Category Archives: Family matters

It is odd how, when all around you there is crisis and loss, you find yourself focusing on something small and seemingly unimportant, assigning greater meaning to it than the tangible thing merits.Your reaction to a small loss may be out of proportion, but understandably so.That small object has become a metaphor for your life.   

 Such was the case for me this week. In the last few years, I’ve have had to deal with losing my career, my home, my life savings, my marriage, my retirement plan, many dear friends, my integrity, and in the worst blow of all, my children. But it was losing a stupid picture that thrust me into a seven-hour crying jag this week. The human spirit is a delicate thing.  Weird and delicate. Considering the magnitude of loss I’ve been dealing with, why care about a picture? I guess because it is easier to process this than bigger issues.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a dancer more than anything in the world. As soon as I was old enough, I got a job working at McDonalds and I saved and saved until I had enough money for a trip to New York to study with a teacher that was my inspiration and my hero.  I remember that trip to New York and my first professional dance class as if it was yesterday. I remember the promise and excitement I felt in my gut, and the way that trip lit a fire in my heart and mind. I had found my calling in life and it was that very day I took my first step along the path that would become a life journey. I was 16.

After several days of taking classes, I returned home to finish out school, save more money, and await my 18th birthday when I planned to move to New York to pursue my career officially. That came to pass, and two years later I found myself in a tiny studio apartment in Manhattan,supporting myself as a waitress at night and studying dance in the daytime.

  About two weeks after I had become an official starving artist in New York, a man walked up to me and handed me afolder filled with pictures of me dancing at the very studio where I was now studying. Milton was just an amateur photographer, a nice man who took pictures of dancers for a hobby. He was a familiar face at the studio because he was always hanging around, trying to capture images of students in class.  He did this at his own expense and always passed the pictures on to the students with admirable generosity of spirit. He was an adopted member of the dance community and much beloved because of it. 

Milton told me that he had taken the pictures of me over a year prior and he had been looking for me ever since to give them to me. I was confused at first, because I didn’t believe his pictures could be of me.I had only just moved to New York. “The pictures must be of someone else –one of the regular New York dancers,” I insisted.

“It’s you”, he said. “You are not easy to forget.”

I wasn’t sure my being memorable was a positive or negative thing. For all I knew, I was memorable because I danced like some green kid from the sticks, but I do remember thumbing through the pictures,amazed and delighted to see myself all sweaty and focused in my first week of dance in New York. Those pictures, while not all that impressive, meant the world to me because they captured what was one of the most prominent and life altering experiences of my life. More importantly, in the background were images of people that were significant in my life as well – my beloved teacher, peers I studied with and shared history with, and even a few dancers that I considered my competition, thus they were important in a different way because they motivated me to work harder.

 I put those pictures away for safekeeping.They were not fancy pictures, the kind you’d display in your home, but I loved having them nevertheless.

 I left New York twelve years later and moved to Sarasota to open a studio. I was desperately broke at the time, but I wanted to set a tone and create ambiance in my school, and that meant I had to be creative. One night, I thought of those pictures stored away in a file and I decided perhaps I could do something with them. So I spent the evening cutting them out and turning them into a collage. I added a few extra pictures I had on hand, my first headshot and a few pictures taken by a friend one afternoon in what was my first studio in New York, a place called Jazz East that I ran for about a year. The images in that collage were not fantastic, professional shots one might have if they hired someone to capture their likeness with intent to impress. They were just everyday pictures of me dancing… but whenever I saw them, I knew they captured a bit of the spirit and heart of the young dancer I was at 16.  And they made a nice collage- it was a conversation piece.

 I hung that collage in my new school, FLEX, the day I finished painting the walls as I got ready to open. It was the first (and for a while, the only) artwork I had in the school.

As FLEX prospered and grew, a lot of nice pictures found a place on the wall. I bought postures and artwork for decoration and in time the students became dancers of merit and images of them graced the walls,which was way more appropriate. We had a huge posture size image of Mark in the lobby that was very special. My representation as a dancer was just that silly collage, but I was delighted it was there.  Thanks to digital technology and the controlled environment that comes with setting up a dance shot, the pictures of all my students (Mark included) were far superior in every way to my silly New York collage. Yet, I kept that thing hanging somewhere in the studio anyway. It wasn’t there to impress others (because, face it, the shots weren’t impressive) but every time my eyes landed on it, I felt connected to my roots. I hung it for me. And as the years went by, it took on a different meaning… it was a symbol of FLEX that stuck in the student’s minds too. Students learned to turn spotting that dumb picture, and they often made fun of me for some of the stupid poses – so it was a part of their dance journey too in away.

 Every time FLEX expanded or moved, I found a place for that picture. When we sold the business, it was the first thing I packed up to remove from the premises.  When I opened a new studio in Blue Ridge, I hung it again – this time in the back of the studio because I recognized that the collage was dated and wouldn’t serve as inspiration to anyone anymore, but it was still inspirational to me.  It was the one stable thing that followed me through my dance career.

When I left Sarasota and passed the Blue Ridge studio on to my daughter, I noticed she had removed the picture and had propped it up in a corner of the storage area. I told Mark I wouldn’t dream of taking it off the wall myself if my daughter wanted it, but since she obviously didn’t, I would like to keep it. My car was filled with personal items and I couldn’t fit the picture into my vehicle at that moment, so I told him I’d pick it up on my next trip. Mark said,  “It will fit in my car… I’ll just bring it to the house for you and you can put it in the truck.” He loaded the picture into his car.

That afternoon we had an argument, your typical divorce conflict, and though my family had made plans to meet me and help me pack up the rest of my belongings, they didn’t show up. Emotions were running high. I ended up packing a small u-hall with the remainder of my belongings and I drove back to Sarasota crying all the way.

 A short time later we sold our home and Mark and the kids moved to a lovely new log cabin home with a view.  Our former home was finally cleared of everything that was ours.  About two months after that, I got a message from Ben, the new owner of our former house, saying that he had found a picture of me that he believed I would want. He said it looked as if someone intended to throw it out, perhaps because it was old and worn,but to him a picture like that appeared to be something with great sentimental value, so he wanted to be absolutely sure I didn’t want it before he did anything with it. I greatly appreciated his thoughtfulness, and his insight.

 He sent me a picture of the collage so I knew what he was referring to, and I was shocked. How did it get to the house considering it was at the studio last – then in Mark’s car? I had left the home for good by then with all my belongings, so I couldn’t imagine why Mark would unload it there, or if he did, why he would leave it when he finally removed every other thing the family owned. We no longer had any personal possessions at that home, and he knew I wanted the picture so the least he could have done was stick it in storage with all the other pictures, he took, pictures that had no significance or meaning. Still, he bothered to move and stack these in his basement.

I told Ben that I indeed wanted the picture and asked him to save it for me. The next time I had Neva for a visit I asked him to put it in the barn so I could pick it up and I opted to drive her home rather than fly her just so I could retrieve the picture.  I truly wanted this last vestige of my former life and I felt it was worth a 22-hour drive to get it.

After driving 11 hours to Blue Ridge, I drove the extra half hour to the house to pick up my picture, but when I got there I found the thing was damaged beyond recognition. The collage hadn’t just been left at the house; it had been left outside by the trash and for several months it had been battered by the elements – abandoned to the rain, sun and heat.There was water damage, mud and mold all over the picture and it had faded where the sun beat down on it.

