Category Archives: Family matters

For years, my life was awash with girls. We worked with a thousand dance students each season, less than a handful of boys in the mix. Since my own children spent so much time at the studio, their lives entwined with dance, this skewed population was somewhat disconcerting. It made for an unbalanced life for my son and I worried that he was missing out on the typical male bonding and camaraderie men experience while growing up with peers. Most of his friends were girls and he was constantly involved in activities that are considered feminine by nature, dance competitions and performances rather than sports or camping or whatnot. His was a world of sequins rather than grit with the wrong kind of hormones raging all around him. It wasn’t a choice; it was just a result of the limitations of our lifestyle.

Now, it seems my son is hell-bent to rectify that former imbalance. He is filling his world (and mine) with males. And dirt. And noise. And a different kind of raging hormone altogether. I’ve been around kids all my life, but this is a novel experience for me, let me tell you.

Kent has dozen of friends in Georgia, good, down to earth, earnest kids who like him for who he is. He and his friends go swimming in the lake. They come home bruised and sore and laughing about foolish escapades. They go camping, tubing, play soccer, fish, argue and wrestle, make a racket playing loud, violent video games. He’s never been more at ease or happier just being a normal guy. No one here knows Kent once danced. I’m forbidden to mention it. I think that’s silly, but I respect his wishes knowing someday, with maturity, his negative connotations to dance will subside and he will understand that it’s a part of him, like all our life experiences. 

The nicest thing about seeing Kent with his new friends is knowing that the speculation that once hovered over his friendships no longer exists. In the past his friendships were always questionable –  he couldn’t help but wonder: “Do my friends really like me, or (because they are all dancers) are they sticking around because my parents run the school, and they think being nice to me might influence just what kind of dance experience they’ll have?”

Not that Kent’s friends in Sarasota weren’t adorable kids – only that peculiar things occurred. For example, they would all take up a collection and present him with a $200 electronic device as a birthday present (even when we didn’t throw a party to establish a reason to give a gift) but we were never asked to pitch in for a collection for one of the other kids – they were not all honored with expensive toys on their birthdays. Don’t get me wrong, the gift was generous and thoughtful – but we worried about the message that went along with it. Our kids were not celebrities or born into privilege but their lives were slightly out of balance as if they were. It is hard to raise children to have wholesome values, a normal perception of what life is all about, and humility when people are so quick to offer you special treatment.

Perhaps it was payback for how often they were ignored due to the pressing nature of our work. Perhaps people felt sorry for a boy stuck in a girl’s world and they wanted to be extra nice to compensate. There is only so much inclusion for a boy who is a constant member of a girl’s dance click, and you can’t blame the girls for trying to keep him involved. Anyway, I longed for a simple life where my kids learned true life lessons in a natural manner.  I wanted them to have easygoing friendships based on mutual interests and because the kid’s personality’s click. And I wanted my son to grow up to be comfortable in his own male skin. This was obviously going to be a challenge while Kent’s entire social world was wrapped up in FLEX. 

Now, Kent has this large, eclectic group of friends, and none of them are a result of his involvement in dance. He hangs out with boys primarily, but girls are always calling too. He acts annoyed that so many females like him but I think he’s delighted. For the record, he isn’t interested in any of them because he says none of the girls in Georgia can hold a candle to his former FLEX flames. Perhaps we got out just in time for other reasons – I’d hate to imagine my teen son running amuck with the hearts of our dear dancers. Talk about a sticky wicket.

Anyway, now Kent is the sort of fellow that doesn’t fit into one specific click, so he dwells on the fringe of many- a friend to all. He is very popular – I believe it is because he is so decent and laid back and truly non-judgmental of others. It doesn’t hurt that he is a straight a student, has a nice car (which he upkeeps himself with a steady job), is suddenly tall and lanky and getting muscular with adorable dimples and he’s become a talented drummer with his own rock band. Above all else, his friends love him because he’s funny. He has a bizarre sense of humor and it’s getting more defined each year. He is quick to see the humor in a situation, make light of things that might set another person off, and is a constant source of entertainment with physical humor. When he was younger – I thought he acted weird to get attention – and perhaps he did. Now, he is very much his own man and I must admit, he has a powerful wit, a quirky side and I enjoy his company more than I can describe. He is simply a “feel good’ sort of person to be around. He makes me laugh.

I now have a collection of teenage boys hanging around – boys from Kent’s school band, boys from Kent’s rock band, boys from Kent’s job, and boys who don’t fit into any category other than the fact that Kent met them at school and they’ve become fast friends.

The other day, I had six strapping male teenagers sleeping downstairs. I crept down in the morning to wake Neva and they were sprawled out on the couches, beds, and floor. Males certainly take up more space than females and they are far less fussy. They sleep where they land, chests exposed while wearing day old jeans.

Kent says, “You don’t have to feed us – we’ll scrounge and get by.” Yea, like I’m gonna let 6 young men run havoc in my food pantry. I made them a big vat of ziti, a batch of tollhouse cookies, a gallon of popcorn and I cut up a watermelon. This held them off for an hour or so. Of course, they were working up an appetite. They had dragged out my two kayaks and spent the afternoon racing across the lake, diving off the dock, seeing who could stand the cold water the longest and then they decided to erect a rope swing. I told them there wasn’t a tree limb hanging at an angle to support a swing and to give it up, but boys can’t resist conquering the impossible. They knocked over two trees, cut down another that seemed to be in the way (I made them drag the branches off into the woods so they didn’t leave a mess for us to deal with later) and when they finally threw a rope over a tree, it got stuck AND the tree bent over like a wilted flower. Eventually, they were so sunburned and cold they did give up and elected to get into the hot tub – then they ventured inside to scream and yell over the video game they were playing – a rock band game. More food was required. Girls were discussed.

They left the next day for various responsibilities– some went to work – others went to see the high school graduation. Band members had to play at the ceremony. At dusk, they convened again. Apparently, they had not finished their web game or finished talking about girls and cars and music and whatever. More food was needed – we were getting down to grilled cheese sandwiches now. As I explained to my son, I need more than a ten minute warning if he wants me to entertain his friends in the banquet style to which my family is accustomed.

“We are fine,” Kent insisted, reaching for the last box of hot pockets from the freezer. “You don’t need to take care of us.” He says this with a smile, of course, because he knows it’s impossible for his mother to resist any opportunity to feed people. 
Yesterday, the boys decided on a moments notice to go camping (outdoor recreation is a popular, common pastime here in the mountains.) I zipped together a cooler filled with drinks and candy and a bag of salty snacks – throwing in marshmallows of course, (I believe in being prepared for all eating emergencies and my pantry is kept like an independent grocery store – people kid me about it.) I received a big hug from Dylan. He said, “You’re like . . . perfect.”
Yes, these boys are easy to impress. They can be bought with marshmallows. Love that.

They happen to be useful too. I never cease to find a chore for them to do. This weekend they moved a huge tabletop from one room to another for me. Been wanting to get that heavy glass top moved for ages but Mark couldn’t do it alone. It took several muscled sets of hands – but no problem-o when Kent’s friends are around.

I am far more comfortable with my son under roof than off who-knows-where – and I like having the chance to really get to know the young people he’s spending time with. I adore boys – they are fun to watch, fun to listen to, and ultimately they can’t help but be flattering. I’m told I’m their favorite mom – I can “smoke Dylan’s mom in the kitchen” (This is apparently quite a feat because his mom does cook, meaning this is a compliment and not commentary on how well-done I make my hamburgers).  I’m told I’m interesting, as moms go, not because I am intelligent or talented or have a colorful gamut of interests, mind you, but explicably because I make wine. That is a cool Mom hobby to a teenager from the Bible belt, ya know.  One boy (I call him Muppet because he looks like one) is impressed because he never met anyone with a library in their house. He is referring to my office which is a far cry from a library, but does contain a few walls of books. Ha. No one will ever accuse these boys of being intellectual – at least not for a few years.

I worried that when we left FLEX I’d grow old quickly – like leaving a time capsule and having all that preserved time you held off by living in that controlled environment suddenly hitting you at once- aging you double time. Kids keep you young, and I couldn’t imagine my life without teenagers challenging me to keep up with what was “in” and “cool”. Not that I’m cool, ‘cause lord knows, I’m not. The kids at FLEX always had a heyday pointing out how clueless I was about what was “in”. I’m the last to recognize new music, understand high tech gadgets or to follow pop culture fads. But I was considered cool for my own unique reasons – primarily because I could move in a unique way. So, even if I’m not “cool” in a conventional pop culture way, I’m not boring either and I gel with young minds easily. I think it’s because I’ve retained that veracious lust for life that is common to the young- I’m still interested in adventures, so I’m not stodgy. Or maybe I’m kidding myself and it just feels that way. Does any stodgy person really see themselves as such? I’m probably a delusional, certifiable old fart.

Nevertheless, it’s nice to keep up my teen-relationship skills with my own kid’s friends. It’s a comfortable place for me to be, drowning in kids, answering questions, philosophizing, laughing with them. And it can be done without dance. Who knew?
Lucky me, I have another child coming up to the teen ranks soon, so my practice field won’t fade anytime soon. I’ll even get to circle back to the world of girls soon. Of course, these girls don’t dance and teen girls don’t eat so much, so I won’t have my current secret weapon to win their hearts.
But all girls love horses…. (Grin)
I’m in like Flynn.

Yesterday, we broke ground to finally start building our new business. It has taken a great deal of time to get things in order, permits and finances etc…

This is not the first time we’ve broken ground to begin a new enterprise.  Last time, we were building the grand Lakewood Ranch dance studio. We posed for the local news with our employees and the area business association was so delighted they hosted a fancy buffet in our honor. Pictures were in the paper. It was big news.

This time, we didn’t even plan to attend the ground breaking on the morning our builder started the preliminary work to lay the foundation for the future Bean Tree. My parents had had just left town after a short visit and last week was our school’s spring break and we’d gone to Nashville for a few days with the kids, thus setting us back on work related chores. We had a day chalk full of errands to run. But ten minutes after work was supposed to have  begun, we got a call from our builder that “The neighbors are caterwauling’. Better get down here.”

Mark sighed and said, “And so it begins.”

