Category Archives: Family matters

Mark sent me a message asking if I wanted to join him at the Daily Grind (our one semi-local wine and coffee shop that we like to visit for wine tastings and such) to hear a band play on Friday.
A night out? Like a date? Are you kidding? Do I get to get gussied up? Yippee.

The band is called the Hot Poker Dots (very classy) and here is their myspace site
http://www.myspace.com/theredhotpokerdots

I particularly like the song “Happy Fuck’in Birthday To You.” I’m just a girl who can’ t resist country sentiment.

Where, I wonder, was that song when I was scrounging the universe for Birthday Party songs for FLEX ballerina parties.

Today happens to be Mark’s mom’s birthday. The family is coming over for dinner – I’m making a spectacular Chocolate Marvel cake with raspberries. (I traditionally use Birthday’s as an excuse to make something fancy regardless of people’s diets or desires to keep things “simple” – yuck, simple is for sissies).  I’ll serve it while playing the Hot poker Dots song…. well….. maybe I’ll just sing it in my head.

So, I’m off to make a fancy dinner. If it was six weeks from now, I’d be devising this meal all around the pickles. Principal, ya know.  Instead I’m going to make it more in line with Sonia’s favorite things – strip steaks and all the trimmings. Fancy side dishes. Lots of chocolate.    

For entertainment, I’ll drag everyone into the mud room to see my Pinot Noir percolate as the gaseous fumes eek out of the fermenting pot (makes an exciting bubble action in the release valve). That 5 gallon tank will be sitting there for months, so might as well introduce it to the clan. If everyone begs, I’ll even allow them to stir the blackberry wine, which is as dark as oil and kind of scary. Hummmm……….. we’ll see.

Gee – I hope I don’t poison anyone during my Renaissance of new discovery. Might almost put a damper on the creative kitchen fun. . . Almost.
La, la, la. Happy fuck’in birthday, Sonia.
 

You may ask, what do the Hendry kids do for fun now that they are living in a place without a mall or a beach?

You’d be amazed.

Yesterday, Kent and a friend were hanging out for “band practice”. They have a band now, and honestly, they are getting pretty good. Later, they asked if they could go four wheeling. I said “Sure, if you will stop and pick a few blackberries.” They didn’t mind devoting a half hour to “the cause” if I’d promise to give Jake a bottle of wine later (for his family, of course) so we came to a bargain. Then, the boys proved their manhood, by returning with a huge bowl of juicy blackberries and only one hornet sting. It allowed me to make my blackberry wine – VERY labor intensive with 30lbs of blackberries, 11 pounds of sugar, 1o pounds of boiled banannas and …. well, that is another story. 

Then, Kent said, “Mom, we’re going surfing. Be back later.” 
I was busy making wine AND pickles at the same time (country multitasking) , so I didn’t think anything of it. About ten minutes later, I thought ,”Surfing?”

Later, Kent made a video of his adventure to amuse us. I told him to find a way for me to share it with friends, so he put it on a site and this is how you can see it.

Check out the brilliant talent, natural grace, and inovation of young master Hendry. This is how my kids spend a Sunday in Georgia.   

http://youtube.com/watch?v=rAR1gJEewM4

I bought this dumb seven dollar snow disk last November. My kids have used it endlessly, for snow, mud, and grass surfing. I used to buy things like 500 dollar wii’s. Now, it’s a generic  plastic disk that gets grins. I’m telling ya, simplifying has more perks than you can imagine. Part of this video was shot at night, because they had so much fun, they went back for more later. The dogs are my son’s sidekicks. Go everywhere with him. You haven’t seen fun until you see Kent in a flat out snowfight with his dog. Perhaps with his new video camera, we’ll get a video of that too this winter! This is by the site for my future barn. The horses watch, blinking, and you know they are thinking, “Humans are weird. This one in particular…”  

Today, we are all going tubing. We will sit in huge inner tubes and float down the occoee river watching the clouds go by and sharing stories. My son will amuse us with physical antics (he always does) and Neva will spend the day seeking out and pointing to every live creature she can spot. Fish, raccoons, lizards, you name it. I will write books in my brain. Mark will stare at trees and mentally plan his next house. Dianne will squeel when a rock hits her butt. This will cost us exactly the fifty cents worth of gas to get down the river which happens to be right by our house (we own the tubes – I’ll pack lunch). You see – we don’t have a mall, but we do have fun.

Who’d a thunk it was possible in a place so remote it doesn’t have even a single Starbucks to put it on the map?  

You have GOT to see this:

www.srqdance.com

I am excited for Cory and Sharon as they gere up and get ready for his first season as the perfect “post flex” school.
Almost everyday, Cory talks to both Mark and I, bouncing off ideas and seeking advice and/or assurance that the concepts he wants to impliment will work. It is not that he doesn’t have a wealth of experience of his own, (and talent) but that he respects our years of experience, not only with dance and that particular facility, but  also an understanding of most of the customers he will be catering to – their needs and desires. 

Frankly, we are very proud of him, and it’s a wonderful feeling watching someone we trained, now so innovative and committed to art and education, taking over where we left off. He has the energy, enthusiasm and lofty ambition – all steeped in idealistic goals that we can’t help but admire. These are the elements our former studio needed as it charged into a new decade, one that presents difficult challenges regarding youth arts education. (One of the reasons we left was simply exhaustion – we knew what the studio needed to keep on the cutting edge, but we were no longer fueled to keep up. It was our awareness of exactly what a truly progressive school needed- and our understanding that we were no longer interested in making the sacrifices required, that we left. Our bailing was an act of love, in a way.)

As Mark and I read Cory’s e-mails, check out the website, and discuss with the Boyas’ their plans, we can’t help but grin and feel at peace. More than anything else, I am impressed by how Cory and Sharon are commited to NOT letting scandal, rumor and unproductive emotional sabotage be a part of dance. A great deal of non-admirable behavior has conspired in the Sarasota dance world, which makes stepping in and remaining removed from it all quite an undertaking. But they are commited to building a great dance school in the tradition of the one they loved as a youth, however long it takes. And they will do so with integrity, constraint, and respect for all dancers, teachers and parents. Now THAT is a former student to be proud of!

SRQ has gotten calls from former FLEX dancers, feeling out the waters and suggesting that a staggering migration (again) may be at hand. “Who else has contacted you?” they ask, as if they are one communal mind rather than individual artists seeking the best training venues.

Cory calls us and says, “Why are people asking me to share registration information? Feels like answering would be an invasion of privacy to the individual customer. Besides which, I don’t want all the problems of the recent past coming here. Sharon and I don’t want to be a part of that mess. We want people to come here happy and filled with positive attitudes. How do you think I should respond?”       

I say, “You know us, our opinion is, people should think for themselves. It’s not like you are soliciting students from anyone or anywhere else, so you are not inviting or instigating a personal war. The heck with other people’s dancers. If you are truly a good school, you can make your own. And your own will have the discipline, attitude, and generosity of artistic spirit you choose to imprint. Great dancers are not made with steps or competition trophies. They are not to be coveted and wooed from where ever you can get them so you can take “credit” for training them. Great dancers are made by balancing training with the proper attitude. It begins and ends with respect. Respect for dance, for the school, for teachers, and for yourself.  Having true grace means more than perfecting pretty dance steps.  It’s a state of mind.
     If former dancers come, consider it a privilege and a challenge, because it means they are seeking something they are not getting elsewhere. Can you give it to them?”
“Yes I can. And more.” 
“So, make a great school. That is problem enough for one man to wrestle with. Let everything else unfold as it will without interference or influence.” 
“Okey dokey.”

Ha. That’s the spirit!”

So, SRQ is soon going to be up and running. The “Master Series” begins with the Parson’s dance company visiting, and even if only a few dancers take advantage of this exciting opportunity, it is promising that Cory is already thinking about important and significant extra-curricular dance experiences.

Mark and I will be down there for the opening, as a friend, benefactor, and to revel in our new title: “Artistic consultant” (ha, not like we need or want a title – but that was sweet. . . and. . . ahem . . . I think he will make us work to earn it.) In fact, I believe we are teaching the first two master classes and helping judge the competition team auditions. Fun, considering we will be setting a dance for these groups later as well. We will help train incoming teachers, at least in the beginning. I’ve no doubt Cory will impliment a training program of his own soon enough, perfectly modeled for his personal studio vision. And Sharon has impressive plans for the preschool as well. In fact, it will be interesting to see which division of the school can boast of being the strongest by next season, because they are getting equal, intensive attention.

We are giving Cory and Sharon a huge step up as they enter the dance studio business by way of teaching materials, store stock, preschool fixtures and advice. But they are giving us the graceful exit we dreamed of when we first decided to let FLEX go. It’s lovely really. A positive, exciting energy blankets our exchanges.  And we are all having fun without the damper of actions being misconstrued as some kind of threat. It is just a case of artistic personalities, the ones exiting and the ones entering, working together to build something wonderful out of the past, with no limits for the future.  We even disagree sometimes, and that is fun too. 

We said, “Cory, August 4th is pretty soon – what if you don’t have any dancers yet to audition? Who in Sarasota will know what you have to offer by then? “
“We have enough students already signed up – even without advertising – so we are bound to have some dancers wanting to participate in competition teams … and won’t they be the lucky ones. And if the audition takes only a half hour, we can go to Bennagins and toast to the future – unknowned as it may be.”
Heck yeah – I’ll bring the wine. You bring the teachers so we can pick their brains and do a pep talk.  

Things seem to be falling into place for lots of people now. I guess a dance studio is like raising a peacock. You can tend eggs and brag about how fantastic your birds will be, but some simply don’t hatch because they were never properly fertilized to begin with. The one that does hatch might be slow to grow, delicate, and will need love and care, but that doesn’t mean it wont be a spectacular bird in time.

Well, I must go. I have wine to make for this opening – and music to listen to if we will be teaching again. I need to get alone in that studio we have downstairs to begin some creative planning and to get in dancing shape. Don’t want to disappoint the big boss, ya know. He has high standards! No that I am complaining….  those of us who live in glass houses . . . .

My mother painted a picture of me and presented it to me when we were in Florida last week.
As is her way, she prefaced the gift with, “It’s not very good, but it leaves you something to remember me by.”
Like I’ll ever need a picture to remember my mother.
It is hard to receive a picture of yourself, because no matter how much it looks like you, you stare at it thinking it could be better. My first reaction was, “Gee, couldn’t you have made me look a bit more like Michelle Phieffer? I mean, did you have to make my nose so big and my chin so prominent?”
“It looks exactly like you,” Mark said.
“Well, that’s the point. Does it have to look so like . . . .me?”
“You don’t like it,” my mother said.
“I LOVE IT.” I quickly corrected, and I meant it.
I love it because she painted it herself. And honestly, I think she did a great job. It is hanging in my office now, and I keep staring at it, thinking it is an amazing likeness – remarkable considering she’s primarily a hobbyists painter- she never really studied art seriously.  
When I look at this picture, I imagine my mother spending hours dabbling over that canvas, remembering my face, trying to capture the quality in my smile that she remembers from when I was small. Something humbling in that.
I do look young on the canvas. I guess in my mother’s eyes I will always be her little girl. 
I said, “Thank you for leaving out the wrinkles, and playing down the freckles.”
“I guess I don’t notice your wrinkles,” she said, then added, “Maybe you can’t tell, but I put you in a leotard too, because that is how I will always think of you. I thought it fit best.”
Sure enough, she did. That makes this picture even more endearing to me. Not that I care what I have on, but I’m pleased that my mother chose to represent me in the way she felt was most authentic. I guess, deep down, we all want our parents to accept us for who we are. In my case, I feel my mother is honoring my identity in this small act. 