 I cried. No. I actually wept. I ran my hand along that old picture and sobbed. I know, this is an out of proportion reaction to a mere picture, but I had crossed my threshold. I didn’t have the resilience within to face losing one more thing, and seeing the only remnant of my former life that had meaning being needlessly ruined just broke my heart. I guess it wasn’t the just the loss of the picture, although I will forever regret losing the only images I had of my teacher and friends from New York, but the idea that Mark could so callously destroy something that he knew I cared dearly about hurt more than I could describe. I couldn’t imagine myself ever purposely ruining any of his artwork or destroying or discarding the few pictures he has of himself when he was a young dancer. These are the kinds of things you want in your old age, something uniquelly your own for your grandchildren to make fun of. No matter how angry I might be with him,I just couldn’t destroy anything that is a part of his history, but clearly, I was had not been given the same respectand consideration. I know I shouldn’t take it so personally – in a divorce, people often act badly due to the intensity of emotion. But to me the ruined picture was a perfect example of the long-standing dynamics of our relationship, a revelation that continues to be very painful for me to witness. 

 So, instead of staying in a hotel that night,I decided to drive home without taking a break. I simply had to get out of dodge. I cried for 7 hours as I drove home with that moldy mess in my backseat. Eventually, I feared I’d crash because I could barely see the road since my eyes were puffy and I was going on 24 hours without sleep, so I stopped at a dingy hotel and slept for four hours. At 4 am, I got back on the road and cried an additional 5 hours until I got home. As you can see, I haven’t been exactly on top of my game of late.  

 After a good sleep the next morning that allowed some sanity and perspective to return, I decided that there was nothing to do but try to put the pieces of my life back together the best I can, and if the picture was a metaphor for my life, I could start there. So, this morning I dragged the damaged collage into my living room along with a smaller picture frame with intentions to save what images I could and perhaps create a smaller version of the collage for prosperity.  I am getting ready to open a new yoga/dance studio and I thought it would be special to hang this small symbol of my dance journey someplace personal, – perhaps in my office for my eyes-only. But when I pried open the back of the picture frame and tried to remove the photographs, mold made them all stick to the glass like those annoying price tags attached to new glasses – the kind you have to soak off and scrape with a knife. I couldn’t save a single picture from the huge collage. The images of my past ripped and fell apart, disintegrating like everything else in my life.  So… I cried some more. … Then I took the entire thing to the trash and watched it slide down the shoot to oblivion forever. Yes, that damn collage truly IS a metaphor for my life, or so it feels like today.

 There is a yoga philosophy that says, “You must loose everything to gain the world.”

I keep trying to embrace that, keep reminding myself that rebuilding a life is a process and I just have to get through the dark period with trust that things will get better. I keep reminding myself that there is nothing tangible in this world that is truly important, certainly not a dumb, outdated picture. A person’s history is theirs no matter what, and it doesn’t need to be documented with visual proof nor do you need to assign symbolism to a silly personal item to create inner drama. I will always have the memory of my New York years and the people who were so special to me. But even so, I mourn the loss of that personal trigger, that tangible thing that served as a reminder of who I am and where I came from. It only meant something to me, because it was seeped in memories of a rich and interesting life of dance, but the fact is, I cared about it. That picture symbolized my journey as a teacher and businesses owner because it was a part of the backdrop of growing that businesses and losing that businesses and starting over.. . again… then again…

There are so many far more important things I can mourn, and here I am broken up over a picture. Funny, how our minds work.

You know you watch too many movies (and read too many
novels) when you start observing your life from a distance, like through a
camera lens, rather than experiencing your days in a way that allows the
sights, sounds and feelings to wash over you and stick. Seems a fair
description of me lately as I go through the motions of starting life over. As I’ve
been depressed and despondent, hardly able to function, yet there’s this voice
in my head sizing up my choices, like the narrator in Bridget Jones Diary (only
my life isn’t nearly as humorous and my commentary isn’t emphasized by a great
soundtrack). My inner voice can’t resist poking fun at me, making sarcastic quips
as I wallow in self pity or get all determined to dig in and tackle my problems
only to deflate and give up within the day. When life throws you for a loop it
is easy to sway between these two states of mind every ten minutes. I often
feel as if I’m floating, wishing I would land so I can plant my feet firmly on
the ground. But the earth still seems so far beneath me that even if I point my
toes I simply can’t touch it.

During this ordeal, I’ve learned there are people who’ve
dealt with worse divorce and financial issues than I. Lots. Trust me, they keep
coming in an endless stream.
Getting divorced is like getting pregnant. When you’re pregnant, it
suddenly feels like EVERYONE is pregnant, or at the very least, their best
friend, mother, sister, co-workers, etc… are.  And everyone attached in any manner to pregnancy feels
compelled to tell you childbirth horror stories, as if this is going to make
you more pregnant-savvy and prepare you for what is to come. All it really does
is make you feel panic, depression and/or confusion, thank you very much. But
people do mean well, and I suppose it is nice to be reminded that the most
trying stages of your life are naught but common human experience. Divorce is
like that, but at least anyone who has ever gone through it tends to be
sensitive and supportive, which helps you feel less alone. Such an alienating
and crushing life experience isn’t easily to forget and people feel compelled
to help you through it. I’m grateful to new friends and old who have displayed
concern and caring for me during these dark days.

I will not share the details of individual people’s
divorces, though I’ve heard enough stories to write a dozen novels with spine
tingling scenes. But I will say that a few gems I’ve heard had made me rather
proud of my own painful, (but not hateful) divorce. Like the friend whose wife
put all his clothes in the driveway and poured paint on them because he
wouldn’t return her call in a timely fashion.

Or the friend whose spouse went to law school, made him pay
for it and used what she learned to take him for everything, leaving him to the
ears in debt as she boasted, “I’m not going to stop until he’s destitute,
unemployable, and ruined because I’ve learned how to accomplish just that.”  And she did.  Now, ten years later the anger in him bubbles to the surface
at just the thought of her. Or the friend who shared just a few words of the
nasty commentary sent to him on a text that he plans to keep in his phone forever
just reminding him how evil his ex can be. He shared it to me and said, “This
is so I never soften towards her ever again. My significant other never liked
me as a person. She likes the life I provided, but not me and after living
together for 18 years in that state, I have good reason to resent her!” Or the
fellow who described alimony as a woman’s idea of a pension plan. Or the woman
who was cheated out of her life savings by a spendthrift husband who, after
bleeding her dry felt she had nothing left to give, thus was dispensable. He
agreed to provide support, but bailed the moment she left the house, leaving
her destitute and unable to care for her child. Then he pleaded a case that he
was more fit to raise the child than her due to his financial position.

I listen and wonder how romance, once blooming with promise
and joy, can take such a 180-degree turn. Divorce changes people like the
invasion of the body snatchers. Sad. And listening to numerous people unload
the heartbreak and fury attached to their divorces, I began wondering if my
depression wasn’t just about my own losses, but also because a magnifying glass
has been held up to highlight the endless stream of romance stories with
unhappy endings that are everywhere around me.   Listening to these scenarios is witnessing the death
of everything I’ve always held most dear – the idea that love endures. I’m a
big believer in happy endings – and if this one isn’t it for me, I’d like to
think the next one will be. But to trust that, I need to come across at least
one happy ending.  Sad to say,
romance novels are the only place you find happy endings anymore, and damn if I
haven’t given up reading that kind of material years ago.