We drive down. The bull dozer is parked center stage. In front of our little lot was the mayor, the police chief, a representative from the business association, and a few interested spectators (because an argument between neighbors is about as interesting as a fire in these here parts.)

Apparently, the fellow who rents the little building next door for a barbeque joint had taken exception to our moving the bushes and two trees that separated our neighboring  lots. He claimed he was renting the bushes (which lie on the property line) as well as the building, so we better not dare touch them. The trees and bushes are mostly on our property (as well as a corner of his building, but we let that go) and we had secured permission to remove them months ago, so we were taken off guard by his reaction. Unfortunately for him, there was no question that we had to remove these obstructions – our lot is small and the only way to fit our building on it is to build to the property line, which requires some room to work on the outskirts too. We made sure to get a variance from the mayor and an agreement with the adjacent property owner before agreeing to purchase the land. Nevertheless, we do want to have good report with our neighbors so we chose to be sensitive to his distress. We explained that the owner of the property he is renting gave us permission to remove the bushes and trees before we even bought the lot and we showed him our permit and the variance.

Barbeque man said that he didn’t care if Hitler bought the lot, he wouldn’t stand for anyone touching a leaf of a plant near his business. (I couldn’t help but note the negative connotations of his chosen metaphor. Sigh.) 

At the sheriff’s suggestion, we called the county appraiser and when he heard the mayor was involved, he came down himself (very impressive, because he is a very busy man who usually sends assistants for these kinds of things). Turns out our property was two inches wider than supposed, which made our case even stronger.

The barbeque man was going ballistic, saying that if we build a business next to his, it’ll ruin him. He doesn’t like the kind of coffee that costs 1.50 a cup, or people who drink it. The mayor pointed out how good it will be for the town to have an upscale business like the one we’re designing. He and many others have been waiting for someone to take the risk and be the first to invest in the area, because then they believe others will follow suit. The town is full of tourists, thanks to the train, but no one is taking the initiative to service them with better quality stores– which is turning out to be a detriment to the future of the town. But barbeque man said he liked the town the way it is and he thinks we should just forget our project and leave the lot empty. Yeah, sure buddy.

We spent three hours trying to appease the man. Mark offered to replant some landscaping on his lot (just to be nice, not because he has to). But the barbeque man remained steamed. The police chief took me aside and said, “These old country boys hate change. He’s just squaller’in because he’s bored. He hated the people on the other side when they moved in too, but two months later, they’re getting along fine. Forget the old fart and do what you have to do.”

In the end, Mark said, “What can I do to make this a better situation, because we’ve invested in this lot and now we must build here to the specifications of the permit, and that means the bushes must be removed. But I’m willing to work with you.”

“There ain’t nothing you can do to make me happy but to go away,” the barbeque man says.

Mark says, “Well, in that case, we are finished here. If you don’t like what we’re doing, we can go to court to settle the dispute – and let me tell you, after what I’ve been through the past few years over my former business; this won’t be a drop in the bucket.” And he motioned for the man in the back hoe to begin and sure enough, bush number one ripped from the earth like picking a flower.

I guess the moment Mark stopped trying to apologize and being nice, the man decided to let it go. He didn’t really want a fight, just wanted to make some noise. He said “Nevermind.” Then goes to sit on his porch to watch the work in progress. 

The street was now filled with interested spectators as if watching bulldozer move dirt was the best entertainment in town – and on some days around here, I suppose it is. In ten minutes the bushes are removed and frankly, this increases the visibility of the man’s barbeque place, which is so tucked in the back away from the street that even after 9 months of living here I still had to have Mark point it out.

Mark was kind enough to write a document promising to do some landscaping and to leave the neighbor’s property visually appealing, just to reinforce his good intentions.

Everyone thought he was being more than fair, so they wandered off content. A few hours later, Mark asked it he could borrow Barbeque man’s broom to clean it some dirt on the sidewalk. The man refused, so Mark walked across the street to the grocery store to purchase one so he could sweep the neighbors walkway. (I suppose I should write “dentistry fees” into our business plan because it looks like Mark will be grinding his teeth a great deal in the coming months . . . and so it begins . . .)

When Mark got into the car, I praised him for handling things so diplomatically and with such steady calm.  He looked tired.  Sometimes I wonder if the emotional scars left by FLEX will ever heal. Life goes on, but man, do we all carry baggage around from it.
I said, “Everything worked out easily enough, if you think about it.”
He said, “I just feel raw inside when things like this happen. It kills me. I wonder if this going to be like owning FLEX where everyone always seems to hate you because you run the place. You can’t win, no matter how hard you try to do the right thing.”

I pointed out that back then, people hit below the belt, attacking us in ways that were very, very personal. You couldn’t help but be hurt when you’d knock yourself out to create a great dance experience and people got mad over things you never suspected would be a problem and they attacked your character for it. Like them blowing up because their child was not given a role they wanted and accusing you of favoritism, or going ballistic because we had to reprimand students for behavior problems that disrupted the learning process. They’d say things like “You’re unfit to be around children!” which always stung. They’d say, “I know you are punishing my kid by having her stand on the back line because we asked for more rhinestones on our costumes last week. You just love humilitaing kids. You get a kick out of it. ” Or some other nonsense.  The allegations were always so off the mark it would be funny if it wasn’t so disheartening.

Add to that all those constant digs which revealed everyone’s resentment towards us for being successful, as if we were “taking advantage” of children rather than being modestly rewarded for hard work and talent. There was this attitude that we should devote ourselves to dance out of a love for the art and a commitment to children – that we were not deserving of a good enough livelihood to raise our own children well or to secure our future retirement. The constant snide comments about our personal finances and disgruntled fury about any progress the business made wore our soul flat over time – especially since we made less than almost everyone attending our school  – whatever we had was invested back into the studio to make it a nicer place for all. Eventually, we just decided it isn’t worth it anymore. Living a life now without all that madness I realize we probably lasted longer than most people could have under those conditions.

This is different, I assured him. Now, we are fighting about bushes. There is no reason to take that personally. No one is going to scream that we are unfit to be around a cup of coffee – and few people will think we should work 60 hours a week and not get paid decently because we’re supposed to do it out of a love for the brew. And if they do, hell, we’ll sell this business too.

Mark sighed and said, “I suppose you’re right. Still, I wish I could just go about doing my thing to the best of my ability and not have to deal with insane people causing a stink because they don’t understand what it takes to keep a business stable and secure.”
Ha. Would be nice.
But we know that every business in America comes with its share of yucky crap. It is just a matter of making sure the crap you have to handle is crap you can stand to live with.
So, when you look at it that way, fighting about bushes is really no biggie.

The good news is, the construction has begun and we are on our way back into the world of small business ownership – for good or for bad.   
We are inviting a slew of headaches into our lives again – a constant need to be creative and diligent – to work as hard as it takes to do a job well. We do not want to be slaves to our work this time around, but we do know our personalities well enough to expect we’ll soon be feeling fairly passionate about our product, service and employees. And we have so many ideas to incorporate in the other areas of the store, like art gallery creations and event planning and a literary center and/or newsletter. Like it or not, that means a great deal of work ahead. Ah well – it makes you feel alive to be building something you believe in and can be proud of.

About two weeks ago, we went to Atlanta to this huge Dessert Expo for people in bakery related businesses. We enrolled Kent and Denver in a professional barista training program and they learned all about latte art, the origin of coffee etc… We thought this would be helpful in case they end up working for us (and they both hope to), but even if they don’t, barista skills will help them get a job in any major city – it’s a great college job. If nothing else, it helps our mature offspring understand what we are doing now and allows them to be a part of it which is important to our family. They loved learning about coffee from a serious angle. Kent came out, put his arm around me and said, “Let’s get this Bean Tree built already. I’m ready to be a barista champion and I need a place to start inventing great, original drinks! This is cool. I love it!”  He’d never had a cup of coffee before the class. Now he is ordering cappuccino’s everywhere to judge the quality of the barista and learning about coffee roasters. Ha.

While our kids took eight hours of coffee class, Mark and I spoke to vendors. I was fascinated with all the bakery products, pre-made pastry shells and fancy containers for displays and serving. I especially like the logo imprinted chocolate disks you can order to stick in a fancy pastry to make it a signature dessert.  Mark was researching point of sale equipment and security systems. When we all got together for lunch, we took the kids for a stroll through the vendors to sample the weird and fun things we had discovered, like glittered chocolates that taste great but look like balls of sequins (man, where were they when we had a dance school!)– or the hot, spicy chocolates that leave your mouth on fire, or rum cakes that pack a punch, and all kinds of other unusual products. We sampled a dozen flavors of gelato and argued if getting a machine to make it from scratch was worth the expense. It’s one of those “on hold” ideas.

Through it all, we marveled at the subculture of coffee and how crazy and obsessive people can be when they are “into” a vocation.  Every interest seems to have a glut of specialized products that you never knew existed before you get seriously involved. I’ve been shocked to discover dance isn’t so unique a business after all – it’s just one more subculture in a world of special interests, and they all require intense involvement and creativity if you wish to excel in the profession. If anything, I’ve learned that every business is specialized and requires serious research to understand it’s uniqueness.

After we couldn’t stand to sample one more sweet nugget, we ate lunch. Needed some “real” food – in this case, a hot dog. (grin)

Denver said, “We’ve been to hundreds of conventions before, but never anything like this. No one is demanding your attention or complaining or crying and there aren’t kids running around everywhere, disrupting conversations or needing to be told to settle down or parents coming at you with fire in their eyes. Everything is mellow and so novel and . . . well, it’s fascinating.  I love being here as a family, discovering new things and getting excited about your new enterprise   – thanks for inviting us.”

I felt both good and bad about her comment. Good because I like how this new business can be pursued in a way that is non-intrusive of our personal lives – it’s nice to be in a profession that doesn’t hinge on ego stroking or trying to meet wild expectations that inevitably lead to disappointment for those involved. But bad because it reminded me of how difficult our former life was for our children.  For all that dance is exciting and fun for customers; it meant constant sacrifice for our family. Even though our kids had fun when they were in the role of “customer” as dance participants – it still meant they were orphans at every dance event – which meant an underlying level of disappointment for them regardless of how other parents tried to step in to assure they made it on stage prepared. Everyone else had their own parents at their side – but they had us too, because we were always FLEX directors and choreographers first and Denver, Kent and Neva’s parents second. My kids never had anyone. No way around it because staying on top of the endless needs of others required 110% of our attention.

