Category Archives: Family matters

Today is a big day. I am featuring a guest blogger. My husband wishes to post something, and I am honored to provide him space. When I read it, my first thought was, “This is lovely….” my second thought was, “You gotta be kidding me, he can write too?” Shoot me.

Anyway, Mark wanted to share his feelings today and I’m hoping he enjoys the chance to express himself as much as I do. I’ve encouraged him to start a blog of his own, because frankly, I’d love some insider scoop on what goes on in that odd, masculine brain . . . and I think it putting your feelings on paper in any freewriting exercise helps define them – but that is the writing student talking.

Anyway, (gee, if I had sound, I would put a grand fanfare here to mark the occasion.) I am pleased to present my estemed guest blogger. Mark.


BACK HOME
Well, I am back in the Georgia Mountains, and happy to be here. I feel so blessed and loved, not only by my family, but by something more, that great equalizer whom watches over us all. I awoke this morning to see the mountains aglow, dappled in autumn amber and red, russets and rusts vibrantly speckle the hills, and the sky is so vivid a blue it is as if my vision is enhanced with a fierce focus that makes everything look more alive, clearer, than ever before. Such is the result of a cool, crisp, fall day. You see, the mountain view outside of our cabin is not ever the same. Like all of us, it is made up of essentially the same flesh and bones, but the atmosphere can change so drastically on any given day, that on a damp, foggy morn, the mountains can actually disappear, and we are floating in the clouds. Different times of the day and year change the colors and shadows, revealing unique views, each one giving me an appreciation for how different things can look, when colored by God’s magic paintbrush.

This is how my day begins, feeling ever amazed at the transformation my life has taken; overwhelmed with the feeling of being blessed. As most married couples know, getting a husband and wife on the same page, or to agree on any given idea, is not always easy. This is especially true for opinionated, strong-willed individuals like me and Ginny. I never cease to be grateful that not only did my wife and I feel finished with what we set out to accomplish in our life long careers at the same time, but we both were compelled to move to the mountains to live a simpler, rustic lifestyle. I am grateful that we both appreciate all the simple gifts that the country life has to offer and both cherish living in a community with solid core values. I marvel that we both love a rustic home, and that she loves that I love making homes, and furniture and art out of trees, as much as I love her making jellies from the berries she picks on the land, and omelets from our own chicken eggs.  All!
 
This is more remarkable for those who knew us when we were the more urban, fast-lane, city folks. It is a miracle I celebrate every day.  The most fortuitous result of this move is how our children have embraced our
new life. You see, although we made this life change for the entire family, Ginny and I made our choices based on our own heartfelt desires, as individuals and as a couple, and then as parents. Of course we believed it would be good for everyone, but we could only hope the kids would adjust, because they have their own minds and their own lives. We had the most concern for our future choices with this regard, but what a gift it is to see them now, so happy, and for so many reasons. Kent loves his new school, and enjoys playing in the school band, drumming six days a week. His private lessons teacher regards him as a prodigy, “the kind of student a teacher waits for once in a lifetime.” He has made so many new friends, who he believes like him for who he really is.

You see, sometimes our kids wondered if their dance friends only liked them because “Mark and Ginny” were their parents, and now they know they can make friends on their own, and lots of them.
Neva adores animals and always has, but now she actually owns them; horses, donkey, llama, chickens, rabbits, cats and dogs; she is in heaven. We see wildlife all around us, every day, and she is so excited to live so
close to the animals. Soccer was the sport for Neva this season, she really excellled thanks to her unbounded energy, and basketball and softball are next. She is very sporty and this life suits her to a “T”. I first noticed this when one of Neva’s friends invited her to their farm for a sleepover, and I got her back sans shoes. The parent commented that they woulda never know Neva hadn’t been raised on a farm, for the second she got out of the car; she kicked off her shoes and ran around bare feet, through the fields of animals, like she was a corn-fed country girl. She has fit in effortlessly, and she is just so happy here.

So that’s all we needed to work out, and it all has. That is why I feel so blessed, I cannot express my gratitude enough to the Great Spirit for guiding us to this life.

There is another side to all this; there is no light without the darkness to define it. The life we left behind is the other side. Many people we left behind cannot delight in our good fortune, nor do they wish us well. They feel
abandoned, and betrayed, because we chose to leave. We selfishly followed our hearts to go where we felt we needed to be, and for that it seems we are now avoided, mistrusted and/or maligned. I have always said that life is about learning, and I am learning some painful lessons with regards to a great many things, but as long as I can learn, I have no regrets. I have many fond memories of what we had at FLEX, as do so many others; those that love and hate us alike. I hope someday, all this ugliness and drama will fall away, so we can remember what a gift the time we shared was. I knew this would be a difficult transition for us all, I just never thought people could forget who we are and all we stood for so quickly. It is like we’d been gone for years, in just a few months. I guess maybe people thought, “if the Hendrys can just walk away from dance, just like that, I guess we didn’t really know them at all; maybe they never really cared about us”. I will never know why things turned out the way they did, but now, all we can do is move forward, and continue to do what we believe is right in our hearts.