Anyway, it seems the entire world population has a story to
share about divorce, and not a day goes by that I’m not treated to yet another heart
stopping tale of anger and loss.  Everyone,
everyone, from friends and family to
lawyers, doctors and Indian chiefs, continue to lift one eyebrow and say, “You
may think your divorce will proceed amicably, but it will get ugly. They all
do.”

Me? I continue to shake my head in a condescending way and
say, “You don’t know my ex. Perhaps we can’t live together, but we can work
together. Always have. Always will. Besides which, we’ve already discussed
things and have agreed on how to proceed. I’m moving to Florida to arrange work
and set up a life that can support me and my daughter– Mark and the kids even
packed the truck for me and sent me off with a hug. There is nothing to fight
about. We have jointly agreed it is time to separate, but we appreciate our
colorful past and recognize what was good. We will be best friends always.”

Why does this always earn me a jaunty “you’ll see” smile? 

Then IT happened. I was hit with a lawsuit contradictory to
all our agreements that threw all our congenial plans out the window. Suddenly,
after years of loving parenting and caring for my husband, I was being accused
of being an unfit mother, an adulteress, and an all around horrible person who jaywalks.
An abandoner! And just like that, I’m dragged into a battle for my respect and
my children, who overnight changed their opinion of me. Spending their days as
if all things are normal with my ex while I am in my dismal state in Florida, they
grew cold and unresponsive – My eldest even wrote to tell me she never wanted
contact with me again in a message filled with such venom and ugliness that
when I showed it to a few selective confidents they crinkled their brow and
said, “And you want a relationship with this child why? I don’t believe any
parent could excuse those comments, nor should they. I wouldn’t.”

I sat with that message for a day, rereading one
particular line in a long paragraph of vicious accusations, (and this wasn’t
the worst.) “You are no mother. You are a
sick, sad, confused individual in need of help and I need NOBODY to tell me
that.”

I tried to think of any circumstances that might
inspire me to say such a thing to my own mother, no matter how mad I might be,
but short of sexual abuse and/or being burned by cigarettes as I was locked in
a baby highchair, I couldn’t imagine any.
So I thought, OK, enough is enough.  Time to let go. Time to stop crying and defending my family’s
behavior. Time to stop trying to understand and be patient. Time to stop crying,
hiding, and feeling so sorry for the state of things. Time to stand up for my
rights, to set the record straight and remind everyone I’ve been a good parent,
wife and family provider for over 20 years. I may have been out of work the last 5 years, but during that time, our life tanked. Now I’m relocating to a place where I can kick into action to provide opportunity for my family as I have for the past 20 years. I was major financial contributor for most of our life, and I recognize the need to be that once again. Don’t know how I’ll rebuild, but I have to try. All I know is I sure don’t deserve this kind of
treatment – certainly not because of some selfish scramble for money or custody
or because of a defensive knee jerk reaction to a jointly agreed, long overdue separation.

Now, here I am, changing lawyers, gearing up for battle, planning to
devote every resource I have to force a fair distribution of assets. I will
fight to be recognized as a good mother, even if it means I end up with nothing
at all in the end, a ‘la war of the roses. It’s the principal of the matter. And
at long last, instead of being devastated and feeling beaten and alone, I’m actually
angry, feeling strong.

 Yesterday, I paused in the bathroom and got a
glimpse of my own eyes. They were not unlike those of all the people who have survived divorce, the ones sharing horror stories, warning me to
beware, prepare, and not to trust. And recognizing that I have finally been dragged into
this ugly state made me sadder than ever.

 Everyone was right. I WAS naive. My upcoming battle is the comeuppance
I deserve for boasting that we could end 20 years of loving each other with
respect. I was wearing dark sunglasses to hide tears – but they were really just rose
colored.

But even as I prepare for a fight now, I still wish they were
wrong.  I am finally angry, but
beneath that emotion I still feel a deep sadness
– a sadness so profound I feel awash in it, as if melancholy is seeping
into my pours and will leave a parlor on my skin, heart and mind forevermore. I
can’t imagine ever feeling cleansed of it.  

   Of course I’m mature enough to know this too will pass. Life
goes on, and happiness only awaits those brave enough to sake steps to
pursue it.  Divorce when a marriage
has gone wrong is a very important step towards happiness for both parties. It may be a horrible end of something on the one hand, but it offers the promise and hope of
a fresh beginning too.

 Mad, sad, or whatever…… I hang on to that.

I haven’t blogged in a long time. There is a reason…. I simply don’t know how to begin under the new circumstances of my life. But I do miss sending a reflective letter out into the world, especially since I know friends old and new stop by occasionally for a Ginny update. Blogging is like having a quiet talk with a faceless friend, an audience collectively representing everyone I’ve ever cared about or shared a laugh with. Considering I could use a friend of late, I’d like to get back on track.  It is time.

The problem is, if I continue to blog it will require an uncomfortable announcement, so today, I’m here to make it. I’m going to stick with the facts and avoid being philosophical or giving my “view” in respect to the personal nature of the announcement.

Here goes:

Mark and I are in the process of getting divorced. I’ve moved back to Sarasota to be near family, friends (emotional support) and the work I’m cut out for, and am now situated in a small “transitional apartment” while I struggle to establish a new life. In effort not to disrupt the family any more than this kind of emotional earthquake has to, I agreed to let Kent and Neva stay with Mark in Georgia in our home to finish the school year. Kent will be off to college in a few months anyway, and not dragging Neva along during this difficult time has proven a good choice. I’m not altogether my spunky self nowadays and life isn’t exactly charming during this sort of emotional and geographical transition. I miss my children more than words can describe. Of course, I miss Denver too, but at 23 she is a competent and self sufficient adult living independently, so I missed her even when I lived in Georgia. The plan is that Neva will join me this summer to live with her mother. There is some resistance on her part but I will not address that here. 

 After 20 years of marriage, most of my friends are also friends of Mark’s, so I want to point out to everyone that ours is a congenial and respectful divorce. We do not fight, there is no ugliness, and we put forth a united front for our children, friends and family hoping to make this as painless as possible for everyone. Mark and I have always been very competent during times of crisis (which has been most of our marriage) and as such, our divorce is sort of like a recital, with both of us digging in to accomplish all the chores and handle all the problems as efficiently as we can.  We have always tackled difficult problems well together and we treat the fall-out of divorce just like any other life-crap that needs handling. In fact, our divorce is rather dispassionate and anti-climatic – there is apathy towards this separation that breaks my heart. The calm nature of this undertaking is prominent evidence that we are meant to be friends rather than lovers. To say it makes me sad is the understatement of the century.   

 I cannot speak for him, but I will say that Mark has been my best friend for 20 years, and hopefully, always will be.  While I understand that we are not meant to live together anymore, I still miss him. It feels like I’ve ripped off a leg as I hobble around through my days without his wisdom and humor to help me make sense of what I experience. But the nice thing is, when I really need it, I can and do still call him and we discuss things with warmth and caring.That means a great deal to me.  If I experienced any of the hateful comments or behaviors that so many friends have described to me regarding their divorces, I’d crumble into a ball and never stand upright again. I don’t know how people endure it. Divorce is simply the saddest thing I’ve ever experienced.  It isn’t just a marriage that dies, but a part of you as well.  And I could never hate someone I’ve loved, for 20 years, no matter what transpired to cause separation. How do people discard a lifetime of memories and shared history so abruptly and turn on their former spouse like a rabid dog? Thank God, that is not us.

 Anyway, I’m single now. That’s the gist of it.