The point is, our choice to make a life change was very good for them, and I’m reminded of that all the time by things they say and do.

Anyway, it seems the past few years of prep for “something else” are all coming together now and we are going to thread all our newly acquired skills with the old to create a new life quilt.  The hub of our work related interests, the Bean Tree, has finally begun taking root, which was all we needed to put this discombobulated life puzzle together.

In addition to my literary pursuits and our studying the business of coffee and art, and Mark taking woodworking classes and all that, a few other coals have been simmering on the fire that I might as well mention since they are interrelated to our work world.

This week Mark got his real estate license and he has signed with the biggest broker in town. They said, “You don’t have to bother with putting in many hours at the office, because that coffee shop stuck in the heart of touristville of yours is going to be a gold mine. Put a few pamphlets out, make it your home base and you’re good to go.” He has always wanted to be involved in real estate, and he has such an eye for the potential of land and buildings, I’m thrilled he finally followed through and got a license. He will take that ball and run with it – who knows where.  Already he has his mother’s house (and ours) to sell – and our builder plans to use him for future listings too. And tapping into the local real estate world means we can market the Bean Tree as a place for business meetings in this subculture too- so that is good in it’s own way as well.

Mark has also received several orders for custom made cabinets for a builder and he’s busy with that too. It is obvious he will be inundated with wood work projects for as much time as he wants to devote to it. He is busy making all the tables for the Bean Tree from scratch and they are striking, (as all his artwork is) He’s designed a building for the Bean Tree that will be an impressive example of his artistic building design, so we expect the Bean Tree will be the best advertisement imaginable for his other new company, as a build/design team for luxury log cabin homes. So, as you can see, we are already tossing multiple balls in the air for our new juggling act. (We sold FLEX to simplify our life? Ha. What happened? Oh I know, we brought ourselves with us.)

I really need to clone my husband a few times so he can do all he wants to do. And that might even mean I could see him for some personal time too. But that is just a fantasy at this conjuncture in our life. Sigh.

The moral of the story is – Life goes on. What are you waiting for? Stop this attitude that you have to “get a life” because the fact is, you are currently living the only life you have – whether it be good, bad, filled with joy, or boring as sin. Your world is the one you created by every decision along the way. But there are still decisions to make and therefore, endless possibilities.
Live fully.
 

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop?
The same as the years it takes to train a husband to buy a good gift for his wife.

While I never believed I’d get to the center of this dilemma (because I get impatient and take a bite out of the candy first) I can finally say that it takes 20 years of marriage to train a man to buy the perfect gift. And that is only because I happened to marry a man who was easy to train. To the rest of you ladies, I say, good luck.

Today is my birthday. My husband bought me a mule. Not the kind that eats and poops. The kind you drive around a farm to get a job done. I’ve been begging for one for two years.

He traded in our two four wheelers to purchase it – something we discussed and felt was a good idea because we are convinced someone will eventually get killed on those ATV’s. Our kids are pretty responsible, but every time we have guests visiting, the friends go wild and end up crashing or rolling the vehicle. It has been an endless investment in repairs – not to mention the panic attached each time I hear the four wheelers roar down the driveway. My brother’s son had a close call last time he was here, and that was “it” for me. The problem is, I use the four wheelers every single day. I toot around to pick blackberries all June, then cuss because balancing the bowl on the front grate is precarious at best. I zip down to the barn tying a bag of my kitchen scraps to the handlebars, but this gets messy and I end up with jeans damp from leaking spaghetti. I try to balance hay bales or a bee super on the back, but it rarely works on our hills and I roll along slowly, frustrated because some things are simply too heavy for me to carry a long distance but my car gets destroyed lugging stuff around through our fields. Worst of all, there is NO place for a cup of coffee on a four wheeler. That sucks. But I make do. Mark bought me a little cart to put on the back for hauling manure and that has been a help, but still – it was clanky and made backing up hard and well… it was no mule.

Neva loves sitting behind me on the four wheeler and together we roar around our 50 acres on summer mornings (her still in her jammies) just to check on the animals or the garden or to snag some blueberries for our cereal. And of course, I’m a safe and wimpy driver, so there is no danger here. I do love the feeling of her little arms wrapped around my waist and the way she buries her face in my back when the air has a chill.  So the idea of getting rid of the four wheelers just because others misused them was frustrating. But we hated to play the heavy and say “no” to the kids using them for pleasure rides- seeing two fun four wheelers sitting in the driveway with a “disallowed” reputation was torture to Kent and his friends. Made us feel like stick in the muds when we said “no”, but irresponsible when we said “yes”. And as I said, I use them every single day weather permitting, so we so recognize how useful they are in a lifestyle like ours.

So, for a long time now, I’ve talked about a mule. A mule is a four wheeler that is built like a golf cart, tank style. It has the power of a four wheeler, but instead of straddling it like a motorcycle it has two seats for comfortable riding (good for Mark’s arthritis or when my aging parents visit and I want to sport them around to see what we’ve been up to on the land). It has two cup holders, so I can zip around with a cup of coffee. Most importantly, it has a small loading bin in the back for holding whatever it is I want to cart around – 80 pound bee hives filled with heavy honey, a bale of hay, bowls of berries, plants – you name it. I can drive out to the pasture and fill that puppy with manure for fun (no cracks) or fill it with chicken droppings to pour over the garden too. I can use it to haul pumpkins home from a garden if I am lucky enough to grow pumpkins this year. It even has a nifty lift to help you empty whatever you load, like an itty bitty dump truck. Whenever I’m browsing horse magazines, I see ads with pretty, well-dressed, non-sweaty women driving perfectly clean mules with a leisurely smile and I think – that could be me! Of course, I’d have mud all over my t-shirt and a spilled cup of coffee on the floor of my mule, but I can dream, can’t I? 

(Neva took these pictures. I am not going downhill… at least not literally…ahem)
People around here often purchase mules for hunting. These vehicles can go anywhere in the woods and the truck bed is apparently good for hauling out a slain deer. For me, it is simply a perfect work vehicle, and I’m not just being over-indulgent. I really spend a lot of time outside doing nasty work and could use something to help me get these jobs done. Now, I have it. Happy Birthday to Me!

This is the second perfect gift my husband has given me lately. On Valentine ’s Day, after ten years of asking, he bought me a one-man (one woman) kayak that only weighs 35 pounds. I can lift that puppy myself! Every summer when tourist season begins here, cars go by always with TWO of these easy to handle kayaks on the roof, and I grumble jealously and pine for a boat of my own. We have a monster of a two-man kayak, but it is very heavy and I can’t handle it alonel – if you can’t budge a thing, you are unlikely to take it out for a quick paddle.

It is not that these light weight kayaks are very expensive as recreational toys go, but there was always something else to buy and Mark didn’t think I’d really use it considering our lives have always been so busy.  But I really wanted one and so I asked for it every year. When he gave me the  boat at Valentines Day – a brilliant red one like a heart – I was shocked. I kind of gave up the idea of ever owning one, and if I did, I expected I’d be buying it myself and having to make up excuses and justifications for my actions.

He said, “I know you want two (no one wants to kayak alone), but let’s start with one. There are other holidays to come and you can get another one eventually if you really use this one.” It was a true sign of love to me.

Now, I don’t want to give anyone the impression Mark has ever bought me thoughtless gifts. He has never been an idiot giving his wife a vacuum cleaner or a toaster for Christmas. He would buy me beautiful pieces of jewelry or some other feminine, lovely thing that was lasting and meaningful – I think he was proud to finally (after years of our being scraping by) in a position to buy me something real that you don’t need to look at with a microscope. I happen to be a woman who dresses nice, and I have a certain style that would suggest I’m meant to own jewelry. The problem is, these are gifts traditional women would love, so he assumed they were a proper and thoughtful things for a man to give a woman, but I’m not a traditional woman and jewlery never impressed me much– so while I treasured these things because my husband gave them to me, and I wear them all the time, I have to admit they didn’t twist my pickle or have me ecstatic when I unwrapped them. I do appreciate them, but they just weren’t “me.” He bought me an oil painting once. That was a very romantic and dear gift and I treasure it still. More “me”. But for some reason – that kayak meant so much more than any pricy, classy gift I’ve ever been given before. It felt as if he was saying, “After 20 years, I finally know you. I understand you are complex and somewhat weird, but that’s OK. You look like one kind of woman, but inside, you are another, and I’m willing to accept and support that .”

You see, giving someone a kayak as a gift isn’t just giving them a boat. Because it is a gift that implies more – that boat has to be used, and Mark (who does not happen to be sporty in that way) knows I’ll want to drag him out on the river. So this is a gift of tolerance as well.

Anyway – I couldn’t be happier with a Porsche than I am with this damn mule. I wouldn’t be more thrilled with a ten day cruise on a fancy yacht than I was with my bright red, liftable kayak.

Today is my birthday. My husband left at 5 am to take a cram course in real estate because he recently finished his 9 week course and he takes his state exam this week. I encouraged him to go. It is just a day, after all. He missed my birthday last year too – he was in Florida handling the FLEX mess.  I figure I’ll save next year for something really special.

It’s raining out, so I think I’ll take the kids to Atlanta to the museum of natural history (my idea of great fun- not theirs necessarily,  but hey, it’s MY day.) We will all meet up with Mark later for dinner and perhaps a movie.

I am 49 today. Nothing very remarkable about it. 50 will be something to celebrate but 49 is just another birthday. I don’t feel old and adding another year to my life roster doesn’t bother me at all. I’ve accomplished enough to keep from getting depressed. One good thing is getting older makes me less of a liar. I always round up, so I’ve been telling people I’m 50 for about two years now. Mark says he doesn’t want me to turn 50 because I’ll then start telling people I’m 60. He’s exaggerating of course. I’ll tell them I’m 55. (I round up in 5 year  increments.) Just seems easier to toss out a nice round number.

Time to start the day. I’m going to go wild and eat pancakes till I bust! Yipee!

For those of you who think I exaggerate, I thought I’d share a proof of my mud….. This is the trek I walk to open the pasture gate twice a day.

