Category Archives: Daily News

I’ve been running again. Well, that isn’t exactly true. I announce that I am going running. I put on a running outfit and shoes and I march off in my best sporty strut down the mountain. But really, what I do at the bottom is run along the flat sections of the country road and trudge slowly up the hills. I have to walk down the hills on the other side, because running on downward slopes kills my knees.  I guess I’m not a runner anymore. I’m some kind of meandering, lumbering, partial jogger.

In the paper the other day, I saw an ad for an upcoming 5 K in the town right by our cabin. Only about two miles away.  I got excited. It has been awhile since I was in a race and a short 5K right in my backyard would be an opportunity to meet other runners from the area. (If there are any – Lord, you never see them here the way you do in Florida or Boston. I think most of the racers come from the Atlanta running club – here’s a joke: I’m actually a member. Geez, if I actually actively participated in half the clubs I join I’d be superwoman.)

I thought of signing up for the race, but then, I saw the title and my face fell. It’s called the Morganton Hill Run. Might as well be called the Morganton Death by Incline Run for me. Or the “Let us embarrass you 5K”.  Sure took the wind out of my sails. I’d hate to go and make a fool of myself. But, the more I thought about it, the more I thought I should sign up. The real fools are the people that stay home and don’t take the opportunity to do something healthy and fun, and grasp the chance to meet others with similar interests. I may have to slip one of those Groucho Marx fake nose and glasses disguises in my pocket so no one will see who I am when I cross the finish line 30 minutes after the conditioned runners have finished, but hey, I might surprise myself. So, today, I’m sending in my registration. Then, I plan to call the race committee and ask where the route is and go give it a drive. I might try running out there once or twice before mid Sept when the race takes place. Just to see how pitiful I really am. I’ll sign up Kent to join me. I am the sort of nurturing mother that enjoys dragging her kids along on torturous escapades, the kind that might take them hours to recoup from. I figure, if he’s running next to me, Kent will look like a seasoned athlete – it will be good for his self-esteem.

Lately, when I run, I’ve been picking flowers on the route home. I figure I’ll be either picking flowers or picking up trash, and one endeavor tends to make me feel joyful and the other makes me cranky. So, the flowers prevail. But pick’ins are slim (and now we know where that cliché came from) because the only wildflowers blooming late in the season here are what I would call “weak” varieties.

 I come home all sweaty with a fist full of flowers and Mark shakes his head and says, “Pretty, but I hate to tell you. . . . the yellow ones will shed all over the table within an hour, the orange ones won’t last even an hour and the white ones might, if you are lucky, last till dinner.” Damn if the Ole Party Pooper isn’t always right. Having a spouse with gardening savvy is a mixed blessing.

Slowly, I’m learning which blooms to bypass altogether. I could skip the entire flower-picking thing, I guess, but I can’t resist dragging them home just to try them out. I figure, if the blooms only last through dinner, they still make a nice centerpiece. I confess, sometimes, I wrestle with guilt over it. I’m learning that flowers are just like animals. The domesticated ones do well captured and brought into your home, but the wild ones can’t survive no matter how hard you try to gently attend to them. They need to remain wild or they die. The idea that I shorten their short existence on earth doesn’t sit well with me.

I have a plan though. I went to the Wildflower Seed and Bulb company on the internet and purchased another bunch of wildflower seeds (for fall) and some bulbs. I will plant them erratically around the land, toss them here and there. Then I’ll have semi-cultured flowers to pick in the wild. They say you can’t fool mother nature. Ha. Doesn’t mean you can’t give it a try.

While at the land yesterday, two huge pheasants crossed the road. Neva spotted them first and shouted, “We have turkeys!”

I explained that they were actually pheasants – a male and female, or so it looked. We stopped the car so we wouldn’t scare them away, then climbed on the hood to watch them go all the way up the mountain through the trees towards Mark’s workshop. I have to admit, I was out of my mind excited. This discovery proves that pheasants will survive on our land (and now I can raise them) and in fact, we already have some. Our alleged bear doesn’t eat everything that has fur or feathers. Cool beans!

I don’t know it if was a coincidence that I saw the pheasants the same month I saw one at our cabin or not. Perhaps these birds are seasonal and start wandering out and about this time of year. I do know I associate pheasants with fall, but I don’t know why. I’m thinking it may be their autumn coloring that makes them a common image used in fall decorating, or the fact that the pilgrims ate them or something and there are lots of pheasant recipes in my cooking magazines along with turkey recipes. Or maybe, we are coming upon a pheasant shooting season (no doubt – they have a season for shooting everything here, except the damn hunters, who deserve to get an ass full of buckshot.) Whatever – suddenly, pheasants abound! They are remarkable looking. I hope the two we saw are busy procreating so I will see baby pheasants one day. I will need to read up on the species to find out when, where, and how they lay eggs and some details about their habits. I want to become a pheasant aficionado. Yessirree.

Speaking of seasons, I have decided that perhaps God, in his ultimate wisdom, knew what he was doing when he gave everything a season. Especially blueberries. I was sad to see the blackberries fade, but I am going to welcome the end of blueberry season in a few weeks. I am making yet another batch of blueberry jam this morning to take care of the serious backload of blueberries jamming up my fridge. What else is a girl to do? I can’t stop picking them, and Mark is dieting so I can’t, in all fairness, make any more blueberry desserts. We’ve eaten so many healthy blueberry bran muffins we could bust, and my freezer is full of raw blueberries for winter cooking. So, I am back to making more jam . Sigh. I have another ten jars sitting on the counter with a “do not touch” sign on them today. Tomorrow they can join the other 20 jars in my cupboard.  At least my fridge has room for a gallon of milk now. Yippee.

It will be apple season in two weeks. We don’t have any apple trees of our own (yet) but there is an orchid nearby where we go to pick bushels. I love how cheap apples are in Sept. because I can buy a big basket of them for a song. I do this for the horses. The cool temperatures in Sept. mean the apples won’t rot in the big plastic trunk outside that I put them in, so everyday, when I go feed the horses, I have fresh apples for treats. All summer, the horses were only given carrots because I’m a big cheapskate who won’t pay a dollar an apple to feed a horse – especially considering I have five mouths to feed (donkey counts, ya know, in fact, I usually sneak him two treats ’cause he is my favorite.)