 Now that I’ve made this announcement, I’m going to continue blogging when inspired, and anyone who misses this entry will no doubt be extremely confused since I’m now in a new state, pursuing a new life in every way. My donkey is gone, as well as my ducks and peacocks and horses and bees (but I kept the winemaking equipment.) I’ve packed away my muck boots and pulled my heels and skirts out of storage.  Just goes to show, a person needs to pay attention or they will get lost when choosing to be a witness to a life that often takes u-turns.

 I do not plan to write about any of the painful feelings or frustrations I’m experiencing in this life transition, and of course there are plenty, because that is the nature of divorce. But cleansing emotions is not the purpose of this blog – it’s always been more a vehicle to reflect on my life experiences and record and share the things I learn and discover about life. As such, I will write about what it is like to be 50 and single and starting over from scratch with practically no resources. Hopefully, I will do so from a positive angle, and perhaps even with humor on occasion.  I hope my not addressing the serious issue of divorce in my writing (unless it is a more generic reference) doesn’t give anyone the impression that I am frivolous or unfeeling regarding the impact this has on my family. We all deal with grief in our own way, and my choice is to focus on whatever positive elements I can find in my days. I believe there is always an important lesson to be gained from hardship, and as such I’m grateful even for life’s hard fist when it knocks me on the jaw good. At this time, it has wholliped me unmercifully. I’m very much alone at this time, which I suppose can be healing, but I’ve suffered so many years of issolation already that a heavy new dose feels unbareable some days. As such, I need to blog again. Now that I’ve finally explained what is going on in my world, I finally can.

Whew.

I am a very good cook. No one will argue the point. But recently, my family has finally decided to slam me with the bitter truth. I make sucky salad.

It’s true. I will spend six hours creating a masterpiece of a meal, complete with soup, entre, elaborate side dishes, gourmet desert, and wine, then open a bag of precut lettuce, throw in a few cherry tomatoes and slap three bottles of Seven Seas dressing on the table. When I’m feeling particularly charitable, I’ll toss in a few stale croutons.

“Don’t knock yourself out, Babe,” Mark will say as he spoons some withering lettuce onto his plate and shakes the month old dressing so the nasty oil that has risen to the top will blend with the milky chemical laden froth below.

To top off this offense, I actually complain when my family proclaims they’re full from my savory cooking and don’t have room for salad. I nag them into eating the greens because I bothered to make them (or open the bag, as the case may be.) They chew with an expression like I’ve dished out a serving of Donkey’s hay, which now that I think about it, probably would taste better.

So, there it is. Ginny makes sucky salad. And like I said the other night to Mark when he gave me the heart to heart “salad talk”, I can live with that.

Only, I can’t live with that. It is bugging me. Not that I make bad salad,  because I’ve always known that I make bad salad – I didn’t care enough to bother improving the silly side dish. I just can’t stand the fact that my family has noticed enough to mention it. Sort of feels like I’ve been robbed of my cooking extraordinaire status. Salad, it turns out, is my Achilles heel, my kryptonite . . . proof that I am inherently lazy in the kitchen. 

Now, in their defense, my loved ones confessed their feelings for my lackluster salad with humor. They were teasing me because every other food-related item I present is usually rather good. Salad jokes round out the meal, don’t ya know, and take away any awkwardness over why I keep presenting these elaborate meals on an average day … serving bad salad with a great meal is like wearing a beaded gown to the supermarket, but going in tennis shoes so everyone knows you don’t take yourself too seriously.
I can take a joke, especially when it ‘s deserved, but certainly they know this was throwing the lettuce gauntlet at my feet.

You want good salad. I’ll give you good salad.

Today, I spent the morning on Amazon looking up salad cookbooks. I know, you don’t cook salad (at least, I don’t think so), but there are indeed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of cookbooks that focus on salad alone. Go figure. I bought several. For the next few days, I’ll be busy with Thanksgiving dishes, of which salad, even bad salad,  plays no part (one more thing to be thankful for). My new books will arrive just when I’m ready for them. I’ll do a quick study, start with some proven recipes, and get a feeling for overcoming the salad quandary. Then, I’ll start experimenting. Don’t doubt it; I’ll end up the best salad maker this side of the Atlantic. I have a way of over-compensating when I feel inferior. It’s my curse and my gift.

It takes many years for a woman to come into her own. What can I say.  I’m a work in progress. Aren’t we all? 
Salad handicap? I shall overcome.
 

Driving into Blue Ridge, you may get a sneaking suspicion that Big Brother is watching you. Then you realize, nope, it’s just that guy Mark. He moves mountains. Gee, he must be strong.

On a big, obvious billboard on hwy 575, the main drag into town, my husband has a billboard announcing his new avocation.  This may seem odd to those of you living in a place where realtors don’t personally advertise, but he happens to be one of the five or so house-selling superstars that make their presence known to people visiting the mountains in this fashion.

The billboard has been up for about a month, and already he has become a household name (or face) in our small town. The other day in the local coffee shop, a fellow stopped him and said, “Hey, you’re that real estate guy, right? The mountain-mover. I recognize your picture.” Then, he talked about a piece of land he wanted to sell. The billboard works.  

Neva told us that one day while she was in the office at school, the woman working the desk looked at her name and furrowed her brow and said, “Hendry . .  . hummm. . . your dad isn’t Mark Moves Mountains, is it? I’ve seen his face everywhere.”

So, there you have it. We used to be Mr. and Mrs. FLEX. Now we are Mr. and Mrs. Markmovesmountains. I guess a person’s work defines them in integral ways. That would make me . . . um. . . Mrs. Writeandgetnowhere? Ah well.

Years of owning a business taught us just how important branding is to establishing a reputation and so Mark has begun the process of defining both an image and a catchy slogan. Not a day goes by that people don’t mention his smiling face looming over the highway. Of course, occasionally, he’s encountered some interesting feedback.   One day, when he was tired and “dressed down” because he was working out, a person said, “Hey, you’re that Mark guy. Wow, how long ago was that picture taken? You must have been a lot younger.”   Mark actually had the friend who took our dance pictures for years snap the shot only a few months ago. He was like, “Thanks, buddy. You run a dance school for eighteen years then switch to selling houses and see if you can avoid turning gray.” 

But he has had some positive comments too. We sent a few thousand brochures showcasing our house to executives and a woman called long distance and said, “My friends in the office dared me to call you. We want to know if this picture is really you. Are you truly this handsome, or did you just put a picture of a cute guy on the back so people would read the brochure and want to buy this house?”
Mark sort of laughed and said, “That wasn’t my intention, but hey, if it works . . .”
She said, “Do you really look like this?”
He said, “That’s me, but in real life I probably have bags under my eyes.  So, what did you think of the house?”
She said, “Oh, no one bothered to check out the house. We just were ogling the picture.”

So much for the brilliant house-marketing brochure.  But it’s nice to know that if he doesn’t make it in real estate, he has a potential future as a male escort. Might even be able to use the same business picture for his next brochure.

Since he was getting good feedback from his billboard, we went ahead and put another two sided one (albeit smaller) up on our lot in McCaysville just opposite where the train lets off their zillion customers. We are actually going to sell this property now that we have changed course and decided not to open a retail business, but until we do, the land will serve as another marketing resource. Better than having it just sit there.