And imagine what your dogs look like at the end of the day after romping in this…. not to mention my kids…

a panaramic view of the barn from the street (backside). We are clearing trees and burning brush, which opens the view. More mess of course…. but I can ride through the woods now come spring… The mud inside the gate where the animals hang out is even worse! I won’t take a picture of it because currently, there is a dead chicken out there. Long story.


I was waiting to reveal the lake until spring, but why wait. You might appreciate it more with a before and after shot……
This hillside has been sprayed with wildflowers so we will have a billizion flowers everywhere come spring. Special surprise for the bees. We also planted 100 dafodiles along the banks of the lake, which will multiply each year until we turn our Kansas into OZ. Cute deck, nice place to nurse a glass of wine and feed the ducks. I’d read there if I only had a chair . . .(she bursts into song to the tune of “if I only had a brain”) I have a chair request on Mark’s never ending wife’s wish list. I’ll drag one here from around our fire pit one of these days when he isn’t looking – he doesn’t like the bright red color of the adarondik chairs that worked so well in our Florida garden, but I’m thinking of visuals from my perspective looking over the water, not of people looking at the dock. (And that is the difference between us.) And besides which, I think the chairs are pretty. What do I know….

The water is controlled by a valve hidden under the dock so we can drain the lake if we ever need to. It constantly overflows in a system into the creek which begins at the base of this muddy hill. Best of both worlds if you like a water view. No fish yet, because we finished the lake the very month you must stock fish (fall) but you can’t put fish in a pond that hasn’t had time to develop algee and other food sources. So, if we are here next season, we’ll get fish. Sure would be nice for my ducks to have something real to dive for.  

The lake begins at the far tip in the trees, because that’s where the creak spills into this pond. My ducks like to stay nestled in that far cove most of the time, but they have taken to hanging out (and pooping) on the deck. Lovely. More evidence of brush burning on the bank…. not very pretty, but you can’t imagine the mess clearing a thousand trees makes….. This, like everything in our world, is a work in progress. Sigh. In the far distance that skinny white thing is my two seater kayak, which shows that this is a sizeable lake for a private backyard sort. It’s soothing (at least to me) to live sandwiched between water and trees.

In the distance, you can see my four ducks swimming towards me. I already fed them leftover angle food cake moments before, but they must be looking for something else.  Good thing for them I have a few corn muffins in my pockets . . . not like I was going to feed them my camera.
By the way, it’s a gloomy day and all this is going to look far prettier when the grass and flowers and trees bloom . . . might even have a few baby ducklings by May….
I’m cranky today because something ate one of my leghorn chickens. Some monsterous creature has been catching one every two weeks or so and eats only the head, leaving feathers and yuck behind. I found the hole it lives in…. I’m calculating a master plan to rid the beast (catch and release, of course, I can’t kill anything, but I sure get inspired to pour gasoline down that hole when I see one of my beloved chickens turned inside out.) This is war!

“Are we sure we really want to do this . . .”
This sentence seems to preface every conversation Mark and I have now-a-days.

This week we broke ground on our new biz. Sort of.

Mark met with the mayor to get an official signature on the variance we were verbally granted.
He went to the city planning commission to get a permit. (Thank God for his vast dance experience or I doubt he could jump through all those hoops so gracefully.)
He met with a lawyer to set up a Georgia corp.
He met with an accountant to discuss financial repercussions and risk on this sort of investment.
He met with a banker to discuss the construction loan.
He met  with our builder to go over plans for the shop, and they went prowling around town to see other food service businesses and stores to get an overview of various design options.
He met with the man who owns half the town to discuss neighborly things, like where to park construction trucks and our impact on the other nearby business.
He met with the Department of Health to discuss the health codes and building requirements for the food service industry portion of our plan. 

“I’m out of practice at this,” Mark said, coming home looking a bit shell shocked. “And I feel out of sorts, it’s all too familiar . . . “

    You see, people think we were dance teachers and choreographers at FLEX, but they never understood that dance instruction was a very small portion of our dance empire work load. Mark built the Lakewood Ranch facility in a town with far more red tape than this one, under more financial stress and legal frustration than you’d ever encounter in small town Georgia. Meanwhile, he kept up his regular overbooked duties, such as the bookkeeping, staff training, payroll, and he taught a full schedule. Dance parents and staff members harped on him for “blowing off” classes when business scheduling conflicted with teaching, as if he was out on the gulf course instead of knocking himself out to give the school a future and to hold our position as the most progressive dance education facility in the area.  No one could conceive how much non-dance related work it took to keep that school what it was.
     Meanwhile, they heaped on guilt and admonishment as if growing our business was a sign of greed. We were just trying to keep up with our school’s ever increasing, business expenses, like escalating insurance, professional fees, providing bigger and better services and equipment, and providing full time work and on-going education to devoted employees. I confess, we still hoped to make a decent living one day too, one that would include a true luxury, like health insurance or maybe a vacation once a year – you know, a total indulgence like taking a week off that wasn’t’t spent choreographing solos or at a competition.
    One month after we finished that horrible year of building misery, we got a letter from the local government claiming a “private domain” issue, and they announced they were going to tear the building down.  Many people don’t know it, but that was the first time we considered selling FLEX, because, frankly, we knew losing that facility would ruin us – and after 18 years of striving to make it all work, we didn’t have the strength left in us to do it all again. The fact that we’d loose a full season in that location and all those students meant the Sarasota FLEX would suffer too, because we used the equity in that school to support the next. We’d no doubt get paid back for the new building cost if the county tore it down, but what of the opportunity costs? Just so happens we closed two other locations shy of ever making up the original investment to move into that new school – were we to just shrug off losing all that hard earned ground from three year’s work and sacrifice as well?  
    Now, still drained from the sacrifices the new building demanded of us, we had to pour time and money into lawyers for another struggle. After months of stress and more than a few tears (mine), the city moved the plans for the road and the school was preserved. But by then, the seed of an idea had been set to unload this monster of a business that consumed our life and left us always feeling as if everyone thought we were the enemy. Our inner reserves had been used up. Life is too short. We decided to put the entire kit and caboodle up for sale for someone with a less ravaged soul to deal with. The rest is history.

     I recap this tired old story only to point out that beginning this building process again, even though this is a new business in a new place, opens old wounds. So we proceed cautiously, quaking in our cowboy boots wondering if we are welcoming the same problems back into our lives– like a woman who finally divorces an abusive husband only to marry a fellow who likes to hit girls just as much. 
 
   Mark often says, “If we become small business owners again, we’ll have to work hard, but at least in this endeavor people won’t attack us constantly the way the dance parents did.”
   I hope he’s right. I watch the patrons at the local coffee shop with a keen eye, waiting for them to throw a fit because their coffee, no matter how fine it tastes, doesn’t have enough sparkles on the cup, or to demand the owner come in on their one family day (Sunday) to make them a special solo latte. So far, I can’t imagine this business ever being as personally invasive as the other was. But then, who would imagine a lovely dance school, filled with laughter and music and children, could cause such grief to the people who cared about it most.

    The woman at the Dept. of Health slapped a health code manual in front of Mark that was 150 pages thick. She started listing codes, floor and ceiling requirements, waste disposal, water usage (do you know you need seven sinks just to serve coffee – one for washing hands, one for disposing liquid, one for this, one for that….. it is crazy). She explained that we couldn’t begin building until we got another permit from her division, and that required our turning in involved plans that include every appliance we will have in the kitchen and where it will rest. This is also required for the plumbing, the electrical etc…     
      She also needs a detailed menu now – a full year before I even  set foot in this kitchen. Like I know now exactly what I’ll want to whip up later. You’re kidding, right?
“Um… muffins and brownies. Will that suffice?” I said to Mark.
“ Only if you have no intention of ever increasing that menu and you are ready to forever hold your peace, because you can’t later change your mind to include other foodstuffs made on site.”
“Are you #%*$&# with me . . .  I’ll work on the menu.”
 
The health inspector pulled out a few examples of building plans that other food service businesses had turned in. Mark said they looked like plans to build an atomic weapon. He leaned over the desk to gaze at the six feet wide, computerized plans and got one of those instant headaches that make you want to crawl into bed.  All this so you can serve a cup of coffee . . . and a muffin, of course.

Good news is the inspector handed Mark a comprehensive article recently printed in the New York Times investment issue about our town and how it’s going to boom as the next big tourist draw. The article let us in on some interesting developments (why are we always the last to know) such as the fact that they are building a four lane highway straight to us from Chattanooga, and the train is going to double the trips next season so instead of 50K people we can expect many, many more, and a few other promising future city plans. Cool beans. But that’s later, We have to worry about now.

He came home, flopped on the sofa and said, “Today, for the first time ever I actually thought maybe we should just open another dance school. At least we have expertise in that business…. I feel a bit like we’re out of our league and I’m tired just thinking of the mistakes we’re going to make.”

“It can’t be that complicated.”
“I’m sure it isn’t . . . for someone with experience in the food service industry. But for a couple of dancers, it’s a lot to absorb.”

I reminded him of how much red tape there was to opening our first preschool, and how we figured things out as we went.
“We’re not being stupid,  blindly making decisions and acting like we know everything”. I reminded him. 

We’re the first to admit what we don’t know. As such, we’ve listened earnestly to anyone in a like business willing to share information. We’ve read books on this coffee shop management, specialty merchandising, art gallery management, bakery management, smoothie store development – you name it. We’ve taken classes to learn more about what we will be selling, training our eye to understand art. We’ve observed successful enterprises, and those that are less successful so we can define what makes the difference. And now, we’re are venturing to a consulting firm for training.

“We’re quick learners”, I insist.

“We were quick learners,” he reminded me. “Now, we’re . . . tired.” (I think he meant “wounded”, but that is something we try not to talk about.)

    I reminded him that he loves to build things, so he’ll have fun once we actually get started. 
  
  He stared at me pointedly and said, “It’s no fun building things when every time you do, your project gets sold before you take a moment to savor what you’ve accomplished.”