Hopefully, Mark’s diet will take a break in Sept. because for all that I can resist making blueberry desserts, I think it is highly cruel to expect me to avoid making apple desserts. Skipping the wealth of apple pies, cakes and sauté recipes in fall would be damn unnatural, if you ask me. Besides, apple escapades are my warm-up for all those pumpkin dishes to come.

Enough meaningless talk. I have to get to my homework.

Bye.

I am alone tonight. Every other evening, my husband has been sleeping at his sisters to give her a break and a chance to catch up on her sleep. They’ve had a rough week. It looks as if their father will pass on tonight or tomorrow.  While it is cancer that brought him down, in the end, he will technically die of dehydration and/or starvation as the body shuts down, which makes for a dismal, drawn out end. I don’t want to write about this, because I think it is intrusive considering the sensitivity of the issue and my ability to state observations with honesty and/or reflection that isn’t always sugar coated or inspirational. I don’t want to add to what is a very difficult emotional time, or make it about me, so I will not reflect upon this event in our lives, but I will say that I feel for my husband and his sister, and I myself am lonely and sad this week. Leaves me feeling non-conversational, as if words jam up in my throat (or fingers) because I can’t bare to explore what I’m feeling for fear it will open floodgates better left to simmer privately.

But I will leave you with some pictures – examples of the more positive things going on in our lives.  There is always a positive side to life, and the knack to being happy is learning to focus there. So, “there” I’ll go. 


I thought you might enjoy seeing Kathy. Note her shirt. Ha. This is a girl determined to stay clean!
I couldn’t get her to smile. She is like those pictures of the country man and his wife with the pitchfork that are solemn and stern. What is it about country people that they think pictures demand a serious grimace? Anyway, this was Monday, before she cut her hair. On Wednesday, she had a haircut – the first she’s had in 25 years. Her hair was down to her waist, but she had a “makeover.” She is making herself over in every way imaginable. Go Kathy!



Ah ha – a smile at last! It was a bad hair day for me. Be lenient with your Ginny evaluation here.

This is a picture of the blueberries I picked today while waiting for the horse to eat. I picked the same amount yesterday, and the day before and the day before, and the day before. You get my drift. I am drowning in blueberries. They say life is good if it is a bowl of cherries. I say it is pretty good when it is a bowl of blueberries too.
  
For those of you who have been losing sleep because you can’t wrap your brain around this notion of my chickens being exquisite – silkies and afro-headed cutie-pies, here is a pix. Gotta admit they are more interesting than normal Purdue chickens!


Last but not least, the house is coming along. Mark is creating all kinds of new, remarkable treatments that wow the workers and visitors. People are coming to the house because it is the talk of the town and asking if they can use Mark’s designs. His work stands out and others want to hire him now. Doesn’t surprise me or any of you who have worked with him creatively in the past, I guess.  In the entryway, Mark has rough sawn wood tinted dark with bark edged wood on top to give depth, character and an artistic flavor. It is gorgeous. I don’t think the picture does justice, but I’ll put it in anyway.   This is an unfinished area, but you can see how it is coming along.


Last but not least, Mark doing the one thing that helps him forget his troubles. Loving his logs. Gee, who’d a thought a girl like me would ever grow up to be jealous of a log? Amazing what your competition is when you’ve been married a long time. I’ve heard of golf-widows, but log-widows? I think I’m the first. Pardon the size of my pictures tonight. I don’t want to mess around saving them resized and all. I’m not feeling creative.


Good night.

I have this condition, a gross sort of thing that has me convinced I am in the early stages of withering. It is only a matter of time before I crumple up in one dusty heap and float off on the wind. It began when I moved to Georgia. I started itching all the time. I was convinced I was allergic to something, a plant or the water from our well, or polyurethane because we were building our cabin. For a while, I even thought it might be sawdust, and considering my husband is training to be a wood turner and comes home looking like a powdered donut everyday, this was a serious issue. The itching got steadily worse. I could swear I was getting scales. So, I went to the doctor. We began tests and I started the process of elimination regarding what could be causing me to itch. After a few months of seeking a cure, no answers and escalating medical bills, I gave up. Now, I just itch. Case closed.

I did figure out that I am not allergic to Georgia because I itched worse when I visited Florida, and it is a problem in Boston too. I take my itch with me, apparently. My doctor asked it could be nerves or stress. I laughed and told him it was doubtful. I left my business behind and with it, most of the frustration and aggravation I would associate to stress. For the first time in my entire life, we are not worried about finances. I’m healthy, and my donkey brings my blood pressure down every time I pet his nose. I can feel it. No – it can’t be stress.

In the end, I’ve decided that it must be hormonal – a coincidence that I moved to a new place and changed my lifestyle and everything about my existence at the same time that my body was merging silently into old age. I’m guessing the itching is a pre-menopausal thing. My doctor said that since I have no other signs of a biological life change (in fact, the idea of having another kid was actually tossed about for a while during our “gee, we are free and life is an adventure and what shall we do next?” phase. Of course, I felt too old to catch, so I let that ball fall flat at my feet. Moral – never marry a man younger than you are unless you want to constantly be reminded that the only spring chicken in your house is from Perdue.)   

Anyway, I itch all the time, and as result, I am constantly slathering every kind of lotion on my body, taking baths laden with body oil, and drinking water. Helps a little. I’ve tried every sort of lotion on the market, from expensive medicated, dermatologist-recommended brands to homemade love-lotion from the farmer’s market. Honestly, I don’t think one is better than the other is. Some are oily and greasy, others are creamy and lay on your epidermis like a white body stocking. In time, your body drinks in whatever is there and your exterior returns to its normal flat sheen. But I often wonder about the invisible chemical reaction going on in my pores as result of applying this stuff. Does it really make a difference? If it worked, wouldn’t the world be free of crow’s feet? I, personally, love crows feet. Not on me, of course, but on others. I like them on women because it makes me look better by comparison (just kidding) I like them on men, because they are evidence of all the things I admire in males– good humor, wisdom, and often, an inclination to be outdoors. It brings attention to the eyes. Look at the most gorgeous men of all time, like Brad Pit or Gene Hackman (don’t you dare question my taste in men). They both look better with crow’s feet – gives them character. But then, I am weird. I am not put off by bald spots or gray hair. The “real-er” the boys come, the harder I fall.