Mark truly loves real estate, and he is doing well considering the market is at an all-time low. He is entering the field when everyone else is getting out, which demands a great deal of diligence and faith, but he has both in abundance. He is a natural. He loves houses, knows a great deal about building, has a remarkable eye for design, both interior and structural (so he gives fantastic advice for improvements for sellers), has years of experience in marketing and finance, and good people skills.  His broad life experience gives his the uncanny ability to comfortably communicate with all walks of life, and he builds instant report with people whether they are millionares or simple country folk, so he can service both with equal respect. Heck, he even speaks Spanish in case a foriegn buyer needs help. 

He is working 7 days a week, 14 hour days. I am proud and appreciative of his commitment to establishing a new career, but I admit, I miss him. He says this endless time commitment won’t last forever, but sometimes, I wonder. We used to say that about FLEX, but the harder we worked, the harder we had to work to keep the machine purring. When you deeply care about the quality of your work, that tends to happen.  But we learned some poignant and valuable lessons from our many years at FLEX, both about ourselves and our relationship to work, so I trust that when life evens out a bit, he’ll find balance. As long as he’s happy.

In the meantime, I can go see his smiling face looming over my car as I careen down the highway anytime I need a Mark fix.
Go Mark.
   

     

    It’s that time of year. For those of you wondering, I have at long last perfected my specialty talent of performing Thriller in my kitchen whilst making a triple batch of curried pumpkin soup. I’m a multi-tasker, what can I say. I can even make cinnamon salted pumpkin seeds at the same time. Now, why has no one thought to create a reality TV series about me, I wonder?

     The one bad part of reinventing your life and starting over from scratch is that when you wipe the slate clean, you end up throwing out the good with the bad. Halloween is one of those days that I miss the good from our past. I miss having a hundred people drop by to sample my pumpkin buffet. I miss the cooking and forcing pumpkin soup down innocent friend’s gullets, easy because they are too polite to say no. I miss Stewie, because he was always the bravest guest, willing to try any recipe I conjured up. Halloween is supposed to be scary, after all.  If we celebrated Halloween here the way we did there, I’d make pumpkin wine. It would have been the perfect addition to my pumpkin feast. But we don’t get a single trick or treater here, so who would drink a thirty bottle batch of holiday wine? 
    In Blue Ridge, everyone goes downtown to a huge festival where stores give out candy and music is piped in on a loud speaker. It is quaint and wholesome, and we do have fun. We are creating new traditions I suppose, but I miss decking our house in orange lights, dry ice, and strobe lights. (My house is tastefully decorated with classy fall décor this season, just in case a buyer comes by to see it. That isn’t fun a’ tall. I did, however, put a “Beware” and “Happy Halloween” sign up on my barn door. )
     I miss my husband hiding in the bushes to scare the wits out of the older students who used to stop by to say “hi”.  I miss giving out 100 bucks worth of candy and then bargaining with my kids to sell me the stuff in their bags they don’t like because I’m running out regardless of how carefully I planned ahead. 
    I miss Halloween week at FLEX, not because it was fun decorating and teaching all those themed dances year after year, but because the staff was such good sports. They had way of smiling with that glazed look in their eye that said, “If I play Monster Mash one more time, I’m going postal . . .”  We laughed a lot at FLEX this time of year – at students, at Halloween bloopers, and mostly at each other. I gotta hand it to my dear old employees, they had a sense of humor. I loved that about them, loved that they could take a joke, that they didn’t take dance so seriously that they forgot that joy comes before discipline and a touch of comedy in every dance gives it depth. I love their willingness to blow up a zillion balloons, do the “Scardey Cat dance two thousand times, and “Wiggle Your Bones” until their bones did indeed wiggle. I even miss the way they ate all the candy I bought for them to give to students and the way they blinked innocently and said, “Me? Eat the candy? Why no, Miss Ginny, I have no idea why all the bins are empty.” Meanwhile, they definitely have candy breath.

Tonight, my kids gathered for some Halloween prep. They carved pumpkins – I took the guts out to the chickens so they could have their own pumpkin feast (new tradition) The kids gave in to creative passion trying to one up each other in the pumpkin carving war. There was some serious cheating going on with the use of toothpicks to hold pieces together that otherwise would have fallen off. Hummm… whatever happened to good old fashion triangle eyes and toothful grins on a pumpkin? Each kid’s pumpkin (and boyfriend Eric’s) were unique. neva made the spider, kent the baby-face, denver the Nightmare Before Christmas characters, and Eric the face…. I am just the pumpkin cheerleader and chief cook in charge of nurishment for the artists – in this case, homemade pizza.

 
 
They made fun of their mother’s Thriller rendition (everybody’s a critic). Denver then helped Neva make a jack in the box costume.

Kent was trying to make a costume out of boxes, just to prove he can. Wish you could see him break dance in this get up. Big laugh. I really should get a camera for this blog this– some things words can’t describe. For the last few years, my son dressed as baloney, but his baloney broke, so now he is going to be his version of a “mail man”.  Don’t ask.

My house is rocking tonight with our ten hour continuous play Halloween music. Every song reminds us of a dance. We can’t resist breaking out in steps or chuckling as we recall a class that did this dance or that. Shake your bones . . . .  Give me a smile . . . the memories are as thick as my pumpkin soup.

So for old friends out there who remember us this time of year . . . well, we are remembering you too. Always will.

Our house is now officially for sale. Sigh.
Since not everyone has had a chance to visit, it might be fun to check out the website we are working on as a marketing device. It features all kinds of pictures of the house and if you click the link to the virtual tour it’s like standing in each room and seeing it from all angles. If you had a glass of Ginny’s homemade wine in hand, it would be exactly like hanging out with us here in Georgia. Anyway, this is the house that Mark built. 
http://showcasere.com/11075/showcase.php?prop_id=31931

Click on “home” and you can see Mark’s new realtor website too. It’s a work in progress so you might want to check back later, because eventually it will be linked to his “other business” of rustic furniture and heritage crafts. Everyday he is adding features, learning about his new business. As he grows more confident and learns from others, he is even starting to implement his own creative approach which is interesting to watch.

A few fun details (so you can fully appreciate this final Hendry house show and tell)
All the rustic furniture in the house was built by Mark too –he turned all the bowls and made all the baskets and brooms on display. He made the rustic shelves, coffee tables, chairs etc… One reason we’ve waited to take pictures of this place for the magazine and for selling it was because we needed furniture. It was a great house – but empty! This week, he whipped off the porch table, the dining room table and a few other much needed pieces. Needless to say, I am now at a loss of what to nag about. Gee, what a dilemma. At long last, my article about the dancers who moved to Georgia to “Choreograph a house” (I know, corny me) is finally in the mail to an editor. And I finally have a place to put my coffee cup when reading out on my porch. All is perfect on the home front at last. . . except that if this place sells fast, we will be without a roof over our heads AGAIN. Ah well, what ya gonna do? We assume a house this size will take time to move, but then, we thought that about our business and it sold in 5 days and we were told to get lost immediately, which taught us you can never “assume” things will unfold at a pace you can keep up with. Take it from me. Be careful when you start rolling a snowball down a hill.

We cleared the lot on the other side of our land and started building our new home last month – this will be more of a big farmhouse style home. The setting for the new house is just as beautiful to me – only without the water feature. I will miss my ducks, but we’ll still be surrounded by trees and wildlife and cool breezes and crickets, so complaining would silly. Our decision to go this route rather than sell all our land and starting over means Mark will be able to keep his workshop. I’ll have my barn and bees and animals and garden. I’ll have another office for writing, and even a space in the basement for storing wine. We’ll have 35 acres to sprawl out on, and the new house may not be a “lodge” but it will be big and functional and knowing Mark, it will end up a lovely living space too. There are great houses on the market for a song right now, but building again so we can keep the other things we love on this land is the compromise that sits with us best in light of the wrench thrown in our original plans. 
This is the foundation for the new house. The actual house will sit above this. 