I hate that he feels that way, but I understand it. We remodeled our home, but left before we ever even put clothes in the new, walk-in closet. He build two schools in rental locations, but we left before ever recouping the investment (to go to a bigger facility, granted, but still, it felt like a lot of work and stress for nothing.) He completely refurbished our dinky dilapidated cabin while we were still living in it, but before it ever became truly livable, we moved into the new house and next thing you know, someone else was enjoying the quaint, beautiful cabin we dreamed of creating.  After years of refurbishing that old, grocery store in Sarasota to make a fairly nice dance facility, Mark finally got to start from scratch to build the state of the art dance studio of our dreams in Lakewood Ranch, but we didn’t operated a full season there before we left it to the next guy. And now, Mark’s built our dream house, and thanks to what happened in the wake of our leaving, that will probably be sold too. No wonder he’s loosing heart. I guess if we built these things on speculation, just to make money, it would feel differently. But in every case, we built these things to fulfill a dream that never quite got realized – at least not for us. We are masterful at leaving something great behind for the next guy.

I assured him we wouldn’t be selling this coffee shop/gallery anytime soon. But honestly, who knows. We have learned that things don’t always turn out as planned. No matter how hard you work or how earnest your intentions, things can go bump in the night. If you push forward in life, you’ll find yourself switching courses as obstacles demand. The only way to guaranteed comfort is to avoid taking chances altogether. But who wants a stagnant life or to turn away from their potential? Not us (though some days I really question if the more laid back, settled individuals don’t have the key to happiness.)

Mark gave me homework. I spent a full day on the computer picking out professional kitchen appliances that comply with code.

Holly cow! There are a million choices. They all cost a fortune, and that’s daunting when you don’t know what the heck your doing. The problem is, I think like a residential cook, familiar only with home kitchens, but this is different. So I sloshed through a litany of stoves and ovens, wondering if I need a stackable convection oven, gas or electric, a food finisher or steam. Can I make do with one regular, industrial strength stove and a table top multi layer bake oven? How about Panini presses and microwaves with special air finishers like they have in subway now? Do I even need a stove top– well, yes if I want to make meringues or fudge. But with absolutely no experience as a professional cook, it’s all a bit overwhelming. Too many choices.  Can’t I just drag in my Betty Crocker Easy Bake oven? I’m good on it, really.   
     Meanwhile, I keep thinking, just how many muffins will I need to sell to justify spending twelve grand on ovens. But I remember complaining about how many dance classes we would have to sell to justify our million dollar facility too, and while it seemed an impossible leap, it did turn out to be a very wise decision. I guess it’s all in the big picture, how one element of an enterprise supports another and helps create one wonderful whole. You can’t pick apart the individual elements too stringently or expect each and every element to hold it’s own, because how it contributes to the other facets counts. Otherwise it would be like expecting one gear in a clock to be of service on it’s own, when the truth is, it takes all the clock parts to make the thing tick.

I wonder if I should get a job in a kitchen somewhere, or go to school to learn to cook professionally or something to be more prepared. But the cooking thing is only one area of my world, and not as important in the big scheme  as other things, so how involved do I want to get? I love to cook and I’m an early riser, so the plan was simply that I would steal into the Bean Tree at 5am each day to whip up a few gourmet treats for the day. I imagined myself alone in the shop, sipping some organic coffee, music blaring, singing “Peel me a grape” with Blues Diva’s on the stereo, and following my inspiration to make whatever tweaks my fancy from a recipe book. (I hate to cook the same thing twice, experimenting is my passion – customers will have to get used to it.) I figured with no one around, I could dance around with flour on my hands, and maybe even pause to step outside to watch the sun rise to feed my soul, sort of like I did every day when I was an early runner. 

But then, I planned to go home and turn over the serving and the coffee pouring to an employee. I can do marketing from home, brainstorming, and other office duties. I’ll put in my time ordering, working the special functions, writing newsletters etc… I understand the concept of work. We’re opening this business and I plan to devote energy and attention to it.
But I don’t loose site of one truth –  writing is still my main squeeze.

As I did my research I skipped looking at actual coffee equipment because we will learn all about that next week. I’m busy enough looking at air circulating, dry and cool display cases, refrigerators for under the counter and in the kitchen, freezers, an ice machine, sandwich prep table etc… etc…. I’m supposed to know where these appliances go, too. Do I want smoothies? Well of course. There isn’t a natural smoothie distributor within 30 miles of here and I happen to miss them. So, I’ll need blenders and storage for frozen fruit too. I have to remember you can’t allow veggies to touch meat preparation areas (if you are making sandwiches and soup, which we had planned) etc..
Baked goods, such as muffins, fall under the jurisdiction of the agriculture department. Sandwiches are manned by the health department. That’s two separate departments to deal with. I don’t know where the heck coffee lands. I hyperventilate just thinking about it.

I ended up picking out potential equipment and thrusting it into Marks hands and saying, “Here, pick what fits best and place it on your grid. You’re the design guy.”

He reminded me that I will be the kitchen director (as if a title will make me embrace this new chore more enthusiastically, like I’m gonna fall for that) and as such, I have to go take an eleven hour course in Atlanta on food safety – so I don’t give half the town botulism or something.  Oh yea, that. Can’t wait.

It’s only a matter of time until the local restaurateurs are going to start wondering about the chick who keeps sitting next to their kitchens, peering into the swinging doors every time the waitress walks through and asking innocently, “Um.. was this muffin made in a convection oven or a traditional over?”
 
I’ve had so many cups of coffee in so many bistros my eyes have turned brown. Oh, they were already brown. Well, you know what I mean.

Overwhelmed, I said, “Remember, we’re not opening a coffee shop. We’re opening an art gallery, cabin decor store with a coffee bar in it. Perhaps we should focus more on the wood displays and all the stuff you’ll be making. That’s the nuts and bolts of the business.”

“We can’t build this damn thing until we figure out the kitchen, as per the business plan,” Mark says. ‘Unless you want to the drop the food portion/event planning (which means the open mike poetry readings and other writer’s perks would vanish). And that means going back to the bank with a new plan. Up for writing one? ”

Never mind.

The good news is we are leaving this weekend for intense training at the Barista Academy in Oregon. They will show us everything there is to know about coffee and Panini sandwiches. We will get to play with some of those ten thousand dollar espresso machines (gulp) and discuss cup by cup financial analysis, stock ordering, and cost of sales. Whoopee. I know you’re jealous.

I hate feeling like a newbie. I can tell you exactly what a dance school is making by their enrollment and a short glimpse into their activities. I know what it costs to service a student – insurances, staffing, etc, etc…. I remember sitting with the new owner of FLEX at breakfast a few months after we sold. I was really annoyed at how they were managing things and I looked him in the eye and said, “Listen, Bud, the business can not support your spending. It has to stop.” He waved me off like I was clueless about just how great they were doing, gushing on about enrollment and his price increases, but still I knew they were headed for disaster and there was nothing I could say or do to make them listen. He was so sure he knew better than us about a business we had spent eighteen years living and breathing. I couldn’t conceive of such arrogance when so much was on the line, because I knew that if I were entering a new field, I’d be hanging on the voice of experience.


   I turned to Mark and said, “He forgets who the hell he’s talking too – like we don’t know what every student and fee paid represents or what his costs are, or how these decisions will affect the enrollment and budget in the long term….”
     Mark kicked me under the table and said, “Shhhhh! It isn’t ours anymore. Everyone has to do things their own way.”   
       I was banned from any of those business meetings after that day because everyone involved claimed I was too outspoken and too “hot headed” about the school. I confess, it’s true. Mark is far more diplomatic than I, at least in all areas pertaining to FLEX, but I was just so passionately concerned and so frustrated to see what I considered such obvious mistakes being made.
     Even the first week when we were training them and they missed multiple appointments (choke), I warned the new owners that they HAD to get serious about learning the business, visit the competition’s recitals, and stop spending so much until they knew more about where to best allocate their capitol. They rolled their eyes at me and said, “It’s just the honeymoon phase for us, we’re having a little fun. Don’t worry. We know what were doing.”
     And Mark gave me that “Don’t go crazy here, dear,” look.
     And I thought, How so? It took me years to get understand it all, and after a wealth of training, education and experience I STILL stay up nights trying to figure it all out. 

  The point is, I think about their mistakes a lot with great empathy. When you know a business – really know it’s cycle and unique elements, you’re prepared for all the problems you’re going to get broadsided with. They were clueless, and because they didn’t recognize this, they didn’t do what was necessary to develop a full understanding of just what they were manning. They were bright people with lots of energy and good intentions. And they had lots of capitol to work with. They were nice people too. But arrogance kept them from being open to all those things they needed to focus on. You can say it’s their own fault, but still, that doesn’t make it any less sad.

Because I believe that, our not knowing the coffee shop/gallery business is terrifying.

I have no idea what it costs to pour a cup of coffee or how to estimate how many drinks a location will sell depending on traffic. (though I do know how to determine traffic and a projected customer base because that is basic business stuff.)  I don’t know how to determine a customer return analysis or how to avoiding being clobbered by perishable stock. Heck, I can’t even make a latte . . .  YET.

We know all about running a small business, true. But really, every business is unique and until we have some hard core, hands-on experience, we are bound to make mistakes. The goal is to keep them from being so costly it threatens success. We’re bending over backwards to see all those elements we will no doubt be blind to, simply because we are novices in the field. 

As such, we are the Rudy of enterprise (you know, the Notre Dame football wannabe who accomplished the impossible because he had the attitude, “Is there anything more I can do to be achieve my heart’s desire.”  Yea, Rudy’s always been my inspiration. 
 
So, I’ve read all the books I can. I’ve visited about a hundred like businesses to get an overview and talked with anyone who knows anything about coffee or art or natural products or crafting, and we really listened to everything they tell us – the good and the bad. We discuss fall back plans – what we will do when things don’t work out as planned.

    Mark is in the workshop, making stock for the gallery, in each case doing a quick analysis on the cost of goods, labor required and what the item could sell for. Takes the fun out of free form creativity, I tell you.  And we are suddenly thinking of all those other pesky details of servicing and actually implementing things, for example, it’s all well and good to sell a kick-butt handmade table, but will we have means to deliver it?  We slog through all the other distribution sources for similar products to consider where people might chose to purchase this kind of thing rather than from us. Meanwhile, I’m cooking at home, experimenting with recipes, doing the same kind of cost and labor analysis. It’s all trial and error and constant evaluation. And while that’s fun in one way, it’s daunting in another. 