My mother wanted to leave behind something to remember her by. I can’t imagine a better gift. Not only does this picture prove she knows and loves me- heck, even when I am 500 miles away, she can see my face and every detail in her minds eye to capture just who her daughter is –  but it also captures who she is: a woman who is talented and caring, who loves her children and wants to leave something behind for them. Perhaps this is symbolic, because what she is leaving behind in truth are children raised with enduring love – children she armed with confidence and an artistic eye all their own . That is a great accomplishment for any woman, I think.

I have other pictures my mother painted hanging in our house- mostly landscapes. I have also made a request for a picture of our horses, but she is waiting for me to send a photo, so I’ll probably add those to our personal art gallery someday too. But my Mother will never paint anything that, to me, is as touching as this special canvas.

When I look at it, I don’t just see myself. I swear, I also see my mother looking back at me.
   

     
   

Every time I mention that four letter word (FLEX), my site gets a thousand hits. Emotions are stirred. People get riled. Some in defense of us. Some in defense of their own actions. Some people write responses to the blog. Many write me directly, wanting to keep their comments private. As result, despite lots of emotionally packed experiences these past two years, I’ve avoided sharing most of my feelings regarding interaction with our former business, except in cases where I was really goaded into saying something. Anyone who knows me understands I get impassioned about the things I care about and  react accordingly. Sue me (actually, people have tried this year. Go figure.) The thing is, to not mention the “unmentionalable” is difficult since this blog is random and based on life experiences. FLEX continues to be a big part of our world, like it or not, so it is hard not to include comments about it occasionally.

In a way, not saying something is also a way of saying something. I want to avoid people making assumptions and projecting their own opinions about what we are doing and why (and this turning into some sort of folkloric “fact”) so I am more comfortable speaking for myself. So I’ve decided to address the FLEX mess in one more post. Then, I can move on to more “life in Georgia” posts, which my good friends say are the real reason they tune in.  

As many people know, we have had a difficult week and a half, (which is why I haven’t been blogging). I’d like to go into detail about my experiences because writing about things helps me work through them. But due to the vast, critical audience I’ve gained, I have learned to avoid too much detail and gut honesty about dance or FLEX. Still, to avoid the subject altogether makes this a very incomplete representation of our world. So, here I am again, addressing this situation, but consider it simply an overview for friends.

Mark and I went back to Florida yet again for the unpleasant task of dismantling our former business. FLEX took eighteen years to build, and only eighteen months to destroy. Packing up that school was a poignant, heart rendering task that took every ounce of fortitude we could muster. The emotions connected to such a task are so complex and personal that it defies description.  It’s like burying someone you love, experiencing a release from prison, and tearing out your own heart, all wrapped up into one disturbing act. 
We were watching the movie “You’ve Got Mail” last night, which I’ve seen dozens of times and really enjoy, but it had a different meaning in light of our current experiences. Before, it was just an entertaining, endearing love story, but this time I was sensitive to the subplot.  In the movie, Meg Ryan is forced to close a business that has been a significant part of her life for many years. She is devastated, but has no options due to the financial situation she finds herself in. Obviously, I can relate. No mater how much you love a place, you can’t hold on forever when in operating the red.

Tom Hanks says, “I’m sorry. It was only business. It wasn’t personal.”

And she responds with, “It was personal to me. If life is anything, it should begin and end with being personal.”

I cannot stop thinking about that nugget of wisdom.

A few days ago, we filled a 30-yard dumpster with useless, unnecessary (foolishly expensive) boxes and boxes of over-ordered brochures, programs, stationary and marketing paraphernalia. I admit, I felt rage. This was symbolic of what has been going on for some time. Our business, so carefully tended for so many years, was thrown away – for foolish items acquired to impress others. Rather than paying rent or building the reserve we impressed as so important, or budgeting for meeting normal business challenges and consideration of long-term security, the new owners focused on purchasing art, computer and high tech toys, investing indulgently in all sorts of surface esthetics. They bared no expense in all the areas that had nothing at all to do with dance. Meanwhile, in the dance rooms I found materials that were tattered and worn, holes in the walls and/or plaster repairs that remained unpainted after two years. The hallway had a spiffy new wood floor (very impressive), yet the dance room floors had not been professionally cleaned in over a year (very offensive). There was gluttony of overstocked supplies like construction paper in the preschool shelves, but the playground was in disrepair with broken equiptment, tattered canvases, and two year old, faded, mulch. The choices that have been made regarding the allocation of financial resources defy reason from a business or artistic sense.

It would be different if FLEX fell into hard times because our directorship had been missed, or because students fled because the ownership changed. It wasn’t outside influences, like a change in economy. Mismanagement drove staff and students away and began a breakdown of pertinent quality programs. The obvious evidence of just how frivilious the decisions made were, caused me to cycle between despondent melancholy and fury, touching upon every gray area in between. I ended up somewhere with resolve and apathy in the end. Like the T-shirt they gave Mark at our last recital that said: “My Give a Damn is Busted” –  I think I’ve became so emotionally exhausted I cannot feel anything anymore. So I went through the motions, doing what had to be done like a robot on automatic pilot, trying to second guess what my husband was thinking and feeling, and knowing he was doing the same about me.

We loaded old costumes, trophies and ruined dance and preschool materials into the dumpster, trying not to implode over the inner turmoil each bag of trash stirred up. Mark watched me like a hawk, expecting me to fall apart every other minute. Meanwhile, he had this vacant look in his eyes and his breathing was shallow and distressed. Fair to say, next to losing a baby, this was one of our most distressful experiences as a couple. 
For the most part, Mark and I were alone. It seemed oddly appropriate. We had time to talk, air our personal feelings, cry, and even laugh a bit over old memories. However, after the first day, we also had wonderful (and much needed) help from Cory and Sharon (who will be taking over the building and opening a school based on our format) which was very much appreciated. Cory is one of our students from way back. He was around in the beginning, helping us set up this studio. How appropriate that he was there in the end, a sweet reminder that our time as FLEX owners had come full circle. As we hauled crap to the dumpster, Cory paused to play my original warm-up music. It blared through the halls making the school seem alive again. This dredged up endless memories of students I loved and dances I created. I felt like the star in my own sad movie, wallowing in my misery as I waded through the remnants of a life. Meanwhile, Cory and Mark made bittersweet jokes – they always had a funny, inappropriate shared sense of humor when together. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched them turn misery into a form of dark comedy to help make it easier to swallow. It was a uniquely poignant experience, Cory’s beginning and our end somehow wrapped up in this work, a mutual act of love and respect for the past, the future, and a celebration of friendship and mentorship. I will always remember this student’s role in this significant passage of our life. In some ways, his being involved healed much of the hurt we were taking away – because while he is only one of our many beloved former students, he was symbolic of a generation. And even if he is a single case, perhaps, knowing we really meant something to one person is enough to validate those years. But I know it isn’t just one, for many students have gone out of their way to express their appreciation for our past influence, and for that, we are grateful.  

While throwing out trophies, Cory brought one down that had 1992 on the label. He said, “Hey, if this is from 1992. I m
ust have been in this dance! Oh, it’s 3rd place. Um… probably because I didn’t point my feet. Sorry.”
Mark flashed a fleeting smile and said, “No, that trophy was for Heather Kaboble. Ginny choreographed the piece in her street people dance. Heather did a fantastic job – deserved to place higher. But we didn’t care. We were so proud of her.” Then he sighed.

What a memory that man has. Every dancer, every dance, every joke, and every fight with a parent is prominently etched in his mind. Snippets of his vivid recollections (which proves how important these people and events were to him) slip out at random moments all the time. I wondered if he was looking around the room, cataloguing memories of every single dance and dancer that each of those thousand trophies represented. How I wished I could crawl into his mind to share those thoughts.

Kent is a young man now, and a great help when muscle is needed, so we asked him to pitch in on the last day. At one point, a trophy fell from the shelf and broke and he bent to pick it up. “Steam heat,” he said (this was a dance he was featured in that won a national award. “I would have like to keep that,” he said sadly.
I felt badly because I know how important this school was to him growing up and it is a bitter pill to swallow to participate in the dismantling process. I asked if he was O.K. He shrugged and said, “This part is kind of killing me, Mom.”

“Me too.” I said, which was true in general, but not really true in this specific circumstance. Many things were killing me about dismantling our former business, but for me, throwing out those trophies wasn’t one of them.
In some ways, throwing out those trophies was healing. It is no secret how much I’ve always despised competition. I acknowledge the benefits, but the cons are significant. Competition always twists people into knots. Great dancers lose heart because they are not successful in the competition arena and they end up lacking confidence. Dancers who are very “competition oriented” win and become arrogant and filled with self import, which makes them far weaker dancers and practically untrainable. (Once you think you are great, you lose the humility and determination to grow, which means you peak too soon.) Parents get crazy, making judgments about what constitutes “good” choreography, passing judgment about who is talented, determined by the stupid results of this commercial endeavor-  which for the record, is designed not to promote dance education, but to cash in on everyone’s gut desire to validate their talent. It is a money making scam, in my opinion, which eats the resources of time, money and staff attention that would be so much better served allocated to other dance endeavors. Anyway, Mark and I have never liked competition. We’ve participated begrudgingly, learned how to play the competition game to win, but deep down, we are always vividly aware that it provoked surface glory in place of earnest artistic development. A few years back, we decided to take a stand. We held firm and stopped taking the kids to competition all together. These were the years we focused on our regional company (West Coast Dance Project) and our best dancers and greatest work derived from that period. Most of the students who went on to become professional dancers (and are now in professional companies or are teachers) were from this era. However, as parents balked and students started loosing interest in dance without the competition glory, we caved into customers wants. We just got tired of fighting everyone and decided to give them what they wanted rather than what they needed. Guess that was the beginning of the end for us.     

FLEX closing has significant impact on many people’s lives. It is so sad – for students, staff, the new owners that now must live with the result of their mistakes, and for us. Furthermore, the financial implications have left us in a serious bind. It means we have to go back to the drawing board and think through what we were going to do about tomorrow. We set up our new life based on certain expectations that now will not materialize. In other words, we can’t afford the life we created. So what are we going to do about it? I’m not pretending we are without means, because we are selling the buildings and this provides us capitol for a new enterprise. But that is all. On top of all else, we were dealt a might blow when we found out that as Georgia residents over a third of all we make will go to taxes.

Upon hearing this news, Mark actually asked our accountant, “How about if I divorce Ginny. Can I be a Florida resident then and get around it?”