From the back . . .

This is my new back yard. Can’t you just imagine lots of shining eyes peering back at you from this forest like in a cartoon? The entire area where the house sits was dense forest a month ago. We couldn’t use the land as it was because it was too dense even to walk through. In some ways, building here is going to enhance the land by making it useable.


This is what the front view will look like. We took out a milion trees and turned it into a sort of yard – it gives us room for outdoor living. We made a huge circular drive by connecting two short roads that were cut in when this was going to be a development. Makes for a nice drive in and sections off this house site in a nice way.

The drive which is off to the side of this cleared area.
   

The other day Mark told me someone he worked with said all people were either builders or nesters.      
“I am definitely a builder,” he said.
“I am a nester,” I said.
“No, you aren’t. We wouldn’t be here if we were,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I don’t know about that, but I do know that I am flexible when I have to be. Life is too short to lament about what you don’t have. Gotta celebrate what you do have and move on. I don’t look forward to moving again, and I dread that transition phase and the temporary loss of my office and routine if that occurs– (cause, I’ve learned I’m just not very productive when life is up in the air) but I am ultimately glad Mark had the opportunity to build the house he always wanted to build, even if we didn’t get to keep it. After all, it is the process that counts.  As he once said, “This is the grand recital of houses. I was in heaven being able to just unleash my ideas and finding out what I’m capable of.” I guess it is like a dance. You are totally engrossed with the creation of the thing, but then you must let it go for others to enjoy.

Anyway, back to the tour. The dining room table is sort of amusing to ex-Flexers – because those benches are former FLEX benches, purple until last week. They sat in storage outside of FLEX for about a year after we closed our third location to open Lakewood Ranch. Mark decided to haul them all the way up to Georgia because the new owners had no use for them and he couldn’t bear throwing them out knowing they cost so much to build due to the spring seat design. When we were packing up the moving van with FLEX stuff,  he said, “You know, I might use these benches some day. The darn seats were a thousand dollars apiece to have built. I’ll cover them with an animal hide or something,” And he hoisted them into the truck.

At the time, I thought he was going to a lot of trouble to haul these heavy benches all the way to Georgia where they would no doubt sit in storage for years. But we had room in the truck, so what the heck.  Then, we thought we might use them at the coffee shop, but  that idea was shelved. And don’t ya know, when he needed something for the dining room in a hurry, down came the purple benches. He put natural wood legs on them and we covered the purple seats in orange ultra suede. Voila! Seating for the new table. I guess all those years of making costumes out of whatever we had on hand certainly trained him well.

When we sold FLEX, staff members told us the new owners always referred to us as “the Cheap Hendrys”. Boy, that stung. We’ve always been frugal about resources because we spent so many years struggling to build a business without any funds to work with that we had no choice. We made a habit of finding ways to use everything we had at hand to give the world an impression that the school was professional and well funded when in reality, we were always frantically trying to come up with creative ways to meet the never ending needs of a growing school. Even when we started earning enough to relax a bit, tossing out the things that could have a second life was hard for us because we knew how hard it was to earn the money that bought them in the first place. And needless waste goes against our world view – because a disregard for resources is ruining our planet.

It killed us to watch the new owners frivolously dumping FLEX educational materials, stock, paper products, furniture etc… when it was all serviceable and sometimes in perfect condition, only because they wanted a different color or a new look or to add things that were not at all necessary to the educational product just for show. It was painful for two old timers who had to scratch and make sacrifices to see such waste, and their indulgence foreshadowed exactly what was to come. But what can you do? We watched that train wreck, sick at heart, long before anyone else saw trouble coming. But then, we knew what it took to keep that place humming, and even at it’s most sucessful, there was little wiggle room for such indulgence. Heck, if that school made enough to allow the owners to write a check for anything they desired, we would have kept it. Alas, there was no goose in the back laying golden eggs – just two very tired, overworked dancers who were so out of steam they couldn’t keep the balls in the air anymore.  Ah well, – that is another (retired) story.

The point is, creativity was our means to an end for years and years, until it became an ingrained habit. You’d be shocked to learn how much of this beautiful house was done  for a fraction of what it would cost a normal builder, thanks to Mark’s ingenuity and creative talents. We’d never had had the resources to build this if it wasn’t Mark at the helm working his magic. Limitations are frustrating sometimes, but for him, it inspires creative solutions and great things happen.

Back to the tour. My favorite “pano” is the one of the porch because it shows off the setting of the house. We had the fireplaces cranking (to show off the house’s potential) even though it was 86 degrees outside. Could barely get it to draw since there was no cool air to create draft in the flue. Smoke filled the porch, and we had to wait for a breeze to come along to take a picture.  Were out there coughing, laughing, trying to showcase the “perfect life” as we were bending over with smoke inhalation. If anyone notices that there are sunflowers growing in a pot next to the roaring fire, they will recognize the ruse. Ha. But in truth, in the fall, this room is magnificent. 

There is a lovely hammock by the hot tub too, but when you sit in it your butt hits the floor. Again, this was erected last minute for the pictures. I implored Mark to fix it so we could actually use the hammock while we are still here. He said he would, but in the end, only because he is motivated to create something wonderful for others, not for us.  I’d have to put my homes up for sale all the time if I ever wanted to live in someplace finished. Ah well. Life is not a page out of Martha Steward Living even if sometimes I wish it was.

The workout room and pool room is now filled with pictures we inherited from closing down FLEX. I must say, it wasn’t easy to hang them, considering what they represent. But we are selling the place furnished, so we wanted to take down all the personal pictures and artifacts that have meaning to us. So, if you recognize the wall hangings, know they were put up just this week with mixed feelings. They are definately for the next guy – and again, it was a matter of using the resources on hand. 

Oddly enough, we are not sad about selling. It would have been wonderful had things worked out with the sale of our business as planned, but since it didn’t, the “lodge” has become a source of stress and a symbol of disappointment. It was the perfect Hendry dream house, true,  but in the end, it is just a house and there are more important things in life. I certainly want my world to be about more than acquisitions, so when it came to a decision of working like dogs under stress to try to keep it, maybe even opening another dance studio, or to let it go and downsize to continue living a life with creative options, there was no question.

Mark is busy with building his new real-estate career now, working 7 days a week. This won’t last forever, he assures me. I miss him, but I am proud that he is committed to forging a new career, and I honestly believe he will be very successful. He is out with buyers viewing properties today and he’s already started to acquire listings. People trust him, and well they should. He is very knowledgeable. For one thing, he has always loved land and houses and he has a creative eye which means he sees the potential others might miss– for another, he has a builder’s knowledge to recognize quality and he always makes some pertinent suggestions for improvement. Last week a woman listed a cabin on a creek with him, but the entire creek was hidden behind tons of mountain laurel. Mark went out there and spent a day cutting it all away to reveal 360 feet of creek. Changed the entire property. Not many realtors give that kind of service, and don’t ya know the place had three showings this week and they might be getting an offer today. 