I was talking about itching. Right. Pardon me when I go astray that way. Just picturing a handsome pair of crow’s feet can do that to a susceptible girl like me.

The thing is, I now put some kind of cream on the back of my neck about ten times a day. For some reason, that is one of the places where I am withering most.  And when I flew home yesterday, I wasn’t allowed to tote any cream or lotions on the plane. It actually grew uncomfortable moving my head after about three hours without something to soothe the dry skin. So I went into the Body Shop to snag a squirt from a sample. The place was dead. I felt so badly for the business. Since people can’t bring anything liquid on board of planes, the store can’t make any sales, yet it remains open, further evidence of our new threat. On my way to Boston, I had visited this very same franchise and purchased a few items. Only five days earlier, I had to wait in line to pay. Now, it was as if the store was closed and I had snuck in under the gate. It is daunting how the terrorist threat filters into so many areas of our lives. Fear of travel is only the beginning. It affects our economy, our view of humanity, and our choices in a multitude of ways.

It’s enough to make a girl itch, ya know.   

Yesterday, I went to the mall with a fellow staff member – actually she’s an age old friend. One reason I agreed to teach in Boston was just to spend some time with people I’ve known and loved for many years. 

I am not much of a mall person. I don’t like the crowds or the way all the same stores in every mall in the country are the same, making the world feel like a generic place. Not to mention that you feel that if you purchase anything you aren’t really creating an individual identity, you are reinforcing your sameness. Originality is nothing but an illusion in a world where everything is mass produced. (Ee-gad, I sound like such an anti-establishment nut nowadays. Forgive me.) 

Anyway, the closest mall to my home is two hours away, so I actually enjoy the mall experience now. But it does confuse me. For one thing, I can’t figure out where people come up with all the money to support the endless consumerism in America. How rich is the world now? Store after store of high end items are filled with people toting home name brands. Amazes me. Sometimes I think the entire world’s existence is an endless quest to make money so they can spend all their free time spending it. Every hour is consumed with too much work to support too much consuming– very little time is left for living. Sad.  

I couldn’t help but notice all kinds of stores that I (as a non-shopper) am totally unfamiliar with. There were popular clothing stores and shoe stores that I’ve never heard of. My friend Diane (who is very hip, buys only name brands, and is a classic product of our progressive culture) made fun of me, the farmer who so quickly fell out of the pop culture loop. She said, “Where have you been? Under a rock?’

Maybe.

We went to Brookstone to see all the nifty gadgets and inventions. (Who am I kidding, we are middle aged dance teachers and we wanted to sit in the massage chairs after a day of physical torture.) In the front window was a strange purple stool. Diane, a very hilarious person, was quick to try it out. It is supposed to be some kind of exercise device. The stool began gyrating. It looked far more like a sexual stimulator than any kind of exercise machine, and we laughed ourselves sick. A lovely young saleswoman came to talk to us. She actually was a good sport and I think she enjoyed out sense of humor. I asked her what the heck that machine was supposed to be good for.

    The woman said, “If you’ve ever ridden a horse, you will know that riding gives a person a perfectly flat stomach and perfect hips and thighs. Guaranteed. This device is a horseback riding simulator. You can sit on it while watching TV and develop a great body. “

    I looked down at my less than perfect body and back at Diane and said, “Guaranteed? Think I can sue my horse for breech of contract?”

   The saleswoman said, “You have a horse?” I told her I had four, and dang if there wasn’t a one that moved like that when I was riding and even if they did, this guarantee of a perfectly flat stomach has eluded me, dammit.

    The woman laughed and whispered, “It’s stupid, but people like it.”

      I imagined bringing one of those ridiculous purple machines home and setting it up in my living room where all my new friends (horse owners) could see it. Ha. They would laugh me out of Georgia. But I must assume some place, people are buying them. Diane and I sat in the massage chairs and watched people come and go, trying that machine out of curiosity right in the window. Looked obscene. We laughed so hard I bruised my ribs – or maybe it was all the abuse I was getting from that wicked chair. Ow.

    Then, we wandered through the store to look at all of the new conveniences designed for modern man. In every isle, Diane said, “I have one of these,” and I was standing there thinking, “what the hell is it?” So, she proceeded to make me technology savvy by demonstrating all the goodies, giving me her own hard sell. You see, I need a thumper (a shovel sized wand to give myself a back massage) and I-pod speakers for the shower (Umm…. She forgets, I’m the only dance teacher on the circuit that doesn’t have an Ipod, they intimidate me) and a pillow that vibrates and a chair that simulates movement for playing video games (don’t play them), and a TV controller that allows me to tape everything and pause shows (oops, I don’t watch TV either), a mechanical disk that will clean my floors all day long – HOLD ON! I DO need this. Not all inventions are frivolous, I find. And so on and so forth. I felt rather stupid seeing all these inventions that apparently, the entire world knows, uses and thinks nothing of, and I am like Gomer Pile going, “golllllliiieeeeeee”.

It was fun seeing what technology can do, but it made me feel like the country bumpkin (and face it, I must have been one long before moving to the country.) These items are expensive, and I believe I can afford them easier than many people, yet even I can’t justify the  need to acquire them. Does anyone really need a vibrating pillow – ummm… don’t answer that.

I called Mark and said, “Honey, I am an old fashion prig. I don’t understand the world and I don’t get it.  Diane has these cool things, and I have none of them.”

He said, “You have a llama. Llama’s are cool.”    

I said, “If they were really cool, Brookstone would make them. I do however have a horse instead of a purple simulator that looks obscene, and I’m proud of that.”

I told him about the cool floor cleaner.

He said, “Hate to tell you but they’ve been around forever and I can get you one at Wal-Mart every Christmas.”

Thus, my husband reaffirmed my fear that I am a nerd that isn’t “with it when it comes to modern conveniences.”

I said, “If I am this far behind after living in Georgia a few months, what will happen as the years go by? I won’t know how to function in our society.”

 “Something to be proud of,” Mark says, striving to protect my self esteem . . . or more likely to save himself from facing a charge card bill loaded with thumpers and squeakers and a cool 20 Questions ball that can read your mind.