I was like, “Excuse me. You are willing to divorce me to save money!?!  Better watch it, buster. I may not want to take you back!”

He shrugged and said, “Please. Who else would have you?”
Good point.

Anyway, it is true we’ve been lucky in the big scheme, and it would be an exaggeration to say FLEX closing means we have no future.  We sold the school thinking it would live on, even if it swayed towards new directions, which made leaving it somehow easier. We also believed we would remain involved, able to dip our toes in the dance waters occationally to choreograph and enjoy working with our former dancers during the transition retirement years. These things didn’t work out, which was a disappointment, but losing the monetary rewards too takes away another degree of what we dreamed was a perfect graceful exit from years of dance. Keeping our land and house is now going to be difficult. It is sort of like the gift of the Magi. We can walk away from this chunk of land and all the natural freedom and quiet it represents and probably even make money doing so– but the only reason we would want to make money is to design a life of quiet and natural freedom. Money itself has never been important to us, but the freedom and opportunity to pursue a creative lifestyle IS something we covet. Nevertheless, complaining about our situation really proves how spoiled we are. The problem is, I feel not unlike Scarlet O’Hara, ready to grip the dirt of her homestead and vow to do whatever it takes to keep it. I love the house my husband created and I want to live in it for more than six months. I love my animals and my garden and my bees. I love the solitude we have in this 50 acres. I love the art my husband has yet to make in his yet to be finished workshop.  Mostly, I miss dance and I know these things are not just flippant interests. They fill the empty spaces in my heart where dance once took residency.  So shoot me. I am not ready to give up the ideal if there is any way around it.

Talking about our dilemma in the quiet, dark hallways of a school we loved, surrounded by powerful memories of everything we have missed this past two years, inevitably lead to the subject of returning. I can’t tell you how close we came to making the decision to move back to Florida to put FLEX back together as a path to saving our Georgia home. Cory and Sharon certainly made the idea seem too easy  when they offered to work as managers under us to learn the business firsthand for several years with a plan to shift ownership carefully, without risk to the business, later. They presented a case for our running it from afar, which could actually work.
We sat down and crunched numbers. Figured out what we would have to do to repair the damage. We made calls. We contacted staff members, who immediately expressed a desire to return under our directorship, and made a plan to hire new blood (calling in favors from old New York acquaintances) all the while amazed at how simple it would be to not only fix the school, but perhaps make it even stronger. We talked to a few former students. They expressed wild excitement at the idea- certainly nice for our wounded ego after months of people discrediting us and throwing parties as a public show of disrespect. As the word leaked out that we were considering returning, we even got a call from a few students who had “defected” to the school we
will call the “Flex Alternative”. They said, “Please understand that we made what we felt was the best choice out of two very unpleasant choices. However, we are not happy. We would come back if you came home, as would about 95% of your students . . . that is, if you would have us. How mad are you at everyone?”
This made us laugh. We were never mad. Disappointed. That is different. Nevertheless, we would hope everyone would stay wherever they landed. No reason to invite more drama into a world that has been drama engorged for too long. People like us simply don’t have to covet other people’s dancers, even if they once were ours, because we are capable of making more. We have always been more comfortable focusing on new students, fresh faces, because they don’t come to the table with baggage and they haven’t been confused by alternate styles of training or guidance.  

The idea of dealing with that element was not something we wanted to consider anyway, so we stuck to issues regarding how to reinforce the quality of the school, and how to manage it even better in consideration of all we have learned. Distance puts things in perspective, and we do feel grateful to have been given this wonderful gift of seeing the true mettle of people. Those who remained friends during the past two years of conflict are so dear to us now, we even felt pulled to return just to enjoy those relationships fully.
The idea took shape.  We looked around at places we might rent if we wanted to try the duel residency thing, then looked at houses in case we decided to move back totally – “just in case”.
While resurrecting FLEX was a makeable put, all the while we grew more and more depressed. We started fighting. The fact is, while returning is a practical solution to the financial problem, (and honestly, we have missed so much about our prior life there were other reasons to consider it too) it still had some major flaws. We figured we could repair things easily in one season, and this would take us . . . where? To being exactly where we were when we decided to leave.

We already left financial security and all those elements of dance we loved once. The fact is, there was a cost to that life which we determined was too high considering our age and life priorities now. There are elements about the dance school business that will never change no matter what we do to diffuse and control it. With two years distance, we understand exactly what was good and bad about our previous life. We know what we would do differently if we thrust ourselves back into the fray. But, we also know our personality quirks. The fact is, for all that we might decide to return as owners and directors  only, for business reasons, we know we will never be able to control our personalities. Where ever you go, you take yourself with you. It is only a matter of time before we get sucked in and start caring – only a matter of time before we are personally involved again,  feeling emotionally ravaged and torn, obsessing about the quality of the school and the kind of dancers we create. We wouldn’t remain in Georgia no matter how much we love it. In the end it is a good bet that we would end up returning to Florida full time because total involvement is the only way to run the school correctly. We simply can’t do anything halfway.

As such, we decided that we are not people who can go backward. Been there, done that. Time to leap into the unknown. We just have to leap a bit sooner and farther than we thought we would due to the sudden change in our fortune.

So we declined Cory’s generous offer and put to rest the ongoing debate. We decided to revisit the complex issues regarding getting this building and business into Cory’s hands alone (with our friendship and guidance helping him navigate the waters). He had hit a snag in financing, but we had a creative solution so it could still work out for him. We told him our one rule is we didn’t want to hear anything more about the dance school politics, the recitals going on in Sarasota or anything else regarding our former customers, students and/or school. But we would love to talk to him about what it takes to make a school great and help him to create a fine school he could be proud of. But that is the limit to our involvement. No more drama.
As for us, we are now brainstorming, determined to create a new world that is perhaps less ideal than puttering with writing and woodworking at our own pace, but exciting in its own way. Fact is, we have discovered we are way too young to retire, and we don’t like the alienated feeling we had being removed from the work world in our 40’s. It isn’t natural to us to live without struggling somewhat to survive. And when your friends are still in production mode, you feel out of sync with a cushy existence and too much time on your hands.

I’ve always said, “Be careful what you wish for.” When I had left the dance empire I had more time to write, but I wrote less. Go figure. All I wanted in life was time to pursue my dreams, but when I got that time, I lost the discipline to take advantage of it. I guess it is a matter of supply and demand determining value. They always say, if you want something done, ask a busy person. I need to be busy again, so I can fight to find the time to write. May not make sense, but it is true. I do have my MFA, and in that sense, I’ve spent the last two years well, preparing myself to write better. Now it is time to use what I’ve learned.

We now are visiting dozens of creative ideas for piecing together a new sort of future. It is time to go back to work, and build a new business – one that is less personal we hope.  We are at our best when we are in the creative think tank mood, so at least we are in a positive place. We are formulating a plan and every day it gets more vivid. Oddly enough, the pallor of melancholy that has been ever present these past two years is lifting too. Limbo was never good for us.  Working together is something we understand and this makes us feel grounded for the first time since we moved.

We are bidding on a parcel of land in town for what we hope will be for our second groundbreaking. Never imagined we’d do that twice in one lifetime. This time it won’t be a state of the art dance studio we will build, but a rustic lodge coffee house and art gallery. Mark is designing a remarkable freestanding building in his mind, something we will market as a “vacation destination”. The style will be not unlike our home with geode incrusted fireplaces and leather couches and natural log details. The shop will serve organic coffees and pastries and huge log stairs will lead into an Appalachian arts gallery filled with crafts and furniture – much of it made by Mark. We have some unique features I will not go into now, such as a small stage for open mike readings (poetry and folk music) and a children’s tea party room (leave it to me to be thinking of the kids – old habits die hard). Anyway, we have some fun ideas we are tossing about to create a very different sort of place here in this land where no Starbucks exist. 60K people are dropped off by the train every year in a town without much to do or see. Our lot is across from the station. I see that as great potential for selling a lot of cups of coffee to tourists as well as locals.

We can work out the kinks (working like a dog, no doubt) by owning one such store, then open others if it is successful. Heck, we may franchise someday and have more log cabin coffee houses in other adventure areas. Ya never know.  We were asked to franchise the FLEX children’s program many times, but for all we explored the possibilities with investors, lawyers etc… we never could get around the quality control issues when the school expanded beyond our direct control. This will be a different ball of wax – anyone can pour coffee and ring up a sale of a wood bowl, right? And I don’t see parents telling you off because they don’t think you appreciate their little coffee drinker’s talent. But it takes time to build a bu
siness from scratch, and there are no guarantees it will work. I also understand that there is a learning curve to every new endeavor. Still, we are entrepreneurs at heart, and have a knack for making creative concepts manifest. I have faith that things will work out.

Meanwhile, Mark will build a house on our creek lot. He’s been meaning to get to that someday – well, it’s time. Later, if we have to, we figure we can even build a house each year on three acre lots at the outskirts of our land. I guess even Scarlet would release a bit of Tara if it was the only way to keep the bulk of it intact. This would still leave us 30 acres to play farmer upon so I can still have my bees and peacocks and chickens and horses and llama and donkey and garden and blackberries. It’s a plan, man. Filled with obstacles and what-if’s but hey, that is what makes life interesting.

The point is, innovation is key to hanging on and carving a new existence when a wrench has been tossed in the mechanics of your life. This is the route we’ve decided to take rather than retreating to the security of what we know. Such a decision takes faith, and a willingness to roll up our sleeves and dig in wholeheartedly from point zero all over again. But, when we think back about our happiest years at FLEX, they were the early years when we were struggling. There is a message in that. We must focus forward and not pause to feel resentment or frustration over past disappointments, or questioning this alternative path once we decide to give it a go. Can’t be wishy washy about your choices, for they are yours to make and stand by .

While I have felt depressed and sorry for myself now and again this past two years, I’ve decided to see this whole experience as a gift. Life tests you to see what you are capable of – and as result, you often discover the best elements within.

So, that is the scoop regarding the closure of our past life. We dismantled FLEX (leaving behind everything Cory and Sharon will need to begin their dance empire, of course). It was a dismal, sad end that broke our heart a hundred ways coming and going. I cried all the way home (eleven hour drive), and Mark kept stopping at rest stops claiming he felt sick. He said, “I don’t know why, but I am shaken up and I feel like at any moment I’m going to fall apart.”

“Me too”, I said.
“Me too,” Kent said.
“Not me. I’m glad it’s over,” Neva said. She’s always had a certain, remarkable wisdom of her own.

Since we are not the type to indulge ourselves in “falling apart”, we kept driving. Then, we came home, let the serenity of our world here take effect and made this much needed attitude adjustment. After two years of frustration, we are finally closing the book on our past. A grueling ending. But, God willing, a beginning too.

Sigh. Glad to have this sorry news update behind me.  Now, I can return to “life in Georgia”.    

Kent and I burnt the forest down.

Just another day at the Hendrys.

Let me make it very clear here that it was all Kent’s fault.

