if I will stumble upon a turkey nest one day with turkey eggs. Would be a cool discovery.

Next confession/retraction:

I am not going to run the local hill run 5K. This is not because I am a wimp, (even if I am one).  It is because when I actually checked I discovered I won’t be in town on October 7^th when it takes place. I will be in Tennessee at the national storytelling festival. Check it out at http://www.storytellingcenter.net. This festival began with 60 people in 1973 and now hosts thousands. I’ve wanted to go to this unique event for some time – ever since I dabbled in the art of storytelling at a course at the Campbell school. The three-day festival features hundreds of the nation’s best storytellers, stand-up comics and folklore specialists. Seven tents are set up and stories are going on all day. You can chose authentic Cherokee stories, Appalachian folklore, a Midnight Cabaret, international storytellers and even some urban characters.  There is music and poetry which “encompasses a wealth of cultures, geography and styles”, or so the brochure says.

At night, they feature ghost stories. I’m told by the story telling crowd that it is fun – different. I love experiencing something totally new – so I bought us tickets some time ago (and made a reservation in a hotel nearby, because I’m told lodging is impossible to find if you wait too long.) Anyway, the only running I’ll be doing that weekend is running from tent to tent. Can’t wait. We are still wrestling on whether or not to bring the kids. I think it sounds like a nice family event, but Mark is pushing for it to be a couple get-a-way, because then we can burn the midnight storytelling oil. He usually gets his way. We will see.

Yesterday, I picked the last of my blueberries for this season. Got, maybe, a half a bowl.  They are scattered randomly around the bush now, and the leftovers lack the plump, juicy, sweet quality that makes the berries special. What I gathered yesterday will be good for our morning smoothies, but that’s about it. The edges of the leaves are turning red, and soon the bush will be a vibrant flaming color to decorate the entrance to our land for fall. I’m almost relieved to see them go. I’m berried out.

On my run last night, I also picked the last of those purple thing-a-ma-bobber flowers that don’t die in twenty minutes. I think my flower-picking season is over too. Nothing much left to drag home. I did see some cool pink, dried, puff do-dads that look like hard dandelion puffs. I picked a few to see how they would do, but they had these minuet barbs that jabbed into my palm when I jogged. Ouch. I didn’t let them go, however, because I had to test at least one. I figure, if they hold up, I can run with one gardening glove. Not as if I am any kind of fashion plate when I run anyway. 

I got my materials list for Monday’s spinning class. I need to bring baby oil and a plant sprayer, dawn dishwashing liquid, thrums (odds and ends of yarn) rubber gloves, Onion skins, yellow or red (I’m guessing this is for natural dying) and a song recollection or story or poem about spinning sheep weaving etc. Obviously, this is so we can share some folklore. Fun! (If any of you have a poem to share other than Mary had a little lamb, send it on, please. I live where there is no library, at least not one with ample information on any subject.)

I am also told to bring a crochet hook for making samples (got that one covered) and an extra spinning wheel if I have one. Um…. checking my back pocket. No, don’t seem to have one of those lying around.  I’d borrow one from a friend, but can’t say as I’ve ever noticed a spinning wheel in any of my friend’s living rooms. Thinking of this, I was reminded of the story of Snow white. Humm… perhaps I have never been around a spinning wheel because they were banished from the land. Perhaps, when I sit and begin, I will pluck my finger and go to sleep for a hundred years. Just in case, if this blog suddenly cuts off, please notify Prince Charming and tell him to plant a big wet one on me.  Ya never know what kind of unexpected revelations a new adventure will lead you to.

Today, I must write an essay/annotation on the three books that have influenced me most in my life. Much as I’d love to stay and talk, I have to get to it.
Wish me Godspeed to my fingers. I’m feeling distracted today.