“Do you think we should buy a massage chair, just to prove we are connected to the world?”

“Did you love it?”

“I think it hurt. But you might love it.”

He chuckled and said, “It’s the cost of a riding ring, two peacocks, a chicken coop and a pump to get water to the new barn.”

Oh yea. These are the modern convenience and desires I harbor now.  So I tossed the brochure for the handy-dandy massage chair away with my empty Starbucks cup.

   I don’t know what I’m going to do about my detachment from pop culture and our high tech society. I feel like some kind of unwilling Mennonite hiding in the mountains. I think I have to start watching TV, just to know what is going on in the world – and I’m not talking about the news. I just don’t like TV. We lived in the cabin 6 months before we even hooked up our cable and then it was only because New Orleans was hit and I went crazy not being able to follow the news. Even my kids can skip it – it isn’t a habit for our family. We do watch movies – ALL the time, but TV itself seems mindless and eats too much of a life. Rather read or make something.

Anyway, I’ve decided I will force myself to a mall once every three months to do a culture inspection. I will brave the crowds and pick up some signature thing to prove I’m still cool. I will marvel at the money spent in our world, our method of assuring we are all generically acceptable in the “in” crowd, and even add a bit to the economy by toting home something I don’t need.       

In the meantime, thank god for my kids who are the fashion police, pop culture advocates and preachers of all that is cool. They can keep me on the straight and narrow when I fall too far behind.

By the way, another funny thing happened yesterday. I bought two designer jeans jackets. They were on sale and I figure the fall is coming. This Florida girl can’t get enough cool weather wear designed for the outdoors. The salesman looked at them and said, “Are these for you?” with a tone of disbelief.

      I laughed and said, “Yea, Why? Do I look too old for them?”

       He blushed and said, “No, I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering.”

     I thought about telling him about my new lifestyle and how I live in jeans, not because they are fashionable, but because they are hearty and comfortable and  resistant to dirt. I thought about saying, “You are only as old as you feel” or breaking out into a hip hop dance or something to prove I am funkier than the average 47 year old. But really, it was easier to just smile and point out the expensive designer label.

     He nodded as if that explained it. Wearing impressive labels at any age makes sense to him, I guess.

     It just will never make sense to me.

I am flying home this afternoon. Have to brave the airports on full alert due to the state of the world and the terrorist close call in Britan. Inconvenient. Mostly, sad.

My husband, God love him, holds down the fort when I leave to pursue my heart’s content (or a job or whatever). He never complains or makes me feel guilty. But I know how difficult it is for him. We tend to set up a life that takes two people to run. We create a demanding existence that falls to ruin without both captions at the helm. He has his duties, but when I am gone, he must juggle mine as well. And it is frustrating and exhausting. This week, school began. He is running the kids to school and picking them up, and taking my daughter to soccer (something new we are trying) and my son to band practice and drum lessons, while still building the house. And he must feed all the animals (my job) and feed everyone else too. And his father is so sick, his sister needs help. Today, he must watch his Dad for four hours while Dianne is at a physical therapist appointment with their mother, and he has to find a way to get the kids picked up from school etc…. He is going crazy.

I told a friend here how badly I felt dumping life on my spouse while I teach in Boston (a job I don’t have to accept). She shrugged and said, “He can manage 5 days. It is good for a man to experience all the crap his wife does. Makes him appreciate you.”

I don’t agree. I believe he appreciates me without torture as a reminder. And I certainly don’t have to experience his crap. You don’t see me gassing up the tractor to take it for a backhoe spin or plugging in the sander to work on logs because he is busy.
 
Yesterday, he called to tell me a huge wind storm occurred. Lasted only 15 minutes. When he got to the land, a tree had fallen on our garage where we keep the tractor. Another tree fell across the road making it impossible to drive in . Another tree fell on the pasture fence and the horses were down the street. He had to scurry all over putting things in order, knowing he would now need to spend a day chain sawing these trees to remove them,  having to talk with the guy to repair the fence. Now, he has to feed the horses in an inconvenient place (lower pasture)until things are fixed.   He has to talk to the insurance guy, and arrange for a new garage. Insurance does not include getting the smashed one removed – big drag.

I felt so badly, because his plate is so full. I need to get home – do my part.
This also puts our tree dilemma back up for discussion. We have all these beetle eaten pines that must be removed (I’ll write a tree blog another day) Huge job.

Anyway, today I am feeling guilty. I take my role in our union very seriously – I am supposed to contribute to the quality of life of the guy who cared enough to make a commitment to me (which I am fully aware was a brave choice for any guy – living with a girl like me requires an ongoing leap of faith.)  

I can’t stop the trees from falling, but I sure want to be there to wave my hands frantically as an assistant when Mark maneuvers the tractor this way and that to remove them. 
A good life demands a team effort and I want to be a team player. It is only fair.

 

A few shots of us at Biltmore Mansion. As you can see, I was into the art. Mark was into the ice cream. No matter where you move, you take yourself with you, ya know.

There was a blackberry emergency and they didn’t call me. Can you believe it?

    Bill, my father in law, has a progressive brain tumor. Lately, he’s been very confused. Certainly, there is nothing funny about that, and yet, sometimes you must laugh to keep from crying, so I will share what happened.

    He’s been eating blackberries and blueberries obsessively. Must have them with every meal. Neva and I have kept him supplied with blackberries, but dang if our monster blueberry bush wasn’t ripe for picking, so they’ve been buying him his blueberries. Yesterday, he announced he no longer likes blackberries or blueberries. Now, all he wants is blackberry jam. (What can I say – he reached nirvana eating it when I arrived with my jar of Ginny’s Jam and a bunch of freshly made biscuits.) The next morning, he wouldn’t eat anything else. He was determined to have more jam.    

     Dianne explained that they didn’t have any more. He’d eaten the entire jar in a day. This made him belligerent and angry, so he took the leftover blackberries in the fridge and stuffed them into the empty jar and began squishing them to make his own jam. (For those of you who are not jam savvy – this will not work.) Sheepishly, they told me he actually ruined the final 1/3 of the jar because he decided he wanted it “thinner” like his mother use to make (thinner? He must be remembering syrup or something) so he decided to cook it himself to turn 1/3 a jar into a full jar. (For those of you who are not syrup savvy, this will not work either.) He burned the jam and ruined the pot. Then, he got even angrier. He wanted jam!