 

Mark left town this week to attend a 6-day intensive fine furniture-building course. The school is only about a 1 hour and 45 minute drive, but he knew he would be tired and the traffic is bad in the Atlanta area, so he opted to stay in a hotel. I always miss him when he goes away. I am unsettled. I have this feeling that things just are not right; like when you are grocery shopping and suddenly you start thinking maybe you left the water running in the bathtub at home. You know you are worrying unnecessarily –why would you have done that? Nevertheless, you now have this unease, because it is also remotely possible you might be flooding your entire downstairs while you are going through the mundane drill of purchasing bread and milk.

 

At the same time, I rather relish my spouse’s absence too, because a partner eats up a certain amount of time and energy. I get a great deal accomplished when he is away, and (dare I admit it) I get to do those things that I wouldn’t necessarily attend to when he is here because they fall under his category of tasks – or they are things he would interfere with one way or another.

 

Anyway, Mark left, so I kicked into high gear and started attacking all those things that are a high priority to me, but not so important to him. You know, the things a guy pushes aside with an attitude that “he will do it later”. Later had come. First, I took down the Christmas boughing that was hanging on our porch. It is March, for God’s sake. It has been driving me crazy. (When he saw it down when he got home he said, “Aw, now I no longer qualify as an official redneck.).

 

Next, I cleaned his office. The floor of the room has been filled with boxes, bags, and stacks of whatever, since the day we moved in. I don’t know how he stands it. He is always saying, “I have to clean that office,” but every time he goes in there, he sits at the desk as does other work (which is also important – but I could never think in that kind of clutter.) I pushed the bookshelves that were in the center of the room to the side so I could begin unpacking books and supplies. I threw out bags and boxes filled with trash. (If he had the mind to fill them with trash, why leave them in the room? Why not carry them out to at least make a dent in the mess?)  I picked up dozens of rolls of building plans – from the house, the cabin, the FLEX building at Lakewood Ranch – all kinds of plans just scattered on the floor, and put rubber bands on them and stacked them in a box in storage. I swept, hauled, and organized. I did not, however, touch his messy desk. I will clean, but I don’t want to be intrusive or lose something important. There is a method to this man’s mess, and I wouldn’t want to debilitate him by shifting that mess around. But, boy oh boy, did I want to tackle that too.

 

I took it upon myself to hang the pictures in the workout room and get it officially set up. We have all these dance pictures and articles that have been leaning against the wall in there, so I slapped them up. I knew Mark would hate this, because he is very particular about all things visual. I’ve never hung a picture in our home, set out a pillow, or purchased a vase that he doesn’t move or get rid of it within the week. A month ago, I bought two pillows for the couch that I thought were perfect. They lasted three days before he bought pillows he liked and tossed the ones I had chosen. This kind of thing used to bother the crap out of me, but I’ve learned to live with my lack of input in our environment. It is not as if he doesn’t have lovely taste, so why make an issue of it? Anyway, I bought a clock for the workout room and a small table so we can get our stereo off the floor. I put together his barbell rack. The next day, my new treadmill was delivered (we had purchased it a week or so prior). I must say, I am doubly inspired to spend time in that room now. I have all these wonderful memories around me, and the room “feels right”. It feels like a dance studio- without the work associations. I can log on miles on my spiffy new treadmill (which is my way of beating the Georgia mountains and the three months of icky weather) surrounded by proof of the very fulfilling journey my dance life took. I run towards (but because it is a treadmill, I never reach) my New York teachers and experiences, our FLEX history, and articles written about the programs we designed etc. I have pictures in there of student’s I’ve loved, and chapters of my life I cherish. It is now a great room, representing chapters of life I am most proud of .

 

I did some other house puttering (while also taking care of the family, of course – just because Mark was gone didn’t mean I wouldn’t invite his mother over for dinner, or workout with his sister, or take on his shifts of driving the kids to school. I also had Neva’s spring soccer practices, Kent’s band festival, Kathy’s lessons, Homework, etc. to schedule into my days. It was a busy week.)

 

I dared buy some plants and I put them into the ground myself. (OK, I know this is no big deal to other people, but this was a big act of independence for me.) Neva and I planted four good-sized raspberry bushes and some tiny blueberry plants Kent had given me for Valentines Day. I even bought four boxes of strawberries and six grape plants, but they are still waiting for Mark because we need to till the areas they will land. It was fun digging in the dirt with Neva, learning as I go. She was so funny, instructing me about putting plant food into the hole before we dropped the plant into it. She has more gardening experience than I, you see, and she knows it and likes to show off.

 

I cleaned out the hot tub and filled it. We have had it over a year, but never cranked it up. Finally the electrician came to hook it up.  I’m looking forward to using it at long last.

 

But the big thing I did in Mark’s absence was clean the garage. When we moved here, we just told the moving men to stack boxes and stuff in the garage, knowing we would get to it later. But there was no order to the madness, so each time we went rummaging around to look for something we needed to unpack, things got steadily messier. In the meantime, every time Mark brought packages from Home depot, they tended to land, unopened, somewhere near the door. We also had about twenty pairs of muddy shoes out there, and wayward tools and buckets of paint buried under boxes of trash, luggage and camping stuff that just didn’t make it up to the attic. There were laundry baskets filled with electrical supplies and light bulbs and whatnot. A big piece of plywood that the workers left right in the path to the door was an ominous obstacle we kept tripping over, and yards of torn paper the builders laid to protect the floor when they were finishing up inside which made it impossible to sweep (and thus dirt was forever being tracked inside).

 

Every time I stumbled through the mess with groceries, or couldn’t open the outside refrigerator door because of clutter, I wanted to scream. So, I determined now was the time to do something about it. I know Mark would get to cleaning the garage eventually, but that might be months from now. And if there is one thing I believe, it is easier (and wiser) to just do something about what you don’t like rather than bitch and expect someone else to attend to your priorities.

 

I enlisted Kent’s help. He is an amazing worker and thanks to his good humor, a joy to spend the day with, so his participation made the project fun. He must have lifted 80 boxes and carried them to the attic or the craft room or loaded them into the truck to take to the workshop. We lugged and sorted and groaned and made jokes about at the madness of the mess and made speeches about how much this particular thing or that had been annoying us for months, until we had finally made a dent in the clutter. And this inspired us to keep at it, even though by then we were so exhausted we could barely see straight. We had carted stuff into the driveway into categorized stacks, and Kent had filled the truck with trash for the burn pit. We decided to take it down to make room for more stuff in the truck.

 

We drove down to the pit in the field across from the house and unloaded the wood and a few bags of burnable trash. Kent pulls out a lighter. I tell him not to light the fire because Dad is not here and it’s a windy day.

 

He says, “Don’t be such a woos, Mom, I do this with Dad all the time.”  

I say, “I know, but Dad isn’t here, and I really don’t want to be burning without him.” Meanwhile, my kid lights the fire anyway, making jokes about what a nerdly stiff I am. The fire roars up five feet. Kent blinks and says, “Woops. I’ll stay and watch it.” (Meanwhile, he is stamping out the trash that is flying out and landing on the grass because, as I said, it was a windy day.) I grumble about how dumb boys are about loving fire  (it’s a caveman thing) and I return to the garage to reload the car with stuff for the workshop. About fifteen minutes later, Kent returns and tells me the fire has gone down. Not to worry. We load the truck again and decide to drive to the workshop to unload. As I drive down the driveway, I look over and say, “Wow, it almost looks as if the forest is on fire.” I do a double take, then yell, “Kent! The forest is on fire!”

 

“Oh my God!” he yells, jumping out of the car and running to the fire. I guess he thinks he will stamp it out. But when he gets there he stands there with his hands on his head and says, “Mom! Help. I don’t know what to do! The forest is on fire. Really!”

 

I assess the situation. Yep. The forest is on fire. Trees are going up in flames and every time a wind comes along another foot of underbrush ignites. I run to the house and call 911. Then I return to the fire, cursing the fact that we don’t have a fire extinguisher and our hose would never reach this far. Meanwhile, Neva is freaking out. She runs to the house to get her blankies (I don’t know if this was because she needed immediate comfort or if in the back of her mind she thought she should rescue the thing she most values from the house just in case the fire makes it that far . . . )

 

Kent is saying “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. What should I do?”

 

Now, this was a perfect “I told you so – why don’t you ever listen to me,” moment. But as a parent, my strongest inclination when there is trouble is to put my children’s fears to rest and to protect their sense of security. So I assured him things would be fine and that the fire department was coming, so not to sweat it. Meanwhile, the wind is blowing and every few minutes another tree goes up. Ee-gad. Kent keeps saying, “Dad is going to freak. We burnt the forest down.”

I gently correct Kent. “You burnt the forest down. I told you to wait. But it will all be over soon. These things happen. . . when you don’t listen to your mother.” (OK, so I couldn’t resist the “I told you so moment” for very long.)

 

Neva is sobbing, asking if we are going to die. Um… no dear. The fire is over there and we are over here. Her eyes open wide and she says, “What if the fire department can’t find our house?”

That might very well be a problem, considering we are a new house – off the map. I tell her that perhaps she should stand at the street corner and point, so she runs off to do just that, clutching her blankets with desperation. I feel better giving her this busy work and removing her from the scene of the fire.

 

Finally, a truck pulls up and out comes a single guy in camouflage pants with a shovel. Kent says, “God, I think that is our fire department. We are so screwed.”

 

This strikes me as funny. We do live in a small rural community, and we are forever making jokes about it. It appears my 911 call has resulted in this scruffy fellow’s visit.

I say, “I’m sure he is just here to check it out and he will report in.” But I’m not really so sure. And the idea of a single man showing up with flames beginning to engulf our forest started me laughing. I know I should have been more worried – I mean fire is a serious thing. And Neva is a wreck because she has heard such horror tales in school about fire. But the donkey is watching from the field as if this is the most interesting thing going on in his day and I keep thinking about our good intentions and how hard we worked to make things nice for Mark, but it will all be turned around because he is going to have a cow if we burn a part of his 50 acres down. And I can’t help but see the entire thing as humorous – like my life is a sitcom – the Lucy show – and this is a typical episode. I think about how I will be able to razz Kent about this for the rest of his life, how one day we will laugh about the day we cleaned the garage and burned the forest down. And I just can’t get worried or upset. I keep making jokes (inappropriately).

 

The fellow walks up, spits some tobacco, and tells me the fire truck is coming. He then walks over and throws a shovel full of dirt onto the roaring flames. Now, Kent and I both start making subtle jokes. We couldn’t help it. I guess the fact that someone with authority was there to handle things alleviated our concerns deep down. And it really was sort of funny, in a “three stooges clean the garage” sort of way.

 

In a short time, the truck comes. It is a standard red fire truck, but the fellows driving it are in jeans and t-shirts and cowboy hats or baseball caps. They are all carrying shovels. This is our fire department. Apparently, these men don’t stick around the station because fires are rare here. They stay at home and when they get a call, they drive to the station and then the truck rolls out. Under those circumstances, they were mighty expedient, in my opinion.