He has a big ol’ billboard with his beaming face going up on the highway this fall and we are working together to develop a marketing plan for him. After being Robin to Batman at FLEX for so many years, it is very nice he has something of his own for the first time ever – good for his self esteem and sense of pride. He’s never felt better about work.  I’d shoot myself in the foot before I’d sell houses for a living, but that is what makes the world go around, right?

I am diligently working on my new book, a memoir called “My Million Dollar Donkey” about our experiences and just how difficult the simple life can be. This story is filled with comical scenes about a city girl going country, beekeeping, horse training and the works, but also contemplates how difficult it is for Americans to shed their consumer mindset and social expectations, despite how wholesome living and an earth friendly existence is all the rage. What is romantic in theory is filled with shit in truth, but what a great adventure life can be when you are willing to sink ankle deep in crap.  I am pretty happy with the project and think it has potential. I am also dabbling with rewriting my second historical romance – big project, but one that keeps beckoning me.

My first book (historical) came back from the agent with a nice note that said the writing was wonderful (whew) and they even passed it around so several people in the firm could read it ( a very good sign that they seriously considered taking it on) but they didn’t like my heroine because she was too resourceful and independent for the time (1848). That is a fair criticism. I agree, and yet, I can’t imagine her any other way considering her circumstances.  I was depressed for a day, then I sent the book to the other agent who had put in a request for a full manuscript. It now sits with her, a long shot, perhaps, but at least it is still in circulation. With each rejection, I learn something new, about myself as a writer and the Achilles heel of my stories.  I am ultimately convinced anything I write now will be much, much better, so really, I am trying to move forward and shelve my early attempts– chalking them up to learning experiences.

Now, it is all about having the discipline to sit my butt in the chair to create something new rather than moseying down to the barn to play Dr. Doolittle. It’s a trial having turned off that constant revving engine that used to reside in my gut making me constantly achievement oriented. Perhaps it is age that is slowing me down, or the slow whisper of the breeze surrounding me out here, but I just don’t feel pressured to prove anything anymore. I guess there is good and bad in that. I may not rock the world with amazing feats, but I certainly feel at one with it now.

As I explained earlier, my duck has been sitting on unfertilized eggs. They were starting to rot and turn green, yet still she guarded them like the queen’s diamonds. She is a wonderful, diligent mother, but obviously unwilling to admit defeat. I decided I should take the eggs away from her so she would return to the pond (and thus I could reclaim my barn) but this caused a moral dilemma. If I took them away while she was out for her ten minute food break, she’d return to find the nest marauded and might feel guilty for being irresponsible. If I destroyed her coveted eggs in front of her, she’d consider me a threat forevermore. (No comments please – Mark has already heckled me, reminding me it’s just a duck, not an elephant with a memory or conscience.)

Anyway, in effort to find a gentle solution, I went to the feed store and purchased three baby runner ducks. Runner ducks have long necks and graceful slim bodies. (I think they’re reincarnated dancers). I then put a cage over the mother duck and scooted her off the nest and removed her eggs. I cracked a few on a hillside just to be sure they were indeed dead eggs. They were – the insides were all green, foaming ooze. Yuck.

I reached into the cage with my baby ducks and rubbed them all over the mother duck, scooting them under her wings and belly. She didn’t like it a bit and the baby ducks weren’t exactly thrilled, but I was trying to get the mother’s smell to saturate them. Then, I put the babies in the cage with the mother duck and waited.

At first the mother rooted around the nest looking for her eggs, not falling for the idea that these ducklings were hers for one minute. The baby ducks happened to be a week old already, so they didn’t seem to take to Romer as their mother either. I guess when you are born in an incubator; the concept of “mommy” is alien. Everyone kept to opposites sides of the cage and I figured it was a stupid experiment. I watched for about an hour, just to assure the baby ducks would be safe and for the most part, they seemed to be. Then, Romer started pecking at them and I got uncomfortable.

O.K., I thought. The duck caper didn’t work.

So, I removed the baby ducks and put them in an empty chicken run, thinking they could live there until full size, then I would release them at the pond. But no sooner had got I them situated than Romer flew out and frantically tried to get into the cage.
Now, I started to think she had attached to them after all and perhaps considered them her ducklings. So, I open the door, but she didn’t know how to get inside. A bunch of curious chickens wandered in, however, scaring the ducklings. (Why is it everything turns out more complicated than it’s supposed to be?)

I try to catch Romer, but she evades me and flies back to the barn. A moment later, she returns and wants in the cage again. Back and forth she goes, checking her nest to validate that her eggs are missing, then flying back to stare at the cage as if unable to accept that these big babies were hers. It took me about an hour, but I finally chased her into the run and shut the door. I had to go inside, stooped and slipping in the mud, to catch the chickens and get them out. What a pain.

Romer hisses at me, hating that I’m in her space. She also doesn’t seem happy to be reunited with her adopted ducklings, because she goes to the opposite side of the cage and ignores them.
Now, I don’t know what to think, but I decide to leave them together just to see what happens. They coexist.

A week later, it’s hot and the cage is full of flies. The ducklings follow Romer around like she’s their mother, but she is very aloof. I decide it isn’t fair to force motherhood on her so I open the cage door to see what she will do. She just stares at me and doesn’t move. I go to the house, thinking I’ll come back and check on the situation later. Moments after I’m home, Romer lands in the lake, swimming and playing in the water as if in celebration. She looks giddy to be finally free.

Neva says, “Mom, what if the ducklings followed her and got lost half way to the pond? We better check.”

So, we take the mule to the pen and find the ducklings are playing in a tub of water I provided, happy and secure in their home, totally uninterested in the open door. But should I now close the door or leave it open? As we wrestled with this decision, Romer shows up, walks by us and returns to the cage so she can continue ignoring her adopted ducklings. Now, I figure she’s just a very reserved mother, devoted in her own way.

I don’t know if she considers these babies really hers, but she has clearly taken responsibility for them.  I suppose when they’re old enough, she’ll lead the ducklings to the pond and they’ll all take up residence. The other ducks will wonder why Romer’s offspring is tall and graceful, considering she is short and plain, but everyone will accept things for what they are. I guess this is the ugly duckling story in reverse.

Why do I share this tale? I guess as proof that I put a god awful amount of energy and time and attention into farm experiments in the name of curiosity (and kindness) but all it does is reveals my middle aged insanity. Ha. I need to get back to work.

Meanwhile, I shall now share the sad tale of what happened to my llama on the lamb.

For two weeks, I’ve had a lost llama announcement in the paper. I’ve put up numerous posters and talked to everyone within a mile radius. Rabbit, the man who owns the feed store, is convinced someone stole Dali, and I starting thinking so too. Nothing explains a llama up and disappearing like that.  Still, it would be a hard heist to pull off, because someone would have to chase the llama all over the pasture and have a trailer in the waiting, and I’d see that going down. Even if it occurred at night, my dogs would make a racket. I just couldn’t imagine it working.

Then yesterday, my dogs dragged a big hank of animal pelt home. Neva said, “Yuck, they found something dead.”
We got out of the car to check what it was. Was it a squirrel? A rabbit? A bird? No, it was a large black animal pelt that looked remarkably like the black wool of my llama.

I called Mark to ask if he had bought an animal pelt to cover a chair or something. Perhaps he dropped it and the dogs picked it up. He said, “Of course not. Ginny, are you sure that’s not your llama?”

I put it in the garage to study. I went out there a hundred times to look. The more I looked the more certain I was that this was what was left of my beloved Dali.

When Mark got home, I had him inspect the fur. He sighed and said, “That isn’t a dog or a bear.  The fur would be different – silky and straight. This is from a big wooly animal. Poor Dali.”