     Anyway, my sister in law tells me this story, and I am thinking, if the man wanted jam, why didn’t anyone call me, the jam master. I’ve always wanted to be a superhero; I just never came up with power. This is it! I can be jam woman – able to soothe the agitated hungry with a single jar. By day, I can be a mild mannered writer (well, maybe wild mannered writer) and by night I will stir my power in pots like a witch and her brew, then serve it to men with jam withdrawal, just in the nick of time. I can sew myself a cool costume out of all that unused dancewear I have, with a big B on the bust for Berry Girl. Alas, no one called. They thought I’d be upset that he ruined the last of my jar by cooking it. They also assumed I’d expect their jar to last more than a day. Like I was going to care? The man can bathe in my jam if it makes him happy. (Funny how people transpose how they would react or feel in a situation onto others, when the “others” are very different personalities and history proves they wouldn’t feel or react in that anticipated way.)

    This morning, I will make biscuits again and take over two more big jars. Honestly, one of the reasons I’ll miss my father-in-law most is because he is my biggest cooking fan. I could sauté shoe leather, and he would insist it was great. He decided long ago that I am a fabulous cook, so no mater what I make, he comes to the table with preconceived appreciation and praise. The man used to eat more than Paul Bunyan at a sitting (now you know where Mark gets it.) It is always fun to cook for someone who truly enjoys the eating experience.
     I may end up giving all my 15 jars of blackberry jam to Bill, but I’d be proud to do so.

     Yesterday, our blueberry tree proved ready for picking. We picked two huge bowls of berries in about twenty minutes (and this doesn’t count the bowl full Mark ate in the process). Of course, this was easy, because lots of willing hands help in blueberry picking. I commented that, for all that I was thrilled to have blueberries at last, this was berry picking for babies.

       Mark said, “Why, because it isn’t hard and you don’t get scratched up? You don’t have to work at something to make it worthy.”

       I disagreed. You can reach in and get handfuls of blueberries with hardly an effort, exposed in an open field, but blackberry picking requires walking through the forest, tangling with thorny thickets, and when you are lucky, encounters with deer.  It is an experience that brings you alone, quietly, into nature. Since it is more trouble, less people are willing to do it, and therefore blackberries are more precious. It is the basic theory of supply and demand. Anyway, after we were finished picking blueberries, I actually went out with Neva and got another big gulp cup full of blackberries (took an hour for ¼ the bounty of our blueberry picking spree). Nevertheless, the season is coming to a close, and I can’t bear to let a day go by without getting the final sweet morsels.  I need to stock up in case future jam emergencies occur.

    I have enough blackberries now for another batch of jam, which I will make this afternoon. I will try making some blueberry jam while I am at it since I have buckets of them too. Don’t need to be miserly – there is plenty more to come. Our bush is right by the area where we feed the horses, and I know I will pick every day while I wait for them to finish munching grain. They’ll watch and blink lazily, as if I am an odd bird. Actually, Goliath, my husband’s horse, eats anything, and he like licking a few berries off my palm.

     Last night, when I came home, I whipped up a blueberry buckle just because I didn’t have room to store all this freshly picked fruit. Buckle is sort of a cross between a crisp and a shortcake. It has a cake bottom, fruit top and crisp topping, which all melds together for a scrumptious, warm cobbler-like dessert.  Family ate the entire thing. I was glad they enjoyed it, but their enthusiasm meant I’ll have to make another one for Bill today. A jam enthuasiast will appreciate a buckle for sure.

     I guess I’ve written enough about berries. My daughter will groan and make another comment that I’m still too berry oriented in my blogs. Can I help it if a berry emergency sparked yet another berry blog?

     I will leave you with a little something not about berries. Today, I have to finish my MFA packet and send it to my teacher – two hundred pages of my novel rewritten in the new format. It’s been a trial getting this daunting project done in one month. I’ll be glad to let it go, even though I’m expected to finish another two hundred pages in 6 weeks. Good luck with that one, Gin. No doubt, this will inspire blogs about something other than berries.   I’m hoping to knock off a good portion of the book next week while I’m in Boston. I always get a lot done when I am alone traveling. I don’t sleep much when alone in a hotel room, and considering this is a dance trip (and it is a dance book) I’m anticipating being inspired.

     I also have to write a paper about affinities and influences. I must name twelve books that have had a significant impact on me, pick three of them, then write annotations about the books and how and why they influenced me. I’ve always been an avid reader, but for the life of me, I can’t think of twelve books that I can honestly say changed my life. Or at least at, not books I’ll admit I read to my sophisticated literary professors.

   I do know the number one book on my list and can write an essay easily about how that affected me. Ishmael. (A story about a gorilla that talks to the author about the environment and human food supply.) Changed my life and how I view environmental ethics, mankind, animals, everything. And masterfully written, so I can analyze it on a literary level too (a part of the annotation thing we are expected to do). I will begin with Ishmael and see what others come to mind.

     Don’t suppose I should use Sweet Savage Love, a romance novel that made me want to write historicals (Ha). Or any of Anias Nin’s wonderful erotica.(double Ha) Or . . . man oh man, for someone who is supposed to be literarily trained, I’m feeling like a reader who goes book slumming more often than a sophisticated reader should. Can’t account for a dancing girl’s eclectic tastes.

I must go. Homework, housework, jam work, and other excitement awaits me this day. Sigh.

For all that my life is, in many ways, charmed, I struggle with disappointments too. Here are a few plaguing me today:

1.     Horrid news. Starbucks is coming to town. I have been using the fact that the nearest Starbucks is a 50-minute drive as proof of how remote and untouched by commercial enterprise my world is. But as can be expected, the monster of sophisticated civilization continues to sprawl and take over the universe. . . like mold infesting a perfect loaf of sweet bread. It begins with a few small dots of green, which you think you can ignore (you just rip that part off and still enjoy a bite, semi-guilty because you are trying to ignore the inevitable truth that what was once fresh and perfect is now on the downslide). Then before you know it, the entire loaf is hairy, scary and unpalatable.  