 

As they hosed down the forest, a few of the fellows sauntered over and talked to me about our land. They told me they played here when they were kids, before it was at all developed. They said they liked what we were doing, had a nice house, and they thought the horses looked mighty fine. Where did I get the llama? Do I like my donkey?  They talked about what a nice guy Jimmy Owen is (the fellow taking out our pine trees at the entrance to the land) and mentioned we were standing in a good place for a garden and since it is spring, I should consider putting one in. (I told them we were.) They heard a rooster and said, “Chickens too? Good for you.”

They told me about their homesteads nearby, and asked how I liked their fair city. They didn’t seem to think the fire was that big a deal, but they did mention that our fire pit was too close to the forest (gee, ya think?) We had a lovely conversation, just like we’d met at a church social.        

 

I asked a few questions about fire and how it spreads and what they do when it gets out of hand. I asked if they liked working for the fire department and what else they did on the side. I always like to learn about people. Meanwhile, I am watching the big circle of black ash that is now in the heart of our forest where moments before, flames ere flickering. I’m thinking it isn’t so bad really. Kind of like a big shadow in the trees.

 

I apologize for making them come out. They said, “Aw, that’s fine. We like running the truck once in a while, and it gives us a chance to see what ya’ll are up to out here. Looks good.”  

   

They were very, very nice, and in an hour the episode was over. . I’m grateful Kent and I only left for 5 minutes to fill a truck so this fire thing was an “accident” rather than a “catastrophe.” Lord, what if we had gone out to lunch or something? As it was, I met some nice people from our community. The entire 50 acres didn’t burn down. We discovered we can count on our local fire department. I figure Kent learned a valuable lesson. (Mother is always right.) Neva will need months of blanket therapy, but other than that all is well.

 

Six hours later, Mark comes home. It is dark. I am glad he is home. Sort of.

 

Proudly, we show off our clean garage. (Meanwhile, Kent is smiling at his dad, but casting a “are we going to pull this off” look at me every time Mark looks away, which makes me snicker. Mark reacts exactly as I expected. He has to act happy that we worked so hard on the garage, but he feels funny about it too, as if our cleaning it was a way of saying “you are a big fat slacker, so we decided to do the work despite you.” Which isn’t the case, but that is the hidden message when you do a task someone else has said they will do over and over again.

 

He says, “Gee, it looks great.” But then he says, “Where are my drill bits?”

I say, “They were buried under junk . . . “

“On the ottoman. I KNOW. I know where every thing was in this garage, ya know.”

OK, so you knew your way around this shit. They why didn’t you put things where they belonged? Are you implying that I should have left the garage in an upheaval forever, cause I couldn’t’ stand it anymore.  I didn’t say this, of course, but I am thinking it – You see, I am getting defensive now too.

 

He says, “And where are the bulbs I was going to plant?”

“Outside on the porch.”

“How about that box of house stuff. I was going to put that away. I had a place for everything in that box.”

I’m thinking, then you should have brought it in and put it away. What are you waiting for? Lot of good it is to know it is in a box.

Instead, I patiently tell him it is in the attic with another ten boxes of home decor that was left opened, but not unpacked. He need only take a few steps to get whatever he wants.

Then, he starts focusing on the fact that he has this fire wood holder that he had taken out of the original box, and the parts are leaning up in a corner unassembled. He wants to know where the screws are and the cover. I find the screws for him, but I fear I might have thrown out the cover. He gets really annoyed and starts talking about how he has to throw out the entire thing, (and they don’t make them anymore, of course-it can never be replaced) because without the cover it is worthless.

I tell him to put a damn tarp over the wood and make do. Life will not end because he doesn’t have a cover.

He gets argumentative and again says he knew where everything was in the garage before we cleaned it.    

I stare him down and say, “Tough. That is the cost of getting the garage clean. You’ve lost a cover. Deal with it. I can’t believe you are going to stand here seeing what is over 8 hours of back breaking work that your family did to save you the trouble, and all you can do is focus on the negative and try to find things to complain about. Can you take a minute to appreciate is done rather than what isn’t?”

 

He says he does appreciate the work, but . . . where is everything?”

“WHERE IT BELONGS.” I say. Tools are in the workshop. Camping stuff and packed household is in the attic, craft stuff is in the craft room. Jesus, you can just walk up the stairs and get anything from the attic you want. It is only about ten extra steps, but in the meantime we can function. Functioning is good.”

“But, now I have to find it all,” he points out. “And I lost my cover. And you put my ladder outside but it will get rained on. “

I’m getting ready to take that ladder and hit him over the head with it. “So, go bring the fucking ladder in and put it where you want. We’ve done our share of lifting, now you can do some,” I say.

 

Then, I find his damn cover. This, apparently, was all it took to turn the situation around. It was symbolic cover or something. He suddenly relaxed, and seemed genuinely appreciative of the clean garage. He did a little subtle oohing and ahhing. Nothing major, mind you, but enough to quell our frustration about his lack of enthusiasm for our work.

 

Nevertheless, Kent and I determined not to tell him we burnt the forest down just yet.

We went inside. He saw his office and said, “That is better.”

Better? Ya think. You have a floor. Who knew?

He saw the workout room and said, “You put up the pictures. . .” His tone made it clear he didn’t think much of their positioning.

I said, “You can change them when you get around to it. I just wanted them off the floor.” Now, you see, I am making excuses and practically apologizing for having done this work. I hated the words as they come out of my mouth, yet I couldn’t stop making excuses.

 

We go to bed. No discussion about the fire. Mark snores, which ruins my night’s sleep, but I like it. Good proof he is home.

 

The next day, at breakfast, Mark says (I kid you not), “At least you all didn’t burn the house down.”

 

I have to tell him about the fire then. He stares at me deadpan as I recount the story. Then he says, “I’m not surprised. I thought you might burn the house down or something.”

 

This really sets me off.  I’m like, “Why would you say that? Are you implying I’m incompetent? That I can’t function without you? For God’s sake, we are living in a house we built from proceeds of a business I founded and helped run for years. I’m NOT some bimbo that can’t accomplish any thing without a man.”

 

He says, “I didn’t’ say that. It is just that you are sometimes oblivious.”

 

“Oblivious?!? What the hell are you saying? I don’t screw things up. Hell, I don’t touch things if I don’t know what I’m doing. I planted a few raspberry bushes, but I went on line first and learned about how and where to do it correctly. I cleaned the hot tub and filled it, but because I didn’t know about chemicals I left finishing up to you. I don’t go around messing with anything I don’t understand and I don’t go around wrecking your precious things.” I am furious that he dares suggest I’m incompetent.

 

He says, “I only mean you choose to be oblivious about certain things. You live in your world of chickens and horses and cooking, but you don’t bother to learn how to set the coo coo clock, or set the house alarm, or test the water in the hot tub. Those are my jobs, and you leave it that way. So when I’m gone, I imagine the clock will stop and stuff. “

 

“But I CAN do those things if I need to. I just don’t choose to learn about them because I know you will do them. I resent your implication that I am some bubblehead.”

 

“I didn’t say that. But . . . well . . . you did burn the forest down.”

“No. KENT burned the forest down.”

“But you see, you don’t control the kids like I do. When you are gone, I run a tight ship. So, in a way, this means you burnt the forest down.”

I pointed out that I accomplished a month’s work in the week he was gone. And the kids got attention too, because I was there for their soccer and band. I made family dinners, even though it was just the three of us. And I entertained his mother and sister. I remind him I could have just laid around eating bon bons or doing my homework or blogging, but instead I worked on projects for him. But you can be sure I won’t do that next time he leaves.

 

He says he appreciated it all. Really. Now, why don’t we go on down and look at the fire site.

 

“Yea, OK,” I grumble.

So we went down so he could inspect the big circle of ash. He sort of blinked and said. “That must have been a real fire.”

“Yea.”

Time to change the subject. I walked him over to see where I planted the raspberry bushes. He gently pointed out that the blueberry bushes will get squished if I don’t stake them so people know where they are. That is fair.

We talked about where to plant the apple trees, our project for this weekend. He told me about his trip and all he learned about furniture building and tools and what he wants for his workshop when we can afford it. He told me about the dinner he had with a friend who happens to be the artist who draws spider man for Marvel comics. (Very cool guy). He’s also is an amazing pool player and he taught Mark some skills. When we get around to buying a pool table, I’m in trouble, because my husband keeps practicing on the sly.

 

I guess you can say, life slowly returned to its general pace.

I’ve thought about this, about those uncomfortable hours when he first got home. How I knew they were coming. I have a theory.

 

There is an adjustment period that occurs after a couple is apart. You both have to deal with the reality that your spouse’s life goes on in your absence. You are uncomfortably aware that the other person could actually live without you – or not. And you feel as if you’ve been cheated out of a short segment of life because things are not as you left them. Even if it is something good, like a clean garage, you can’t help but feel as if someone flipped a few pages of your life novel forward. The story goes on uninterrupted, but you will never know the fine details that occurred on those missed pages – the moments missed.   I know. I feel this way each time I return from Boston. Married, you are living a life run by what is actually a combined mind and combined efforts. When you wander different directions, even temporarily, with each other’s blessings and full understanding, you are reminded that you are actually separate beings, Perhaps this challenges our secure sense of partnership, or makes us doubt our influence on our other half to do, think, feel and act just as we anticipate they will. 

 

Thankfully, this is just discomfort – nothing that leaves any long-term impact.  Before you know it, you are back in your familiar life story again, swept up in the action – more interested in what’s to come than what happened previously.

 

Anyway, my husband is leaving again next week, going to Florida to do our taxes with our accountant and to take care of some business. I have decided I won’t do anything next time he is away except bury myself in my thesis. It is due in four weeks and needs the attention badly. And I think I’ve made enough single, executive decision, impact around here for a while. It is nice to shake things up once in a while, but it is more comfortable letting the sediment of living settle at the bottom of the jar. Why stir up muck if you don’t need to?  

 

Today, we will plant apple trees. Together. We will discuss where they will go, and after deciding mutually, we will dig the earth as a team, and scatter moss over the plantings before we water them. Later we will complain to each other about our planting aches and pains over a glass of wine at dinner, and we will talk about what is next on our family to-do list. Work like this is not much different than cleaning a garage. Just another day at the Hendry’s. But thanks to the fact that today involves the participation of all family members, you can be sure the potential fires will be kept at bay.

    

 

The other day, as we were going to bed, my husband turned to me and said, “I miss dance. I miss dance so much it hurts.”

 

Good thing I was laying down, for otherwise I would have fallen over. You miss dance? Since when? I’ve been wondering if he felt this way, but I really never thought he’d speak it aloud.

 

I have been in a state of mourning over the loss of dance in my life for over a year now. I don’t write about it (at least not here) but I will tell you that there is a lingering melancholy to my days as I wrestle with my new self-definition. I tried sharing these feelings of loss with my husband when we first retired, but my comments were always dismissed, as if it was nothing more than ranting from someone with an overly romantic nature.  

 

I’d say, “I feel as if a vital organ has been removed from my body, like I have this huge hole inside. I’m incomplete. I can’t stand it. Don’t you miss dance?”   