I made Denver look.  She said, “Of course it’s Dali. You can tell. Throw that away Mom! What are you going to do, send it to a lab to be tested just to be sure it’s him?”

I’d like that – and while we’re at it, I want a DNA test to find out who the murderer is so I can press charges at Mother Nature’s court.

So, now I have to deal with the fact that something killed and ate my 300 pound llama. I called the man who sheers my llama to ask his opinion. He’s a llama expert.
 
“Could it be a bear?” I asked.

He said it might be a pack of coyotes.
I pointed out that llamas are often purchased as guard animals because they attack coyotes. They are natural enemies, but the llama is the bigger, so how can a coyote kill a llama.

He argued that if a llama is outnumbered, he can surly be killed by a pack of wild coyotes. Still, I’m betting it’s the bear.

Now, I know why my female won’t come out of hiding. I thought she was just pregnant and hot.  Now I’m convinced she knows something I don’t. I’m thinking I should buy one of those motion censor cameras and set it up down at the barn for hard core proof of what is endangering my beloved pets. Then, I’ll be better prepared to find solutions.

This was the first time I had my llamas separated from my horses. Yesterday, I put them back together, thinking there’s safety in numbers. Donkeys are powerful coyote fighters and they can kick any canine’s butt so I feel better having him near. Just in case.

Late last night, a friend of Denver’s came to deliver some hay I bought to my barn. I told the boys I’d go down and turn on the lights and wait for them with a check. Denver had a fit. “You can’t run around your property at night. If the bear will attack a huge llama, it will think nothing of attacking you too.”

“Are you kidding,  I’ll kick that bears ass if he dares show his face,” I said in my best tough gal voice. As I drove down the lane in the dark, my eyes scanning the forest,  shadowed shapes jumped out at me from the dim light of my mule headlights, I imagined if I saw a bear, I’d run it down. I truly did love my llama. Now, I have his baby llama due on July 13 (yes I’ve been counting down the 340 days of pregnancy like a kid in anticipation of Christmas) I worry that both the mother and baby are at risk so my mind is racing with concern.

I’ve decided it’s time to catch Pulani and put her in the barn where I can keep close watch. Then, I will start preparing, like Rodeo Rambo, to strike out with a vengeance at anything that dares threaten my herd. Who’d have ever believed these would be the kind of problems I’d be focused on during this semi-retirement period of my life? Not me, that’s for sure.

Mark is now working full time at Century 21 In the Mountains. He’s putting in 12 hour days to set up a new career (more on that and an introduction to his new website soon). This leaves me racked with guilt, so I’ve dived into my current writing project with tunnel vision (thus less blog time). Getting productive is easy for me under these conditions, because I don’t feel comfortable pushing the responsibility for family support on one person. I’ve talked about getting a job – perhaps getting my Georgia teacher’s certificate so I could teach English and creative writing at the high school – or even opening another dance school (don’t say it . . . Mark already pointed out how misguided that idea is.)

My talk about potential work opportunities really annoys him. He says, “You’re supposed to be home writing. That was the deal when we sold FLEX. You said you were a born dance teacher and didn’t want to ever have to do anything else for a living, and I promised you wouldn’t have to if we left dance behind – except to write and/or teach in your chosen new field. Don’t you have faith that I can support us?”

Of course I know he can. I just don’t believe he should have to. We made “the deal” expecting certain outcomes from selling FLEX , but they never materialized. That is not his fault. Life is what it is. You make compromises and do what must be done and adjust along the way. Marriage isn’t every man out for himself, but two people working together as a team to accomplish shared goals. At least, that is what it should be.

I’ve always been a primary contributor to our household. To step out of that role plummets me out of my comfort zone and now I’m wrestling with all kinds of feelings ranging from embarrassment over my selfish, indulgent existence to feelings of total inadequacy as a non-contributor to our finances. I simply can’t sit around playing with animals, making wine and writing while my husband has his nose to the grindstone, worrying about real life issues. For now, I’m pouring all my discomfort into serious writing. Perhaps that’s my instinctual way of moving in a new direction–challenging my inner potential to see what comes of it. It was far easier for me to write when I was squeezing pages into busy days filled with a wealth of stimulus and surging experiences than now that I have endless quiet hours stretched before me and my muse has long since abandoned ship.  Funny, that. Every writer’s dream is a life filled with time and opportunity to record the endless stories in their head, and here I am living that dream, but suddenly paralyzed and feeling empty of words. Luckily, I have a way of forcing myself to move when stuck.

So, here I stand, crowbar in hand, thinking it’s time to unwedge myself from the rut I hadn’t noticed I was creating. And as long as I have a crowbar at the ready, I think I’ll take a swing at a bear.  Rodeo Rambo has been unleashed. Not a moment too soon.

The other day, Neva came in to the kitchen and said to me, “I can’t handle this blog I created. I think I’m going to end it. How do you kill a blog? ”

I smiled. She’d only had the blog for a week and made a few entries. “You love to write and you’re very good at it. Why stop blogging?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “I feel so much PRESSURE. Like I have to be interesting all the time. Life isn’t that exciting. And blogging takes so much time.”

I pointed out that the best writers are those that can make mundane, common things interesting through perspective. My favorite writer currently is Michael Perry, and he writes about the most common things. It’s not like a blogger has to have a fascinating experience to write about everyday – just rambling about life is good practice. Besides which, I happened to find her blog interesting because her voice is interesting. I also pointed out that it was summer and she had plenty of time for a blog project. She only needed to write once a week or so to keep blog readers checking in.

“I can’t stand it. It’s like homework. And the worst part is, you sit down and do all that writing and you don’t know if anyone is going to bother to read it anyway. You feel stupid, like what is the point? Do you ever feel like that?”

“All the time,” I said. “Blogging is fun at first, but in the big scheme, it takes discipline. That is the hardest part of writing- it’s so easy to just stop or do something else. There is no guarantee that the effort will ever manifest into something with a tangible return, other than the self satisfaction that comes with creation. Everyone loves the idea of writing, but to actually sit down and write can be grueling. I often feel no one is reading my blog – that I’m sending messages out into the silent world like someone tossing a bottle with a note inside out into the ocean. Fat chance it will ever be picked up. But then, a good friend will leave a comment and I’m filled with a sweet sense of appreciation, because someone is out there and they care enough to check in and see how things are going in my world. One reader is enough. In fact, none is enough, because writing isn’t like oral conversation – you don’t need two people to communicate. It serves you even if you are alone, because it is a way to make sense of the world and to clarify your mind.”

I thought my argument was quite compelling and insightful. Apparently, it wasn’t inspirational enough. She killed her blog that night. She said, “Maybe I’ll start another one in the winter when there isn’t so much to do.”

You see, she is very busy on her computer playing with these webkinz all day. An eleven year old has got to get her priorities straight.

I was disappointed, because I thought her blog was delightful, but I understand the complexities and the frustrations of keeping a blog. And I understand how, in a moment of weakness, a writer can bury one. It only takes a bad mood and a swipe of the hand. Honestly, we can wipe out just about every lovely, extraordinary thing in life with a flippant decision and/or a lack of caring. Hanging in there is hard, no matter what it is you are hanging onto.  

So “Nevathinks@blogsot.com no longer exists. But there is a correct time for everything. Now is this free spirit’s time to live fully . . . . later, with years behind her and some perspective, she may wish to write about it.