     Actually, our Starbucks, due to open by Christmas, is going to be in Ellijay, a twenty-minute drive (where my health club and Walmart is). But three more stores are scheduled to open in the area. I can only assume one will be in the heart of Blue Ridge where tourism is booming. I worry now about my favorite haunt, LL Beanery, a quaint, privately owned coffee shop. Funny, it took months to get over the habit of visiting Starbucks – I associated pleasure to the store because we went there to “get away” from work – a short break from teaching to get a steaming cup of coffee while we diffused. Now, having broken the “habit”, I don’t miss Starbucks at all. In fact, I associate bustle, an overtaxed lifestyle, and a clichéd, contrived atmosphere to this (and most) franchises.

     And the other Starbucks? Where will they land? Who knows. I doubt one will be in my beloved town of McCaysville where I want to open a coffee shop. But it is only a matter of time until the Starbucks mold takes over and eeks it’s way to my little town too. So much for my dream of opening an elite coffee shop sans all-powerful competition. Ah well, I will have to focus more on the innovative art gallery side of the enterprise.

2.      My building for said enterprise is going, going, gone. As I mentioned previously, I fell in love with a building at the other end of the Blue Ridge Train in McCaysville and was determined to purchase it. But someone had made an offer already –although they were having financing troubles and hadn’t left a deposit. We left our name in case things didn’t work out, but never got a call. Yesterday, we see a van clearing out what was left of the stock. Mark jumped out of the car to ask what was going on, and they said the building did sell and the closing is today. Drat. They still have our number “just in case”. I was bummed, because I’ve thought about that building and our next venture so much it really does feel like I’ve lost something personal.

   When I asked Mark what was going on, he said, “They are keeping the building for us.”  

    I said, “What does that mean?”

    He explained that we are in no position to begin a new business yet – we aren’t ready (which is true) because we are still in transition and working on the house, and therefore someone else has bought our building to “keep it” for us. Apparently, his theory is that these unknown people will open a business, find out it is really harder than it looks and run into financial trouble (or be so successful they will want to expand and move elsewhere) in a year, just when we will be ready to take over the building. We will then buy it and do what we do so well.

    You see, that is how we got our first FLEX building. The first time we saw it, we were not in a position to buy. We lusted for our own building, but someone else, far more established than us, bought it. Sad sigh. But then, a year later, that person went bankrupt and the bank took over the mortgage. They were so intent on getting the loss off their books that they sold it to us for less than we would have had to pay the year prior. It was the right time. For us. For the building. For fate.

   Mark says “It was meant to be.”

   That’s his primary life theory. If something is meant to be, things work out easily. If not, you must trust that it wasn’t your destiny, and you should be thankful things didn’t work out. You don’t know of the trouble and/or hardship you probably avoided because you didn’t force an opportunity whose time was not at hand. Something better will come along – something more right – when it is meant to.

   I used to laugh at his life theory, but more often than not, I’ve discovered he’s right. Faith. It comes easier to some of us than others. Remembering that, now I will drive by that building everyday, grateful someone is “keeping” it for me until I am ready. But, you can be damn sure I’ll never spend a dime in that enterprise, just to be sure I don’t tip the scales of fate against me. I still want the bugger.

3.    I found Silkie chick number two under my daughter’s bed. She was totally icked out that she slept in the room two nights with a headless chick under her.  We have put screen around the cage now so no more tragedies will occur. I haven’t kissed my cat for a week. Damn cat.

4. Kathy, my reading student, is still missing in action. Damn Kathy (just kidding). I am letting this go for the time being, because I am going to Boston next week to teach my dance seminar and I’d hate to find her only to say “I’m too busy to care today.” I have plans to hunt her down and act like the truant officer when I get back, forcing more words, paragraphs and life lessons down her throat. I don’t give up easily once I’ve set my mind on something, and I think she is someone who needs a determined friend to help her help herself. I worry about her though, and why she hasn’t called. I can’t presume to understand her life or what it must be like. I can only commit myself to trying to make a difference. She is my medium for world contribution at this time, and I trust we will get back to work when her son is back in school. But every time we take a break, I am dissapointed. I can’t say I don’t appreciate the extra time for myself- but, at the end of the day, it is how you spend your time that counts, not how much of your to-do list you complete, and working with Kathy makes me feel good on many levels.       

5. All other disappointments are typical of people my age. Loved ones dying. Wrinkles gaining momentum. A writing room that needs two coats of paint when I was hoping one would suffice. Homework stress and novel challenges. Missing certain friends.

I guess, all things considered, I shouldn’t complain.

My llama looks like a poodle. No, that isn’t true. It looks more we miss our schnauzer and thought we might create a tribute to him in our llama. This is not because we are bad llama shearers. More, that it takes a lot longer to sheer a llama than we anticipated so we only did half the job. Now, his body is all shaved, but his neck, legs and underbelly are still furry. We will tackle the llama leftovers today.

We expected the actually cutting of the hair to be easy, while getting the llama to behave, difficult. The exact opposite was true. Once Dahli was caught and tied up in the tight corner of the field (to keep him still) he more or less stood calmly. His stomach kept rumbling and he stomped a bit, but our llama is a polite one, (doesn’t’ spit) so, other than stepping on us a few times with his 350 pounds and squishing us into the fence, he was a doll. The problem was the actual cutting of the hair. Those damn llama shearers that are advertised as classic, used by professional sheep and llama shearers worldwide, in reality, don’t work. Would have done better with plain old scissors, I’m guessing.  Dahlia’s hair is so course and matted and LONG that it took hours to get through. Mark did most of the cutting because he has stronger hands, but both our hands were tired from the effort. Didn’t cut the animal once, nevertheless, after about two hours, Dahli’s patience was spent. He started stomping and moving and making some scary sounds, so we decided we’d done enough for one day. We were pretty tired. Imagine if we had an entire llama farm to sheer!

     Once free, Dahli didn’t run away. He just moved a few feet beyond our grasp, then followed us around, so I don’t think he was miserable being groomed, just nervous. There was this huge pile of hair at his feet, which Neva kept gathering and putting in a huge washtub so Mark can use it for making baskets. And the family has this romantic idea that I will spin wool from it. (Um, yea. I’ll get to that right after I finish my blockbuster novel, everybody. Sarcasm aside, it sounds fascinating and I hope to try one day, but another year, please.)