 

My husband would say, “If I never saw another dance step as long as I live, I’d be fine. Dance is just a habit, you simply need to develop new habits.”

 

Sometimes I’d say, “I miss dance physically. I feel as if my body is asleep, as if it craves movement. I need to stretch to feel alive. I need to feel that abandon that comes with moving naturally. I miss the sensation of dancing. Don’t you?”

 

He’d respond with, “Dance hurts too much. (And even though he is younger than I, with his arthritic joints, dance does cause him much more pain than it does me). If I never dance again, I’ll be only too happy.”

 

So, I stopped sharing my feelings about the loss of dance, because frankly, his responses made me sad. We are usually on the same page about things, but in this case, it was clear that our experience regarding this life change was very different. In fact, he made me feel stupid for the way I felt, as if I was weak. Obviously I am having difficulties moving on from the art, but the fact is, I’m clearly too old to stay in it without embarrassing myself. Besides which, what has dance been really except a livelihood for the past many years? In reality, I left dance when I left New York, at least dance in its pure form.

 

My thesis is a book about dance. It’s a story about a woman in her 40’s who happens to be purists regarding her art. A dance snob, so to speak. She never married, had kids or saved money, because she was obsessed with her art and her career. She gave herself wholly to the art of dance, working for years in concert work, Broadway etc.. And one day, she realizes that dance has left her. It is fickle that way, an art that relies on youth. So she retires. Everyone thinks all retired dancers move on to teaching, but that isn’t the case. For many, teaching is considered a compromise, (those that can’t – teach) and this is the case with my character.  My book is about how she adapts and comes to terms with her loss. She goes through the seven stages of grief, anger, despair, denial, etc… and finally comes to acceptance. The book begins with her bitter and angry at the art because after all her devotion, she realizes she is a middle aged, unaccomplished, ex-dancer now, with nothing to show for a lifetime of work. And she hates dance for it – as if it is a lover that betrayed her – left her for a younger woman. She has no relationship, no money, no future, no skills, just like a woman divorced who never had to take care of herself before.  What was it all for? But through a series of non-professional experiences in a corny neighborhood dance studio, she begins to see dance through different eyes – she is reminded of what drew her to it in the beginning. And her purist attitude, her art snobbery, fades as she rediscovers the beauty of dance. She still must leave dance behind, but it is with love and respect that she does so. And she learns that dance does not define a person, but enhances them. She realizes there is time to live fully, to explore different elements of life beyond art, even though it is scary and she feels inadequate and out of sync with the world. This is all sort of a generalization of the book, but that’s it in a nutshell.

 

Mark read the beginning and said, “I hate that you are writing this story.” It was sort an outpouring of all my mourning, and that disturbed him.  I guess the book is my way of dealing with the big change. My personal dance therapy – a place to air my grievances regarding the art. It is the “what if” scenario. “What if” I never left New York at 30 to open a dance school? I was a purist – I could have been this character. “What if” I never did the “practical thing” and left the professional field, I wouldn’t have gotten married, had children, made money, ever gotten that formal education that helped me understand politics, religion and how the world works, etc. Projecting forward, I am writing my “what if” story – me on the road not taken (thank God).  As such, this story is real to me. This character is real to me. It’s my alter ego – me in a parallel universe. Me, unevolved.

 

I have often thought I should have chosen a different story to work on during this MFA experience, because at the very time I am wrestling with leaving dance, I am writing about it everyday, which is difficult, but my teachers like this book and think it has merit, so I’ve kept at it. But let me tell you, it’s been painful.

 

Anyway, while I am sorting through all my inner turmoil, Mark hasn’t displayed any remorse about leaving dance. He has been rather celebratory of it. Until now.

 

We have a dance studio/workout room built in our house. I was very excited about getting it complete, because I longed for the space to “find” myself again. The day they put up the wall-to-wall mirrors, I was giddy. Mark acted funny.

 

He said, “What were we thinking putting this in our home? It exactly like the studio, and it gives me the heebie geebies. I guess I have bad associations to the entire dance thing. I’m sorry I build it now.”

 

This comment disturbed me for days. I couldn’t stand that he has negative associations to dance, because, while I agree that it was time for us to begin a new chapter of our lives, I have beautiful memories of our past. In the end, we were frustrated, but that doesn’t discount 18 years of good FLEX memories. We had great friends, wonderful times, exciting moments. We learned a lot, grew as individuals, made a difference in the lives of many. Everything we have today can be attributed to those years of creative hard work. Certainly, we can, and should, remember our past with reverence. We should live with gratitude for all dance gave us – personally and monetarily.

 

When we sold FLEX, I wanted to take every picture off the walls and bring it with me. Mark insisted that the artwork went with the business. “Besides which, what would you do with them?” He said. “It’s not like we are going to hang pictures of dancers all around our log cabin.”

 

But I wanted them. In the end, we compromised. I took all the articles written about the dancers we trained, or our accomplishments and a few pictures featuring us. I seriously doubted the new owners wanted Hendry paraphernalia around. (and I was right. I later learned that those coveted pictures I left behind were all tossed in the dumpster – I was mortified)  It was difficult to leave behind the pictures of dancers I loved and had such special memories of, but I did. I figured they were not mine to keep – but they were images I would hold onto in my heart.   I packed up everything I could claim was a “personal” article and/or photo, even knowing I may never hang them again.

 

Mark winced and said, “These pictures are just going to hang around for years in an attic in that box. We are not going to have them in our house.”

 

But I knew I was going to have an office of my own, and the rule was that I could put anything in it I wanted. So my pat answer was always, “I’ll put this in my office.”

Mark made fun of me, because my office was going to be 12 foot square, but I’d amassed a warehouse of stuff I claimed I was going put there. My little room was turning into a shrine to my dance past and every interest I had. But that was my choice to make.

 

A staff member cried while I was packing the pictures and said, “You are taking FLEX history away. How can you do that?”

 

I pointed out that this stuff was Mark and Ginny’s history. Not really just FLEX history. True, “Mark and Ginny” had been FLEX up until that point, but FLEX would go on without us. I was taking those items that defined not just our business, but our romance too. I met my husband at FLEX. It was more than a business for us, it was our dating ground, then it became the field we fought and played on. It was the backdrop decorating our family life, our marriage, and more.

At least, that is how I saw it.

 

But after selling the business, for a while, FLEX was a four-letter word at our house. Missing dance was not something we discussed. It was as if by dredging it up, we might lose momentum and fail to follow through this brave decision to walk away. So, we pretended dance didn’t exist and we focused on all the nice things we had in the absence of FLEX. Family time, a beautiful home we could enjoy, a chance to pursue varied interests.

 

Mark was distracted by building his dream house. I think this kept his mind moving forward, out of the past. FLEX was something that he endured for more years than he could stand. He never wanted that school- he just participated to “get the girl”(I was a package deal). Now, it was as if he’d been let out of prison, and frankly, he didn’t want to be reminded of all those years he was contained. Period. So he built his house, enjoying his world of wood and manly pursuits. I wrote a book, which happened to keep me anchored in the past.

 

Then, a year and a half after selling the school, the dream log cabin was complete, and we moved in. When we came to that box of FLEX articles, I looked at him expectantly, wondering if it would go in the attic or somewhere else.

 

Mark said, “I think we should put these in the workout room. I know you’d like to unpack them and they’d fit there.” I was thrilled, but I didn’t say much. I didn’t know if it was a suggestion he was making to make me happy, or because he was having a change of heart regarding FLEX images. I was hoping it was both.

 

The truth is, I wanted our history out in the open. I wanted pictures of students we trained and cared about hanging around. I wanted memories of our years building that business on display. I wanted them as a reminder for my kids of where we came from, and to introduce new friends to an important side of us. And even more, I wanted the pictures of my husband, the dancer, in plain sight for me. I needed reminding that the guy I married did indeed exist, a dancer with passion who was committed to developing a great school. He loved dance, even if he claims now that he didn’t. I know. I was there. I love the new wood guy, but I loved the dancer too.

 

Then, one day, Mark started watching this show on TV called Dancelife. I was shocked to discover he taped every episode and he began watching it at night when I was falling asleep. He also wanted to see every dance movie that came out, seemingly fascinated with the skills portrayed, and he started watching music videos to see “where dance is going without us”. This was the Mark I lived with for years, as man always curious about the art with a fascination for how it evolved and was influenced by current styles.  

 

Next, he started dancing around the house. This sounds funny, but I am forever breaking out in a little dance move here and there. He rolls his eyes and makes fun of me. So, I began dancing in the closet (well not in a real closet, although my closet is almost big enough to dance in now, but in the workout room when he wasn’t around.) When I dance, I feel most like me. And I need that, whether I am doing it for a living or not. I left behind a dance studio, not dance per say. Once I put that in perspective, I found myself longing to dance again. I guess you could say, I’d given myself permission to follow my heart.

 

Recently, my husband came pas de burreing into a room. He did a little spin as he flicked on the light then turned up the thermostat. I blinked and said, “Are you dancing, Dear?”

He grinned sheepishly and said, “Yea. Just a little.”

Hummm………………

 

Mark has begun sharing his real feelings about dance. He says, “I hear music and it kills me. My first reaction is that I have to get this song because I’m imagining the great dance I could choreography to it in my mind. But then I remember that I will never have occasion to choreograph again in my life and I feel such a loss. I miss the creativity of dance. The music. The movement.”

 

Sometimes he says, “I can’t believe I will never teach dance again. I was so good at it.  I know so much about the art. The idea that I won’t employ that skill ever again feels wrong, like a sin. There are all these horrible hacks out there teaching dance poorly, and meanwhile here I am, so effective, doing nothing. Seems out of balance.”  (This is not him being conceited. He is an amazing teacher with an uncanny ability to impart knowledge. That is just a fact.)

 

So, after almost two years of denial, my husband has come to realize that in walking away from dance, something has been lost. In truth, something has been gained too, so I am not saying our leaving the art was a mistake. But moving forward means leaving a part of our true selves behind, and that is something to mourn. I hate to think Mark feels the same sadness I feel regarding the loss, but I must admit, it is nice to know that I am not the only one who wrestles with the fallout of our life change.

 

I told Mark the other day that we had to remember leaving dance was (and is) a choice. We can have dance in our life if we choose. It is as easy as saying yes to the teaching jobs that we still get calls for. Or setting up a dance class. Or for that mater, we could dive back into the field with a vengeance, with newfound energy, after the sabbatical we obviously needed. The only limitations people have in life are self-imposed, in my opinion . Life and the directions it travels, is always a choice. 

 

But Mark doesn’t want dance back. He just needs to express his feelings of loss and work through them. His reaction surfaced in a delayed fashion, but it has finally surfaced. I guess, he doesn’t have a book in the works to define what he is feeling, so he has to sort through it all internally, his mind racing as he watches dance on TV or listens to music.

 

At least now, we have come to a place where we both are ready to hang the mementos of dance in clear sight, images that make us smile wistfully. Sometimes FLEX memories make us sigh with bittersweet poignancy, but mostly, they remind us that we have lived a vivid, interesting life. There is nothing to regret. Not in the years we stayed. Not in our leaving either.