I love learning new things, but I must admit, we both have deep seeded concerns as we boldly strive into this new territory. We alternate between feeling excited and on fire, and feeling we don’t have it in us to go the distance. I suppose we’ll land somewhere in between. One thing is sure, we’re not fueled with the same passion for this project that we had for FLEX in the early years. But perhaps that’s our age and a result of practical  hard earned wisdom rather than a lack of enthusiasm for the actual dream. It sure is easier to be confident when you know a field backwards and forewords.

“Are we sure we want to do this?” we say time and again, bucking each other up when the other is getting cold feet.

We look at each other and shrug. We’re standing on the edge of the cliff. Might as well jump.

Everyone around here is gushing about how we are in the right place at the right time, how our concept is fantastic and how well we are going to do. We’re told everyone around town is talking about our plan and excited to become customers. People drop by our site and urge us on with nice comments. That all feels good, but honestly, outward support and enthusiasm is just that. We know success never comes easy, and every new business thinks it will be a hit.  No one makes an investment thinking there’s a 50/50 chance things will work out. So we curb our inner excitement and stamp out our longing to get all creative and follow inspiration despite practicality, and remind ourselves that there will be time for play later. Now, we must make careful, well researched decisions, control costs, and figure out what might go wrong and avoid it.  We must proceed gingerly, dipping out toes in the water with care until we know how to swim.

So, now I’m working on the menu even though it’s hard when the very idea of opening this place makes me loose my appetite.

I suppose a few years from today, I’ll read this post and laugh at just how naive I was in the beginning. By then, we’ll have journeyed long and hard and we’ll be seasoned coffee masters. I’m guessing by then, our business will have evolved into something different than what we think it’s going to be at this stage. We’re bound to lean one way or another as we expand our concepts and/or make compromises while sinking our teeth into the daily grind. We might have opened a dozen stores by then, or dropped the coffee part altogether, or developed a huge on-line store or . . .well, anything can happen. But growth is the easy part. It’s getting the first enterprise to work that is the struggle. 

Anyway, we’re leaving town for a week. My laptop is broken, so the only writing I’ll be doing will be private journaling and note taking. I’ll be back later to share what I learn, about coffee and about us.
 
Meanwhile, you’ll have to use your imagination – you can picture us drowning in lattes, hyped up on caffeine, getting competitive when we practice latte skills as we try to prove each of us has the more artful hand. (You see, I know the dynamic of our relationship too well.)

My husband will be teacher’s pet. I’ll daydream and get nudged a few times and need Mark to remind me of what I just learned later when we are in the hotel (because I have a memory like a sieve.)
You see, you can go someplace new, but dang if you don’t end up taking yourself along. 
 
We will be trained this week, but mostly, we will absorb the flavors and textures of an entirely new world with no pre-conceptions. We will  think and think and think….  brainstorm and bounce ideas off each other then punch holes in them to head trouble off at the pass. And we’ll bounce those ideas off people who know the things we have yet to learn. We’ll do all we can to put the pieces of this puzzle together , proceeding gingerly. And then,  we can make Rudy proud.

Wish us good luck. 

It’s a source of family shame, I tell ya. My family members will stop at nothing to solicit the title of Best Christmas Cookie Decorator of the year.

As I’m sure you can guess, I happen to have the superior ingenuity and skill at this important talent, but I’m classy enough to allow loved ones a moment of glory when they create a cookie that has some merit.  I do all the appropriate “Oohing” and “Ahhing” to build the aspiring cookie decorator’s self esteem – but soon after, can I help it if I produce an edible masterpiece that looks as if Rembrandt spread the icing himself? People in this family may beg to differ, but that’s just because they’re jealous.

Each holiday season we spend one night decorating cookies. We use traditional icing and sprinkles, with only a knife, a toothpick and our imaginations to create our fanciful treats. No fancy cookie decorating contraptions are ever considered or allowed. This is an old fashion cookie decorating stand-off, don’t ya know. And not having an icing gun or other professional gadgets to make these sweet treats look professionally decorated makes the quest very challenging. It is sort of like cave-man drawing cookie artistry. 

Creativity counts, so rather than decorate each cookie in the shape originally intended, it’s not uncommon for people to hold up blank cookies, turning them this way and that, while awaiting inspiration. Interesting things happen. This year, Neva took a round Christmas ornament cookie and painted it to look like a snow globe. White sprinkles dashed over a light blue background featuring a reindeer with a little red nose made her cookie positively adorable. Hard to believe that only two years ago she was still at the icing and sprinkle dumping stage, where her cookies looked like sweet gobs of poop thanks to mounds of icing and an overload of decorations oozing off the edges and on the table, floor and all over the kid.

Denver took the same round shape and created a big gold diamond ring with the letter “5” in the middle. This was for “la la la la, 5 golden rings…” as the 12 days of Christmas song goes. She claimed her cookie is not only original and Christmassy, but representative of the artist since she just finished jewelry school. (She expected special credit for that. . ahem . . . but we all groaned and said, “Nice try.”)

Someone made a Santa shape into a dashhound in honor of Dianne’s mutt. Denver painted one Santa shape all black, claiming it was “Santa’s shadow.” Interesting, but no go, pal… “pretty” has to count. Mark turned a snowman upside down and made a poinsettia bush in a pot. Not bad. Denver turned a candy cane shape into a golf club with Grandpa’s name on it. Cute, in an ugly sort of way. As was her purple Genie face – which has nothing at all to do with Christmas, so I didn’t get it. Meanwhile, I kept gently suggesting someone make a wreath into a wreath and a stocking into a stocking so we’d have a few cookies resembling known holiday shapes. Apparently, tradition doesn’t much appeal to those in a creative frenzy.

This year, I was so busy preparing icing and cleaning up after dinner that I bailed from the competition early and took to just decorating basic, attractive traditional cookies to be sure we had a few snowmen, wreaths, and stocking for guest to see (otherwise, they’d think we’re weird, ya know). And frankly, I wanted to go to bed and that looked a long time in coming with 10 dozen cookies still incomplete. Sigh. So I was all about high production.

As it was, I knew I’d have a hard time getting everyone to finish decorating the huge quantity of cookies I’d baked. My family members tend to spend an hour on one cookie masterpiece, then claim they’re spent as they collapse on the couch waiting for me to serve them cocoa or something. Oh no you don’t. I put one of each shape on a plate in front of every family member and announced they had to decorate at least that one plate full (which was about a dozen cookies) Another plate held the extras in case someone broke a favorite shape or inspiration required a second cookie of a certain shape. I thought it was a brilliant plan until I noticed Kent stuffing blank cookies into his mouth at an alarming speed, just to get out of decorating them. And when people weren’t looking, extra cookies magically appeared on their plates. It was like we were playing cookie hot potato. It seemed the number of blank cookies just never dwindled. But I was a harsh taskmaster, forcing the decorating to continue.

Anyway, the fact that I was not buckling down to create this year’s masterpiece meant I wasn’t a contender for the coveted title, so that qualified me to serve as this year’s exalted judge.

As soon as my prestigious position was established, don’t ya know Mark’s next cookie happened to be one of those round ornament cookies decorated to be . . .ready for this. . . . a pretty peacock. Of course, I was enchanted. I love peacocks! And what could be better than a cookie tribute to my peacock passion?

The kids, seeing my delight, saw through his blatant manipulation and complained that the cookie wasn’t Christmassy so it shouldn’t be considered as a finalist.

Mark looked insulted. “Certainly, you all know the story of the Christmas Peacock. It’s a famous holiday folktale from . . . . um . . . Bulgaria. Yeah, the Christmas Peacock lays eggs with presents in them. Certainly I told you that story when you were young. You must have forgotten.”

The kids gave him a droll look – they were not buying this flagrant lie one bit. So Mark shrugged and said, “Well, if you’re going to insist you don’t know the story of the Christmas peacock, fine. It’s a famous story, right up there with Rudolf, but you obviously are going to play dumb to undermine my great contribution…. Never mind, I have another cookie in mind anyway. Not like a great artist has only one good cookie in him…. ” And he proceeded to make another cookie. This time he took an angel cookie shape and turned it into a bee. I kid you not.

The kids said, “No fair. Mom loves bees too. You’re cheating!”
Mark blinked innocently and said, “Now, you can’t mean to tell me you don’t know about the Christmas Bee . . . .a holiday custom from Australia. As everyone knows, the Christmas Bee is where we get all the honey we use in Christmas recipes.”

I pointed out that I’ve not, this year or ever, made any sort of Christmas dish or treat with honey. Admit it dear, there is no Christmas Bee, but it was a good try. Ahem…. It’s cute, but disqualified for lack of thematic appropriateness. 

All this time, Kent was working on a special cookie. He painted a stocking shape black, and proceeded to put little Christmas lights along the top, with a window, a star, a wreath and a little lady dancing out front. He proudly displayed his masterpiece.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Mark said, with a forced lack of enthusiasm for the detailed work of art.

“You’re telling me you don’t know?” Kent said.

“It’s the little old lady who lived in a shoe, obviously.” I point out, sincerely impressed. And she’s even decorated the shoe for Christmas, thus keeping in theme. Now that looks like a winning cookie to me.

Mark lifted one eyebrow and said, “There was an old lady who lived in a SHOE. She didn’t live in a BOOT. Gee Wiz, if you veer from the basic premise of the poem, it’s gotta count against the cookie.”  

I made an executive decision that a boot definitely qualified as a “shoe”, thus the cookie meets all criteria for excellence. And even the fact that it was black was OK because it simply made the Christmas decorations stand out. 

So, Kent’s cookie was the winner in my opinion. Mark begrudgingly agreed that it was a damn good cookie, but I think that was partially because now he wanted to go to bed too. He then mumbled something about our son getting all his talent from his dad – a round-about way of trying to take credit for the cookie, if you ask me.

So Kent is Cookie Master Decorator for 2007. But between you and me, my favorite cookie is still the peacock, even if it isn’t Christmassy. And Neva’s snow globe displayed her future potential for sure. And I think it only fair Denver gets the prize for greatest wealth of original ideas. 

Not that any of this will help them next year. Looking at the overloaded plates of decorated cookies now (that no one will bother to eat – it’s about the making, not the eating, you see) I’ve decided next year I should reclaim my title. Just doesn’t feel right not having something to gloat about at Christmas.

My mother in law, Sonia, has been lonely since her husband died. Luckily, she’s made a few new, widowed friends (also in their 80’s), and they go out for lunch at least once a week.