    I imagine Dahli actually liked the attention. I’ve worried that I have a lonely llama for awhile, because it is said llama’s need companionship and I think my horses and donkey are big snobs that don’t want to associate with him. In fact, I’ve been looking at the llama rescue website, thinking of getting Dahli a girlfriend. (You’d be amazed at how many homeless llama’s there are in the world.)

      Anyway, this weekend, we did the shearing deed. Just goes to show that so many of our fears and anxieties about trying something beyond our comfort zone are really just a waste of energy. Best to dive in and learn by doing. We took pictures, but I can’t post them until tomorrow. Still don’t know how to work that new camera, and Mark is gone for the day, off to the land of sanding.

     Shearing Dahli isn’t the only new thing I did this weekend. I MADE BLACKBERRY JAM! 

     I woke up Saturday, and told Neva it was time to do something with the two buckets of berries in the fridge – needed to make room for milk, and man cannot live on berries alone.(I was also afraid they wouldn’t last.) We’d already bought a big canning pot and a jar lifter, jars and pectin and all the other necessities for making jam. You’d think I was the president of the Smuckers Corp. if you saw my Walmart cart that day. (If you want to try something, might as well do it right, I always say.) Now, all we had to do was follow the directions and try our hand at jamm’in.

    So Neva squished the fruit and measured the sugar while I sterilized the jars and did the set up. I told her we certainly had enough berries for two batches, but once she squished the fruit, we found it took two cups of berries to make one cup of berry smush. We only had enough berries for one and ½ batches. I suggested we go to the grocery store and pick up some strawberries to make the second batch a mixed fruit jam. This was met with an outraged look and a speech about how our jam was supposed to be a natural effort – a start to finish project done with Hendry hands. No store bought fruit would sully our creation.

    What’s a gal to do? We got in the car and drove to the other side of the mountain to pick some more fruit. Did I mention it was raining? My demanding daughter stood by the car and forced me into the wet prickers to get another two cups of berries, claiming her job was to hold the bowl. Not only was I supposed to do all the picking, drenched and moody, but I was supposed to go about it quickly, because she was excited to start the cooking. (One of these days, Alice, bang – zoom, right to the moon.)  

    A half hour later, we returned home, dripping, but with enough berries to complete the second batch too.

    I thought cooking jam was going to be harder. I actually thought you used a pressure cooker and it took hours and . . . well, I had no idea that it was so easy. Mostly, it is just the preparation and mess that makes it an effort. Nowadays, you don’t need to seal jars with paraffin – they make these fancy gummed lids that preserve the fruit. And this magic pectin stuff has whatever special sauce makes the jam thicken and last, so all you need is three ingredients. Sugar, fruit and pectin. Anyway, it was fun boiling the finished jars to pressure seal and decontaminate them, etc…. It was a wonderful project for a mother and daughter who adores cooking together.  

    After finishing and pouring the jam mixture into the jars, you boil them, then set the jars on a towel to set. You can’t touch them for 24 hours or they won’t jell. Neva began making painstakingly beautiful labels, complete with delicate fruit drawings in full color with her new set of fine tip magic markers. I cleaned the kitchen.

   Then, we waited. Stared at those jars like they were going to explode, afraid to touch them for fear we would have made blackberry soup instead of jam. I speculated about the color, the seeds I could see from the outside, etc. I really was curious about what was inside those jars. Couldn’t wait to find out.

    The jams will continue to set for two weeks and the flavors will meld, but it is said you can eat it the next day. So Sunday, I woke and immediately made biscuits – part of my big Sunday breakfast tradition. I set the table with the blackberry jam glistening in the center, establishing it’s importance in this experimental feast. The family sat, staring at that jar of homemade blackberry jam as if it were a bottle of arsenic. We had to try it, because we were going to give some to my father-in-law that afternoon. He has mentioned he loves homemade blackberry jam (reminds him of his mother) and he doesn’t have two weeks to wait.

     I tried it first. It was good! Yum. So, the family followed suit. Mark kept smearing it on biscuits, exclaiming it was the best jam he ever had. At first, I thought he was being a supportive husband, giving duty praise, but when half a jar disappeared, I knew he truly liked it (despite his blackberry prejudice).

   Neva and I were so excited. We started talking about all the people we wanted to give it too (with some blueberry jam that we will make in two weeks when the blueberries are ready for picking.)

    Mark said, “Hold on. Don’t be so quick to give it all away. We have to have enough to last us a year, you know.”

   I assured him he’d have plenty. Besides, only those who labored at the jam get to decide who eats it. Little red hen taught me that.

    It was a joy to create something so simply – I marveled that I can go into my backyard to pick fruit and serve it with breakfast to raves. Gee, I’m a hunter-gatherer – minus the hunter part.

     That evening, after working on the llama, Mark and the kids went to get cold drinks before we tacked some staining at the house. I stayed behind because the horses were grazing free on the land, and I have to watch they don’t wander to our neighbor’s garden (they brilliantly covered the ground with fresh hay. Thanks for that one.)   

 And don’t ya know, not a minute after they were gone, I found myself picking berries and filling up my Subway big gulp cup. The idea of returning to my kitchen berryless was disturbing. Can’t quit a berry obsession cold turkey, ya know just because you had one successful berry cooking experience. 

    I went down one of our little overgrown side streets to pick. I find the best berries by crouching low and picking from the underneath where the hot sun doesn’t cook them into little raisin-like nubs. And while I was all couched down, I heard a noise. I look up and there is a huge buck standing only about eight feet from me, staring right at me. Amazing. Stupidly, I stand to get a better look. My movement makes him dart away into the woods like a super ball shot out of a slingshot, rick-a-shaying from tree to tree. Drat.

But my heart had such a rush – he was beautiful. . . and right in my backyard.

     I told my family when they returned (who glanced at my cupful of berries as if I were really beyond help.) Denver said, “I’m so glad he didn’t attack you.”

    This made me laugh. I explained that deer don’t attack people. She argued that male deer are aggressive, because she remembers the father buck in Bambi being king of the forest, standing proudly protecting his herd. Cracked me up. But what do expect when half the world gets their nature education from Disney movies?  I explained that deer are shy and steer clear of people, which makes a face-to-face encounter with one so special.