 

I think people are defined by their experiences. Truthfully, we don’t leave anything behind. We wrap all up all the emotions, the learning, the revelations, and take it with us, creating another level of being that becomes a part of the foundation that makes us unique. As such, Mark and I have not left dance. We are still dancers, just evolved, older dancers. I am a dancer that writes books and raises chickens and rides horses and slips down into my private studio several times a week to dance incognito, feeding my spirit what it craves. My husband is a dancer who drives a tractor, builds houses and weaves baskets, a man who dances in his head as he listens to music or watches performances on screen, even though he is wearing jeans and a flannel work shirt instead of his traditional sweatpants and baseball cap.

 

As long as we keep dance alive inside of us, the music in our soul, we’ve lost nothing. We both miss dance. That is real. But at long last, we are missing it together. And suddenly, I feel far less lonely facing my demons.

I keep getting requests from friends to see more of the house. I’d love to comply, but I doubt you’d find it ever so attractive when there are unpacked boxes and mayhem everywhere. Nevertheless, I slid some junk aside and took a few pictures all the same.  


This is my kitchen, or at least the view from the living room. I wanted to share the pix of where we eat, because it shows you the wonderful windows that look out onto the pasture on one side, and the creek on the other. This is where I have coffee and watch my llama everyday. Mark has talked about adding curtains, but I sort of hope he never gets around to it. I love the big open space looking out on the world.

The other picture is of the bar that Mark designed which wraps around the sink and kitchen area. All these logs were formerly young trees on the land. They’ve been debarked and sanded, then pieced together to make this design. The young workers that were helping Mark in this project said it was “weird” and that they thought all the logs should just be nailed on up and down (like a tiki bar). Mark assured them he knew what he wanted. He pointed out that this is a traditional Appalachian design, historically speaking. They said they’ve lived here all their lives and been building, and they “ain’t never seen noth’in like this. Lots of trouble for no purpose.” Satisfying the boss had to be purpose enough.

The top of the bar is a thick slab of raw wood that Mark had cut at the local sawmill from a huge tree. The counter opposite this is another huge, heavy wood slab. We had to mix this murky, thick liquid and pour it on top, then blow out all the bubbles to create a Lucite-like finish that gives it a look like glass. Tools days to dry. It is resistant to damage now. I love how it fills in all the cracks and natural indentations in the wood, so I can work with flour or sugar or whatever and it wipes off as if I was working on a granite counter top. Cool. We do have some granite in the kitchen too. But this wood slab was very cost effective, which was necessary, and it added a unique twist to the kitchen. As you can see, I have under the counter lights, and light up cabinets on top for my “pretty” stuff. Lighting does make a thing seem more dramatic. Works on dances on stage, why not in a house too?

In the end, Mark added the naturally shed deer antlers as supports and for artistic detail. Right away, they started jabbing us when we walked by – partially because we don’t have stools yet (waiting for Mark to make them). You just don’t want to complain about something like that when you know the “artist” is standing by, and he has put so much work into the project, but after the third shirt was torn, the issue had to come out. He moved the offending antler on the corner, and we learned to watch ourselves around that area. I believe Mark will change these antlers out eventually to something like a wood support, but first we will see if stools will keep us from brushing so close to the counter. Ha, the lengths one will go to make a place interesting.
   


As I mentioned before, my cat finds the entire house one big playground. I guess I do too.
Here is a view of our new rug and the wall behind it. Mark nailed up big roughsawn wood slabs, then covered all the joints with more of those thin natural debarked tree trunks. This adds texture and is a very original look. People come into the house and marvel at this treatment because no one has ever seen it before. It’s a Mark original. I wanted to show you this, because it ties in the bar and the mantel treatment. We have a theme going on here in case you didn’t notice. My brother said, “Hey, what is up with the star thing? Is that some kind of cowboy decor?” 
“Um, no, you big nincompoop. It’s a Christmas decoration.” 
My brother says, “With you two, one never knows.”
Since others may think the same, I thought I might mention here that the big tin stars are just a holiday thing. We will go back to art or plain walls after the holidays. Trust me, after owning a dance school for a million years, we wouldn’t be so queer as to use stars as our primary decorating theme. Eesh. 

 Now for the best room in the house. My bathroom!



Unfortunately, I can’t get it all in a shot, but it is very pretty. The cabinets have been made by friends of Mark who actually have been trying to get him to buy their business. They want to retire. We are not interested. If we open a business, we will do so from scratch. We are from the ground up sort of people. Mark may work with them to learn how to make their style of furniture, but then he wants to do his own thing. The pretty glass sinks, you may see, are above the counter, sort of reminiscent of the old washbowls. Love that. By the way, the antler basket holding hand towels was also made by Mark. He made it before we picked colors, and it just happened to be perfect. Life works out that way sometimes.

The shower, as you can see, is totally clear. It stands across from big windows to the outside. I felt quite conspicuous showering (on display) for the first month before he got around to putting up blinds. Granted, there is no one for 50 acres to see you, except birds and squirrels and the occasional deer, but nevertheless, it was hard to get use to.  The slate and stone in this shower was left to sit in the elements for months because it took so long to build the house, and it got discolored and there are imprints of plants like fossils that can not be removed now. The tile guy said, “Hey, you want to toss this stuff and get replacements?” We were like, “No way! We love the designs in the stone now.” You couldn’t buy that. It was another of those rare, cool strokes of luck.

The tub is stone with huge windows around so I can sit and soak and look out onto the world.  This is a jacuzzi tub, which is necessary for an old fart like me after shoveling horse droppings all day. Yep, my life is glamorous on one hand, but full of shit on the other. I guess it all balances out in the end.

I would show you our offices, but they are drowning in junk. Our dining room is just an empty room filled with tools. No fun to show you that. The downstairs is nice, but still unpacked and sans furniture too.  I found a way to stop losing my glasses however. I place them all over the house in the bowls I made of clay last spring or on this fancy-dancy deer head. Ha. The fact that I like this stupid thing means I actually use it.  
Amazing how easy it is to amuse me.


That is it for the pictorial of our world today. Mark taught me to download pictures from the camera to the computer yesterday. You are all in trouble now!
Have a good day.

I thought I’d share with you a family photo of a recent trip to Rock City.

Doesn’t Mark look happy?
Oops. That isn’t Mark, that is my Elf on the side. And by the way, doesn’t my youngest look intelligent? Ahem.

I’ll try again.

Here is my family at Rock City. We were pretty cold, thus the red noses – I was the only one bundled up as well as need be, but then, that is always the case. Sometimes I think they are all lizards – cold blooded or something. 


Now, my daughter looks drunk. A bit too much dipping into the coco, I guess. Denver was, unfortunately, working. Mark’s Sister, Dianne cohearsed a stranger to take the photo for us.
Mark looked at this picture and said, “What? Was it snowing outside? Gee whiz, I am totally white!”
I grinned.   
He snorted and said, “I’m look like an old man.”
“White is considered ‘distinguished’.” I pointed out, thinking that if George Clooney can get away with it, so can he.  The next day, he got a hair cut and trimmed his beard short. Guess he isn’t ready to go all “Grisly Adams” yet. Pity.

Between you and me, I like my men slightly vintage looking on the outside (with a fire in their belly, of course). I have never been one to swoon over Tom Cruise. Give me a smart, soulful fellow like Gene Hackman any day. Besides which, it is all about kind eyes, a sense of humor, and the intellectual property under the surface to me. It is the mind I fall in love with. The rest is just packaging used to hard-sell the product.

There is another fact to consider – I doubt there is a man on the planet that wouldn’t go gray early living with me. I must take responsibility for my portion in wearing a fellow out. Frankly, I am weird that way. I like my husband’s gray hair and his more mature size. It makes me feel he’s journeyed some distance through life, which means he has experience to draw upon when he looks at the world. Age and years of conflict and challenges, makes a person much more interesting in my opinion. Give’s them depth. Wisdom. Humor.

Today is my sister in law’s 50th birthday. Wow. She hates hitting this milestone. She has always lied about her age, and refuses to admit she is over 35. Unlike me, She doesn’t find men our age attractive. She finds maturity on many levels, totally off-putting. I am her opposite. I tend to round up my age, and I am forever telling people I am 50 (I am actually 47). I like growing older. I much prefer telling people my age and having them think, “wow, you look amazing for your age and you’ve done interesting things during your time on earth,” Rather than acting like I am 35 and them thinking, “Gee, you aren’t aging that well because I can see wrinkles.”

All I know is I can’t wait for my 50th birthday. I plan to celebrate big-time. In fact, I don’t plan to celebrate it on American soil at all. I want to be somewhere interesting. Perhaps Scotland, inspecting sheep now that I spin wool, or standing on a pyramid in Egypt. I think the tulips bloom in Holland in April. That would be fun to see. I could stick my finger in a dike. (No cracks from those of you with foul minds) Of course Africa and Alaska are highest on my exploration wish list. When I travel, I am not interested in visiting big cities that look like New York, only with my needing subtitles. The world is getting more and more generic, and in Europe, while the art and architecture is remarkable, the people are not so very different. They have cell phones and I-pods and McDonalds just like us. I think that will disappoint me.  I want to see nature, diverse culture, a mode of living that is far removed from what I understand. Paris would be romantic, but I’m guessing there are places far more brain stirring to visit. I want to see wigwams, and thatched huts, and eat things that are looking back at me. Of course, I wouldn’t mind being in America for the big 5 0 if I was going down the Grand Canyon in a raft. That is big on my desire list too.  I really must do that soon while I can manage to still look good in a wet T-shirt, ya know.  

For this big Birthday, we bought Dianne a gift certificate to the Campbell Folk school for $300. Her mother also bought her one for 150. This gives her plenty of credit to select a course or two she will enjoy. She loves the school and is fascinated with handcrafted arts. I figure the best gift of all is the gift of a remarkable experience. I also bought her a book called “Unbelievably Good Deals and Great Adventures that you Absolutely Can’t get unless you’re over 50.” She’ll probably hide the book. Ha. I think it is wonderful and I want to buy one myself – no reason not to begin planning early, ya know.

By he way, I also signed up for a weekend class in May while I was at the school. The class is only held once a year.Last year I was at the school when it was taking place and I was jealous of those attending. But I was sort of “forbidden” to consider it. I have since worn my husband down and received his blessing to follow my interest.

Ready for this. I’m taking Beekeeping!

Yep, I am going to learn how to manage a beehive. Mark’s blessing was quite a gift, because he has a huge fear of bees. When he was a child, he stuck a hand in a hive and was stung many times. Now, he becomes an  unmanly screaming mimi when a bee buzzes near. Always a funny sight, my big husband running wildly, flapping his arms whenever a little baby bee files near.   But, I understand it.