Eve is from Scotland. A few years ago, she flew to London to have lunch with the queen. English people who happened to be born on the same day as the Queen’s 80 years ago, were invited to a rare and special lunch in the palace as part of a grand celebration.  Since Sonia is also English, this impressed her mightily, and they became instant friends. Eve is very independent, vivacious, and likes driving nice cars. She keeps buying new cars so she can give her old ones to her grandchildren when they get their license. Cushy deal for the grandkids, I’d say. 

Titine, is Belgium and even though she came to America 50 years ago, she has a thick lolling accent when she talks. She makes wine from scratch and happens to drive at least 40 miles over the speed limit everywhere she goes. When officers pull her over, she says, “What did I do wrong, darh’ling”. She invites them to her home for chocolate cake and coffee and tells them she has lived here 50 years…. all alone since her poor husband, God rest his soul, passed on. She says, “My son bought me this car a while ago, and I told him it goes faster than my old one. Isn’t that horrible. I’ll tell him to take it back!” Naturally, they let her go. She and her friends find this hilarious and tell rousing stories of how she gets pulled over all the time but she bats her eyelashes at the nice young cops and they wave her on. Yes, being old and seemingly innocent has its perks.

Titine happens to ALWAYS wears lilac. Sonia ALWAYS wears pink. It is funny to see these elderly women all decked out in pastels making their own kind of fashion statement though unyielding single color commitment.

I think it’s remarkable that in a quiet country place like this, three relocated Europeans found each other and sparked a friendship. They meet for tea and talk about British royalty and such. They also like to frequent thrift stores. They love a bargain, not because they need one (for they are all well enough situated) but finding a good deal is a challenge they find entertaining. Sonia doesn’t like thrift stores, however. She misses Target. Every opportunity she gets she complains that the problem with living here is the lack of civilized shopping.
 I say, “What do you need?”
“Nothing. But I like to shop everyday anyway.”
Shopping for me is a drag, certainly not entertainment, so I just can’t relate to her misery. I let Diane take over the necessary one hour drive trips to malls and Target to keep her happy. I find different ways to spend my time with my Mother-in-law if possible.

Considering this, I decided it would be nice to invite Sonia and her friends to our house one day for their weekly lunch and yesterday, they came. I wanted to organize a fancy, English Tea, so I set the dining room table with white linen, candles and flowers, and set the table with the English China my mother-in-law gave me when we moved to Georgia- a symbol of family heritage that I didn’t necessarily want, but I do appreciate for its family significance.  Sonia has always been an avid English china collector, and she has several complete sets of expensive china. She gave a set to Diane, one to me, and still has several sets at home. Funny, considering you can only eat on one set at a time, and she really never did much entertaining other than the traditional holiday dinners. Ah well, I suppose more than a few people think my interests are impractical too.  Anyway, while the china certainly doesn’t fit this rustic cabin house, it makes a very pretty table and I was glad to finally have a reason to use it. Just as I guessed, it impressed the white-haired trio for they felt they were being treated as special guests.

I cooked chicken in a creamy mushroom and broccoli sauce poured over a puffed pastry, like a fancy smancy chicken pot pie. I served this with honey sautéed carrots and rice pilaf, two types of homemade bread (buttermilk and whole wheat cottage cheese bread – sounds weird, but it is earthy and great) and for good measure, threw in some zucchini muffins (because I must cook zucchini every meal, don’t ya know, due the fact that it won’t stop growing and I’m on a quest to use every thing that comes out of that blessed garden.). I diced watermelon and cut fresh lettuce from our garden too for a homegrown fancy salad. First time I’ve used any of our own lettuce- exciting. This meal was served with some local Georgia peach wine, a very fresh luncheon wine (I’m all into buying local now – besides which, I am checking out the competition and setting benchmarks for flavor since I am making wine from produce grown in the same kind of soil as these small vineyards are.)   I topped off the meal with a chilled rainbow fruit pie, made from diced fruit in an orange glaze, poured into a homemade crust. And, of course, tea.

The ladies spent three hours at the table, swapping stories and enjoying their leisurely, fancy meal. I learned all about Titine’s style of making wine (she uses fruit varieties or muscadine grapes, which she crushes herself). She told stories of how her mother taught her the craft, and how once she was transporting gallons and gallons in the back of her car in this bible-belt dry county, and of course got stopped by a police officer because she was (naturally) speeding again. She thought she would be arrested but sweet talked her way out of it, feeling like a liquor runner. Ha.

Titine also makes cordials. I showed her my blackberry cordial tucked in a dark cupboard, working its magic. This gained me total approval. She convinced me to try peach cordial next time. Titine makes wine without yeast – don’t quite understand how, despite her lengthy explanation, and she doesn’t measure her ingredients. Considering the highly sensitive nature of wine in the fermenting stage, I was surprised. Can’t wait to try some to see how it differs from the batches I’m make. It was interesting to talk winemaking with someone who has done it for years and years, having learned it in the “old country”.

We talked history and books and cooking and how to best buy a car. And sitting there, watching these elderly faces filled with animation, listening to them share their vast experience and intriguing lives,  I was impressed. They are wonderful conversationalists, far better than many people my own age who seem to have lost the fine art of intimate communication, talking more often of the latest movies they’ve seen, or what cell phone gets the best reception – subjects that are far more generic and surface oriented. There is something to be said about growing old, for if we are indeed the sum of our life experience, growing old really is the equivalent of evolving into a more complex, interesting person. A few wrinkles and brittle bones is a small price to pay for a mind swimming in wisdom and personal stories.

 I’ve spent a lifetime with kids (which I still adore). Somehow, this makes spending time with the elderly now a poignant and novel experience for me. I really am fascinated by people in the advanced stages of life. In fact, I’m planning to organize a writing class for older people – memoir writing, so they can leave stories behind for their family. I’m talking to the local college about it now. I want to put my degree to good use in a way that gives something back to the art I love. Mostly, I think it will be wonderful for retirees seeking an interesting activity that isn’t physically challenging, and a learning experience for me too, but this is subject for another blog.

Anyway, after lunch, the ladies wanted a tour of the house, so we went from room to room, viewing the house Sonia has told them so much about. We held hands as they maneuvered the big log stairs, and I realized for the first time this is not a house for the feint of body. It occurred to me that we better enjoy it for the next ten or twenty years, because eventually, we will get old and find it cumbersome too.  The tour was perfect after-lunch entertainment. These ladies notice details and ask earnest questions. They were curious about how and why Mark did the things he did as he planned and built this home. I suppose people in their 80’s have seen a zillion homes in their day, and they’ve owned more than a few, which helps them appreciate the artistic and original facets of the house. They certainly thought it was beautiful and different.

We’ve had younger friends walk through the house and express appreciation. They whistle under their breath and say, “Nice digs. Cool. Where’s the beer?” But with these women, it was different. They would walk up to the mantle, adjust their glasses and stare up close at the wood work, asking what kind of tree it was made from. They’d make guesses determined by of the grain and color, then shake their head and say, “of course” when Mark revealed the true nature of the wood. They’d ask how long it took, and why he chose one particular design or tree over another. Looking at the geodes in the rock of our fireplace, they’d ask if we’d thought to get some original stone from the copper mines (we live near Copperhill where they had working mines up until the late 70’s and for years, big chunks of natural copper could be found in area stones). We were sorry to say we didn’t think of that, a shame considering the historical significance. But we promised we would try to find some for the fireplace in our new rustic coffee shop/art gallery that we are building, and Titine told us where to go and who to speak to when we were ready to find some. Gee, old people are a walking wealth of information. They pointed out the different crystals saying, “What is that, I’ve forgotten the name.” And Mark would say, “This is amethyst,” or quartz or what have you.

The ladies noticed the turned wood bowls on the mantle and the antler baskets and the furniture Mark has made, and asked about these too. Mark stood about, answering their questions, receiving their heartfelt praise – I don’t suppose he ever never felt so appreciated! They noticed my spinning wheel, and this spurred a conversation about llamas and spinning. They peered into my incubator to see my Peacock eggs and marveled at our “diversity”. They also kept commenting about the windows and how everywhere you looked you saw trees and birds – so serine.
 
They said, “You have your own estate here! How wonderful for your children!” I thought it particularly sweet that they saw our home not as a “good investment” or a sign of success, as people our age tend to do, but as a precious haven for family rearing. I guess after 80 plus years, you tend to remember what is enduring and important in the big scheme.

The funny thing was, I think this was the first time Mark’s mother really looked at the house closely or saw it as something special. Seeing it through her friend’s eyes made her suddenly see the house as an accomplishment, something remarkable created by her son. She said over and over, “You know, this really IS an amazing house. It’s not as dark as you’d, think being made of wood and all, and the view is nice even though it is just trees.” (Before this, she was always saying, “Why anyone would want to live in a log house the wilderness is beyond me. You could have a pristine condo in Florida right by the beach! I’m sick of trees and mountains. That is all you see around here.”) And we’d say, “Yeah, trees and mountains. Hum-bug. Who’d want to be here instead of Florida, with neighbors living practically on top of you? The problem is, where would we put the donkey?”
She’d give us that, who really needs a donkey? Look.

It was a nice afternoon. It ate up the entire afternoon, true, and I was exhausted by the end, but I know how appreciative Sonia was to be able to show-off to her friends. She is now the gal with the great daughter-in-law, who cooks and is a gracious host, and the son with the amazing building talent etc.. etc.. Laying claim to successful, thoughtful offspring seems to count big in the 80 year old sect. 

Mark later thanked me for making the luncheon for his Mother a big deal.
I said, “Anytime. It sure beats spending a day at the mall or driving her 2 hours to Sam’s to stock up on toilet paper (her other favorite pastime).” You see, it is not that I’m such a great daughter-in-law. I’m just maneuvering my way out of doing things I despise – replacing them with something I like doing. Cooking and good conversation is more fun than driving and shopping for un-required things – at least for me. It’s a win-win situation.