   Then, while Mark and Denver were staining (I was told I am sloppy (not true), so I was excused from duty) we heard howling. We all stopped and went onto the porch to listen. It was the coyotes! Cool. Suddenly we heard dogs barking too, then the sound of a dog yipping in pain. Then nothing. My son’s eyes grew round with disbelief. “That will be our dogs getting eaten before you know it.”

    I assured Kent what we heard was just a big baby of a dog crying for nothing, but I looked into Mark’s eyes over his head and read a look of “Our dogs are dust.” I feared he might be right.

   So, I went to explore. I walked towards the sound, and sure enough, I heard something in the trees. Hoped it was my deer again . . . or a coyote pup.  It was our neighbor’s dogs coming through the woods, wagging their tails as if they were pleased over a recent game of chase the coyote. I picked another gallon of blackberries (since I was there) and returned to tell everyone things were fine in the forest.

    All told it was a good weekend. Filled with laughter, adventure, a bit of sugar, and a bit of danger. That, my friend, is life on the wild side.

     We have coyotes on our land. People have told us this, but since I’ve never seen or heard them, it hasn’t bothered me (it’s just given me a great excuse to justify the purchase of a donkey and llama – the mortal enemies of the coyote.) But now, something has happened that makes the issue of coyotes something we must discuss. We can hear them in the evening when working late at the house. The boys working on the site mentioned that the mother coyote has dropped a litter of pups across the stream from the house. Mark heard them too. Now, everyone is talking about our new family of coyotes. They sound like a litter of little puppies only 200 feet away.

    I thought that rather sweet at first. But the problem with a litter of coyotes is that they grow up. Then they travel as a pack. Coyotes won’t go near our horses, thanks to Donkey, and they are very skitterish around people and will avoid them at any cost, so I don’t have to worry about my children either. (Relieved sigh). The problem is, our dogs. If the dogs chase them, they can be lured into a pack, attacked and killed. Happens often, I’m told.  I suspect they will be a interfere with a healthy long life for my rooster(s) too.    

     The workers all shrug and say, “Ya’ll will have to shoot those wild muts soon.”

     Now, my son and daughter, crazy with worry about their beloved dogs, keep saying, “They’re right, Mom .We gotta kill the coyotes.”

   I say nothing. It is disconcerting to hear my children talk about killing anything (but time.)

   
     Ronnie, our builder, is a terrific guy, funny, easy-going, but very, very country. Born and bred in Blue Ridge. Never been on a plane. Only finished 5^th grade (and yet he is one of the smartest people I know) a God fear’in preacher on the weekends, works hard with his dutiful sons building quality houses . . . and full of the best country slang ya ever heard. He is a real live country character, the kind you gotta love. He has a subtle way about him- and he likes to make fun of me in such a subdued way, I can’t help but believe talking to a city girl like me is a highly amusing pass time for him. 

     He said, “Ya’ll gotta get rid of those Coyotes, ya know.”

    I said, “And how do you suppose we should do that? Shall I call the humane society?”

    He grins. “I don’t reckon they would be much help.” Then he lifts a finger and makes a subtle shooting motion.

    I shake my head and say, “But we don’t own a gun.”

     He looks at Mark. “Living here, you’re gonna need one. Mark knows.”

    Ah, so they’ve already had this conversation.

      I cross my arms and say, “And so we are supposed to sit on our porch and pick those little baby pups off like a shooting gallery?”

       Ronnie shakes his head and says, “Unfortunately, they’s sneaky. My boys and I have never actually clipped one, ’cause they hear ya, or see a motion, and they take off fast as can be. But maybe you can scare them away.”

     This, I can handle.

     So, the issue of our buying a gun is on the table again. Mark insists we can’t live out in the woods without one. He points out that we have black bears in the area (and now Coyotes) and even an intruder might be a real threat considering there are no neighbors within shouting distance. He feels it is more important to protect the family than stick by some no -violence (to nature or man) creed. I do understand his point.  He assures me the weapon will be kept locked and secure – and we are not talking about a handgun. Just a riffle. (Be still my heart). I insist we go to a shooting range, take a lesson or two and learn to use it properly. Mark says Ronnie can probably teach him out back in an hour. Yea – I like that idea, honey. Go shooting into the woods right by the house and see what you hit. Um. NO!  (Might damage a blackberry or two, and we can’t have that)

So, I will have to take a break from my internet research on blackberries and canning to look up guns. Shoot me (eek – I didn’t mean that literally.)

But in all honesty, safety is an issue that we must consider with this dramatic life change. As it is, yesterday I told Mark I thought it was really important that he teach me to drive the tractor.

    He narrowed his eyes and in a real suspicious voice said, “Why?”

     Ha. Does he think I’m gonna go play with his new toy when he isn’t looking? Hell, I don’t want to learn how to run the thing – God-forbid, he might expect me to go out and bush hog a few acres for him if I actually can.

     The fact is, I have horrible visions of a tree falling on him and me standing there, helpless, watching him be crushed while the tractor is two feet away. Meanwhile, I’m this incompetent gal who doesn’t know how to do anything but cook and dance, and as such, I’m no help at all in an emergency. I imagine Mark bleeding and groaning, trying to explain to me what all those levers are, as the life-force drains out of him. Then, I imagine myself frantically trying to guestimate what to do, pushing the wrong button and squashing him totally. (Ha, not that I have a dramatic imagination or anything.)

I figured he’d laugh at me if I filled him in on my gory concerns, so I just told him I thought I should learn how to run it in case the wind blows a tree down across the road while he is gone. I wouldn’t want to be trapped at the house. He said that made sense, so he would teach me the basics. 

    I have always said I wanted to retire in the mountains – live in a place where nature and solitude come together to enrich the soul. But if someone told me three years ago that I would be stretching my experience envelope to include tractor maneuvering, rifle handling and canning, well, I’d laugh myself off the chair. Not that I’m complaining. Actually, it just goes to show that life can be a great adventure if you are open to it.

I must get back to work. Who knows, after we move, I might be distracted by late night howling and that will no doubt interfere with my creative juices. . .  (Deep down, I hope there will be howling. The way I look at it, the coyotes were there first.)     

Neva with our grand protector . . .