I figure I can set up my hives in the far corner of the land, so he won’t have to deal with the bees at all. And it is not like we don’t have bees around already. In spring, our blueberry bush looks absolutely alive because thousands of bees swarm around, pollinating it. They say you get up to 100 pounds of honey a year from a single hive. The course will teach me to set up and maintain a hive, give me hands on experience with the tools and equipment (and bees) I’ll be working with, and they even show us how to make beeswax candles and such. Fun! I will have to learn how to cook more with honey, I guess. Now, I can drown my friends in honey along with my blueberry jam (still giving the stuff away….) Sweet. I suppose I will get stung now and again, but I have learned that most things you love will sting you on occasion. If you turned you back on everything that hurt, life might be comfortable, but it would sure be bland.

I am also already signed up for a soap making weekend course in May, but that is OK. I turn my thesis in April 9th, so after that, I’ll have the time to explore other interests. And I’ll deserve the chance to do so. My birthday week, they are offering several classes I would love to take. Book arts (where you make books by hand in the manner of ancient bookmakers) Native American Tools and Culture (a course on Indian studies, which would be useful for my writing) and woodcarving where you make a flute – how cool would that be? But I’ve decided to wait. I might just want to sit out on a hammock and do squat this year for my birthday, considering how difficult working on my thesis has been. It is too soon to tell what I’ll want in April. But I must admit, when I am on the grounds of the school, I tend to want to sign up for all kinds of things regardless of my schedule. Dangerous place, that den of creative leisure. It beckons you like the singing sirens calling Ulysses into the rocks.   

But, in the meantime, I am dreaming of bees. I’ve always been a girl mighty interested in the birds and the bees, and wouldn’t ya know, it was only a matter of time before it manifested
into the literal version. Thanks to the chickens, I’ve got the birds part down pat. Now, I’ll add the bees. Ha. My life will be a tribute to the greatest theme of nature. Suits me, don’t ya agree?
 



    

Happy Holidays from the Hendrys. I thought I might post a picture of our Christmas Tree, as a sort of blog Christmas Card. This shows off our pretty mantel (which is just cuttings from our land that Mark arranged with some leaves he painted gold) and, most importantly, the picture of Santa my mom painted. My brother and his sons came for Christmas dinner, and we ended up sitting in front of the fire staring at this picture – critiquing it (in a positive spirit). For example, Sant is holding a little black book in front of his big book of Good Girls and Good boys list . My brother insists that this little black book is where Santa keeps the “Nasty Girls” list, and he’s making a call . . .  Humm…… My brother also commented that if that was supposed to be Santa’s house, he would have a fancier Christmas tree in the background. I called my Mom and “told on him”. My Mom, indignant, said she’ll spank him next time she sees him for daring to make cracks about her picture. Ha. Always loved to get him in trouble. Why stop now?

Getting this magnifient Christmas tree was a trial this year. We only put it up two days before the holdiay (sigh). Our former tree (fake) was very slim and somewhat short, which was necessary to fit in our very slim and somewhat small home.  We wanted to purchase a big 12 footer this year, knowing anything else would be dwarfed in our room with 26 foot ceilings. A real tree was 200 bucks, more than we would ever spend on a temporary decoration, no mater how grand. So we went shopping on the internet for a bargain. We ended up finding a fake tree in Canada (also for 200 – but it would be used for several years so that seemed OK. Excited to get a big tree, we bought it. It took a month to arrive, because as it turns out, it was sitting in a Fed Ex warehouse in Chatanoogo because they had the wrong delivery address. Drat. By the time we figure out what had happened, we wouldn’t get it by Christmas, and who wants a tree after the fact, so we ended up driving 1 1/2 hours to pick it up ourselves. We stopped to visit Rock City and the lovely holiday light display at the same time to make this chore less of a chore. That was nice.

Now, it was two days before Christmas and we had a tree in a box. Time to put it up. 
Turns out this bargain tree comes in a million pieces (260 to be exact). So we begin shaping each and every branch (cussing all the time) and putting it together with the assistance of a huge ladder, because you can’t reach the top by standing alone. It took about six hours to put together this monsterous tree! Then Mark put up lights, but even using every light we own, the tree looked empty. We were determined not to buy anything new this year because we are in a “no-more’stuff” mode, so he resorted to using the big lights we formerly used on our roof in Sarasota. They twinkle, and this looked “disneyesque”, as he hoped.  Pretty (and a practical us of what we already had). That took another 4 hours. The Christmas spirit was now dwindling, despite the holiday music, new badge of fudge I was cooking, and the kid’s jokes about a tree designed to be put together only by rocket scientists. Even “fun work” can become overkill as the hours tick away.  But we kept at it.

We finally got to putting up ornaments. We have a zillion, because we’ve collected them for the entire 18 years we’ve been together. When we were young and broke it was the only thing we could afford. Ha, when we were older and broke, it was also the only thing we could afford. We would take a trip somewhere, and since the trip was all the budget could handle, we couldn’t buy nice souvineres and such. Therefore, orniments became our traditional purchase to remind us of places we have been and experiences we’ve shared. We even used to sneak off at dance conventions when it involved travel, to spend a few moments alone to diffuse, and we would buy something for our tree – something to remind us of family and home in the midst of all the dance craziness. Now, I’m glad that was our habit. It is fun to recollect life’s interesting journey once each year.

Finally, the tree was complete. I don’t know if the picture does it justice, but it is striking. We will probably keep it up ’till Easter knowing how much work it will be to take it down. Ah well, that is the price of bargain shopping. We may opt for a real tree in the future, which smells nice (although, remember, I have no sense of smell so it makes no difference to me, and we always have the mantle for the fresh everygreen smell for everyone else) but I do find the extra mess of a dried real tree (considering we usually put it up early, so it has lots of time to fall apart) somewhat off-putting.

Here is an “arial view” of Hendry’s Christmas-land from Mark’s office.

This shows our pretty chandaliere too. You may note we have these grand looking lions on the shelves of the rock. Believe it or not, they are concrete yard orniments that were sitting in our backyard for about eight years. They tarnished with time, until they are all grey and brown and goldish, just like the rock in the fireplace. A perfect match. But they weight about a sixty pounds each. Mark was determined to wedge them up there, because he thought they would look stately, and we had these empty shelves that required something. 

We looked at them and decided that perhaps they looked elusive, glancing away from the center of the room. So we decide he should reverse them. Back up the ladder he went, sweating and swearing as he changed them to the opposite side. He said, “Is this better?” I barely had the heart to tell him that now I thought they seem to be staring at whoever was sitting on the couch. It looked “closed in”. But I had to be honest, and he agreed. So, he changed them again. I was almost certain he would have a heart attack, and kept thinking, “Who but Mark would die over getting a mantle just the way he wants it?” Anyway, he survived, and now we have these great guardian lions watching over us. I sure like the them. They remind me of our old garden and the New York Public library where I once spent lots of time. I sure love it when my environment is filled with things that have private meaning.

O.K. enough about my fireplace and holiday decorations. I think I will share a few more pictures. Here are some of Neva with our beloved chickens. This, you must agree, is a happy kid.

 
You can also see our scraggly tree for the birds. By the way, not a single bird has partaken of our lovely birdseed cookies. I guess they haven’t discovered the bounty yet. I told Mark it was time to find our bird feeders and hang them so we can begin inviting feathered guests into the yard. He sighed. I am forever asking if he can find this or that in the huge clump of unpacked boxes in the garage. Patience is a virtue. I am not the most virtuous gal, I guess.

Kent recieved a new professional level drum set for Christmas. This was a very coveted, patiently awaited gift. He knew he was getting it, because it was very costly, so we made it his Birthday and Christmas gift, and he worked all summer picking up worksites to put 500 of his own money towards it too. This happens to be a big step up from his beginner set, and he will never need anything better should he continue developing his talent. The set sounds amazing. He is very proud, and I must admit
, it’s nice to spend money on a gift that supports an interest you feel good about, rather than more video games. We build an alcove in his room that has a loft with a matress above it to help drown out the sound. Perfect. But between you and me, life sometimes feels as if I am in a chinese water torture chamber because my son is always tapping rhythms on something – the back of the car seat, the kitchen table, the fence, the dog, my shoulder….. ahhhhhh!

For Christmas, Neva got a little baby bunny of her own (which she can keep in her room) and … well . . .  video games. Mark and I did not exchange this year. We bought ourselves a TV for the bedroom a month ago and stated it would be our mutual Christmas present. We haven’t watched TV for two years, and frankly, I miss it alittle. But each night we crawl into bed and turn it on and I fall asleep within five minutes, so it is not like I am finding out what the world watches yet. Ah well. I’m trying to keep in the loop of our current American culture, but it is a loosing battle. I deserve to be a hermit living in a cabin in the woods – I embarase myself when any conversation comes up about what is “new” or “popular” in our media or pop culture.  Who’d ‘a thunk that would ever be me? Well, actually my kids (and teen dance students) have always made a pont of defining how queer and clueless I was about what was cool. But back then, I had them to keep me somewhat savvy. Now, I am sadly un-pop-culture-fied.
Here is the drum set. Just looks like drums, I guess, but apparently these cymbols are state of the art. Gee, great. That probably means they are louder. 

     


Since I’ve talked about my big dogs and all the trouble they get into, I thought I’d share a picture of them too. Obviously, I just cleared out my camera. There are other things I really want to share visually, but that involves being more organized than I’ve been at this point. I will make an effort to take pictures of things I write about in the future. If I only knew how to set the timer, I could even share a few pictures of my grungy self in the throws my country efforts too. I should figure that out, just to give ya a laugh at my own expense.

Today, I must buckle down and begin the reading to prepare for my upcoming (and last) residency at school. I have all the manuscripts of other students to read and critique. Now that I know everyone in the program, it is much more interesting. It’s nice to see their growth and development (and their projects) knowing each individual’s personality and goals.
I must also go with Mark to pick up six huge rolls of hay today, and we have to fix the bunny cage for my new angoras. I have some cooking to do. We have started a huge health kick today (doesn’t everybody the day after Christmas.) I am finally asserting myself and putting my husband on a diet. I swear, he is a walking heart attack, considering some very trying business stress he’s been under. Yep, it is a day for getting important things in order…. I am taking charge.

I did get one lovely pre-christmas gift from Mark (“pre” because we were not exchanging., and there is no breaking the rules) It is a book called 1001 Books You must Read before you Die.” Love it. The only problem is, I’m too busy to read it. Ha.
I said, “I suppose I’ll be embarrased when I read this and find out I haven’t read any of the books I’m supposed to have read (to be considered an intellectual.) Mark laughed and said, “I bet you’ve read more of those recommended books than you know.” Considering the workload I’ve had with school, he may be right. Anyway, I have every intention in June (when I graduate) to begin plowing through the books listed. I am planning to live to 100, which means I must read  18.88 books a year for the rest of my life to complete the list. That is definately a makeable put, don’t ya think? It’s only 1 1/2 books a month, leaving me lots of time for my own selection of reading material. Yep, I now have a new life goal. (Like I needed one more?)

Merry Christmas. I hope Santa was good to you. But remember, we really have to make our own dreams come true. Have faith, inner conviction, know your own heart, and enjoy the journey. Life is so exciting when you realize how much power you have to control your experience on this earth! Make everyday, every moment, every smile, every thought, count! And remember to keep what you love a priority. In the end, that is the path to happiness – the real McCoy.