I think the most important thing about a day like today, is what it teaches my own children. My son, who was only there for a few minutes before being whisked off to band camp, kept smiling and saying, “I feel like I’m in England having lunch. Grandma must be out of her mind happy about this.” He gave me thumbs up for the meal (having snagged a plateful in the kitchen.) My youngest daughter got all dressed up and joined us at the table, sipping orange soda from her fancy wineglass and delicately eating her lunch. To her, this was nothing more than an exciting grown-up tea party and she was thrilled to participate. She stuck with the conversation for as long as she could hold out, then went off to play, returning a bit later with some of her original poetry to recite. (She is constantly writing poems and they are spectacular). Couldn’t have hired a more perfect, young participant to add flavor to the afternoon. Almost seemed staged, but it wasn’t.

The point is, my children were gracious and polite to these elderly guests. And they witnessed their parents going out of their way to do something nice for older people too, which will be important when I am an old broad wearing the same color everyday and I have friends who need an afternoon’s entertainment.  I hope I’m teaching my children how to behave when they become adults – to be caring individuals with patience for the elderly, not so self-involved that they can’t pause once in a while to give time and attention to people who are lonely and not “useful” to their lives in obvious ways. I think it’s important to be the kind of person you want your children to be. And this involves the big stuff, like working hard for what you want and always trying to improve your mind and living an authentic life, but it includes the small stuff too, like being kind to others and pausing your busy life once in a while to do something that doesn’t have any measurable returns for you personally.

It’s the things you bother to make time for, even when they “don’t do it for you”, that often will resonate and impact your existence long after the moment is over. In the end, will any of us close our eyes for the last time remembering all that laundry we did, the great deals we closed at work, the money in we accumulated in the bank, the movies we sat through or the chores we thought were such a priority? While all this feels so important in the moment, it isn’t. I believe what counts is the people we impact, the moments we share, the non-material things we leave behind, even if they are sometimes invisible, subtle influences on the lives of others.

Yesterday, I fell behind on my chores, fed my hungry, ornery horses in the rain later than scheduled, missed my hair appointment (oops) and spent half a day pulling out (and later putting back) a ton of china from awkwardly high, inconvenient shelves, even though I had perfectly good dishes a short reach away that would have sufficed. 

And yet, this was all a part of creating what was really a very good day.  Nice surprise. And an important lesson to remember.

Every Thursdays from 6-9, throughout the summer and into the early fall, a park down the street from us features what they call “Pick’ in in the Park”. This park runs along a curve in the Ocoee river and has park benches, picnic tables, a playground, and roofed pavilions. Most impressive is the rolling river and graveled walkway beside the water. It is a quiet, simple place with striking beauty, more remarkable because you never see more than a few people (if that) at the park. Except Thursdays, of course.

“Thursday Pick’ in in the Park” is simply a night area musicians are invited to come play. No group is formally scheduled as entertainment for the community. No one puts out jars to take donations or advertises a CD or upcoming performance either. Yet many musicians come, just because they love music and camaraderie and the informal audience.  They show up with banjos and fiddles and guitars and what have you (the occasional mouth harp and washboard show up too) gather wherever they land and jam. Sometimes, the musicians all gather in one area around the pavilion for one big makeshift band. Other times, they form various clumps around the park, so you can walk from one end to the other and hear different groups or even a solo folk guitar. People gather around any area where music is being made. A couple hundred people show up with lawn chairs and blankets. Kids run in the grass playing, dogs chase balls into the river as they play fetch; people spread picnics on the grass. It is very casual. You could swear you’ve just been dropped into Pleasantville.

When we go, I always pack a picnic dinner. Last night, we spread out blankets and I set out the food. Neva was playing with neighbor kids in the river, catching crawdads. Denver and her boyfriend had not yet arrived. Mark and I were sipping coffee and enjoying the music. I couldn’t help notice people kept staring at our “station”. I wondered what was up with that, because lots of people picnic here. Yet we kept getting the “double take” look. Finally, it was made clear when one fellow walked by with his dog and chuckled and said, “That is one pretty presentation!” 

I looked at our picnic and saw what others were seeing. I had made saucy chicken wings and tortellini and a big ring of deviled eggs with fresh cherries heaped in the middle. We had peaches and cheese. The food was so colorful, glistening in the early evening sun that it looked like an article out of Southern Living Magazine. It happened to be a very pretty picnic set up. Yes, we have landed in Pleasantville, everybody.

We ate and our pretty display was soon nothing but empty Tupperware. Then, my neighbor walked by. She told me that last night a bear was on her porch. She just wanted to let me (and my chickens) know. Heck with the chickens. It’s my angoras I will worry about –Last summer a bear tore open my bunny hutch and ate all my rabbits. It was a devastating carnal explosion, with wood and wire ripped not at the seams, but broken apart like a tornado had come through, only it was massive bear hands doing the damage. There was blood and bunny fur everywhere. Pissed me off.

Yesterday, I moved the peacock and his chicken buddy down near the chicken house, as a transitional move while I build a formal, permanent pen. I thought the chickens free ranging might go up to the cage and say hello so Early can begin making friends. Now, I have visions of Early becoming bear fast-food. Do I need to mention how this will set off a war between me and Yogi?

The worst part is that I like bears and I think seeing one on my own porch would be about the coolest thing on earth. So I have mixed feelings about it all. I just don’t relish the idea of any creature thinking my animals are an all you can eat buffet. A bear also stole my horse mineral block. Twice. Those blocks weigh about thirty pounds and I can barely lift them, but the bears pick them up and walk away with them like they are Twinkies I set out for dessert. Damn bears.     

Then, there is the issue of my bees. My beehive is set up only two hundred feet from my neighbor’s porch. Bears happen to be the number one enemy of bees because they tear apart the hives and eat every spec of honey inside. (This is why they tell you not to wear black when working with bees, because the insects automatically sting anything black as an instinctual move against bears.) It would take me another year to get a beehive started due to the seasonal nature of this project. As it is I have to wait a full year until I can harvest any honey because it takes a full season for them to build stores and create a home of honeycomb for themselves. I have a second hive ready to set up, but until I build up my bee population to divide them or order new bees in January before the suppliers are all sold out, growth in this project is on hold. If a bear comes along and wipes out my bee playground, I’ll not take it lightly.

As such, I am on bear alert now. I will have to have a discussion with my rabbits today and tell them to lay low and get ready to run if need be. I’ll tell my bees to keep quiet and stop buzzing so much and to get their stingers ready.  I will tell my dog, Maxine (who happens to be a plot hound, a breed bred to chase and fight bears) to stop snoring on the porch and to start paroling the grounds. She will ignore me, or course, but still, I can try.
All I know is that we have plenty of succulent blackberries around. A polite bear could do fine with those.  I’ll hope this is a polite bear.

When we got home from Pick’ in in the Park yesterday, it was still light out (love those long summer days) and Mark suggested we stop the car to check out the garden and how it was doing. I had spent the morning out there feeding the plants, weeding. I’d brought in a few squash, but that was all that was out there. I told him there wasn’t much to see. Nevertheless, he goes out with the kids.

He is out there about two seconds when he says, “Um….. why didn’t you pick the beans?”
“What beans? We don’t have any beans.”
He bent down and came up with a handful of wax and green beans. “Do you even know what a bean looks like on a plant?”
Obviously not.

With squeals of excitement, Kent and Neva started helping Mark pick beans. I joined in feeling rather like the bumbling garden idiot. We were all oohing and ahhing about how cool it is to pick beans right off a bush. Everyone was making fun of the fact that I would have ignored them until the wildlife ate them all or they shriveled up and died on the plant with my savvy gardening instinct. Yeah, well I didn’t see you out here this morning gently tending these plants, so give me a break. Besides which, I think they just “appeared” magically in the last few hours while we were out. I’m quite certain these beans were not here this morning.

In other words, who you calling a garden idiot?

I rest my point!

While we were expressing our excitement and picking furiously, Denver drove up (to retrieve some laundry she had left yesterday for the Mommy Laundry Fairy). We shouted for her to come out and see! We wanted her to share the fun. We said, “Come pick some beans! This is so cool!”

Her boyfriend blinked drolly and said, “I’ve picked beans before. Who hasn’t? What is wrong with your family? I think their enthusiasm is just a way of making fun of country people.”

Denver said, “No, they respect and admire country people. Tbhey are not making fun of anyone. They are genuinely thrilled with picking beans. You know how I know that? Because I want to pick some too!” And she ran out and we all picked beans together marveling at how bean plants produce, looking with furrowed brows at the beetle holes on leaves, checking out the other plants.

Her boyfriend stood by sighing, bored, thinking we city folk are too queer for words. Denver picked a squash with as much excitement and tentative concern as she displayed the first time she drove a car. We walked over to see the pumpkin vine all in bloom and talked about how exciting it will be if we can carve a jack-o-lantern from our very own garden pumpkin this year. My mind was swimming with pumpkin recipes (I happen to be the queen of pumpkin cooking – no joke.)

The laughter and excitement the family was sharing was truly refreshing. I thought of how only two years ago, living in a different environment, my kids were “too cool” for just about everything. Then, designer clothes and electronic devices ruled their existence.  Now, they have fun in unabashed, down to earth ways and they care little about what is “cool”. (Well, we are not in school at this moment which, let’s face it, might make a difference.) Nevertheless, they see the wonder in life basics and suddenly have respect for the earth, our food sources, and family time. How I appreciate the opportunity to stand right beside them when they discover new things and react with unaffected delight. Between you and me, I was really more focused on that then the beans.

We came in and Kent took a picture of last night’s harvest to add to our other fine family memories, like vacation photos. (I included the berries we picked on a short four wheel drive too, just for the color contrast). At eleven last night (inspired by the bean discovery) I made two batches (19 jars) of blackberry jam. (Now, Chuck can rest assured he will have jam with his pickles when next I go to Florida, Patti.)  I’m on top of the jam thing, so I’m going back to seeking ways to preserve beans – pickling, canning, freezing … hummmm what exciting things can I lean to do with beans other than cook them now – ‘cause at the rate they’re coming, no normal human consumption could keep up.  I am going to buy a food dehydrator this week. I want to try drying bananas and apples to make my own health mixes. Speaking of which, when WILL those dang tomatoes start turning red?

I keep wondering if I should try a batch of fried green tomatoes. Made a pretty cool movie, but I can’t imagine eating them. My lifestyle may be “country” but my palate is still “city”. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Growth begins with keeping an open mind and not making judgments on things you do not have first hand experience with.

Anyway, that is the Hendry country update. Bears and beans. Boo-ya!