In a recent visit to Flex Performing Arts, I told students they should value their own intuition. That I wish instinct was taught in school, it is so undervalued in our society, because I feel that to follow one’s desires is the
key to a happy and successful life.  I expressed my belief that what might be the right choice for them, may not be the right choice for the person next to them, but we each have an instinctive sense of what, where and who we need to be with and learn from.  I explained how important it is to trust ourselves, and so I must practice what I preach, even now in the face of unpleasantness. I know what I must do is focus on the blessings in our life; and our glass is so much more than half full, it would be offensive not to. I just wish people could join us in celebrating our good fortune, instead of blaming us for their misfortune. I believe we all deserve the good that comes into our lives. I truly do. And for the record, we always have cared about you and will never stop caring, believe it or not. And for that I am grateful, too.

I am a soccer mom impersonator. This is not to be confused with a true soccer mom. I believe, to be a true soccer mom, a woman must have some idea of what their child is doing on that field kicking that round thing back and forth. I don’t. I’m told to just sit in the bleachers and be quiet, because apparently, my commentary gives away my ignorance. When other Moms see their child kicking at the little round thing, they yell, “Pass it. Good shot!” I’m inclined to shout, “Point your foot, Dear.” (After all, if a girl is gonna kick her leg, I figure she would want to do so gracefully.)

 

Anyone who knows this family as the former first family of FLEX can appreciate how huge a step (regarding personal growth) this whole soccer thing is. It’s a leap of faith, and I’m not talking a “tour jete”, which comes much more natural to us dancers. Sports. I’m struggling to adapt. However, it isn’t easy, considering our history.

 

In August, I took my daughter to the sports and recreation department to sign her up for an activity. We looked over the list and I said, “Why not cheerleading?”

 

Neva looked at me, horrified, and said, “I could never be a cheerleader. You hate cheerleaders. Everyone knows that.”

 

I pointed out that “hate” is a pretty strong a word. Besides which, I don’t dislike cheerleaders, only cheerleading, and that was before. Mine wasn’t an all-inclusive prejudice. I only didn’t like cheerleading when it applied to my dancers. I happened to be a cheerleader myself when I was young, though I kept that personal fact to myself as the director of FLEX. True, I was not too keen on sports, gymnastics, Community Theater, band, etc., but only because these endeavors dragged the attention away from serious dance training, making it nearly impossible to get the attendance required to lead kids to dance success. However, my frowning down on cheerleading wasn’t a personal issue. I just worked so hard to keep the serious students focused that, over time, I developed a mild distain for all those obstacles that continued to make the quest difficult.  And I didn’t hate every recreational activity. I liked scouting – but that was because it teaches children community awareness and a broad spectrum of humanitarian pursuits, which helps them to be stronger individuals . . . , which leads to become more remarkable artists. You see, in the end, everything was judged by how it would influence the dance spectrum.

 

I told Neva that, considering she no longer dances, I now feel differently. Cheerleading might be fun for her. I happen to know that cheerleaders get to be center stage at ballgames, where the boys are, and that has its perks. It also is a wonderful outlet for a case of full-blown energy (which she has in abundance). Then, there is the fact that this activity takes some coordination and acrobatic skills, which she also has. All told, I thought it would probably suit her.

 

She picked soccer. Therefore, twice a week we go to rehearsals (“It’s a practice, Mom”, they always correct me) and she kicks the black and white round thing around, running about 50 miles during that hour. (Makes her a good candidate for cross-country running, I’m thinking, and that is a sport I understand.) Nevertheless, she is rather good at soccer I’m told, surprisingly enough.

 

Therefore, I’ve become the notorious cliché, – a soccer mom.  I have learned that I can yell if I use generic terms. It is safe to shout, “Go, Neva.” or “good shot,” if the round thing lands in the net thing. This is not appreciated when this happens on the opposite side of the field, because that means the other team is getting points. Oops.

 

I figure my understanding for the game is irrelevant. What is important is that I am there, being supportive. I have washed and ironed her costume (“It’s a uniform Mom. Duh.”) and I always have cold, icy waters for her breaks. I sit in the stands clapping, whistling, and cheering. But inside, I am looking at those beautiful young bodies on the field thinking what wonderful dancers they would make. I am admiring their energy, their long lean legs, the way they spin around to change directions. .  (it’s such a short step away from executing a chaine turn.) I look around at the happy faces of the parents, sad because in dance, all I saw was scowls and all I heard was complaints. Why are the parents so angry all the time at dance, but so inclined to laugh and enjoy sports for the sheer fun of it? I am, quite honestly, jealous of the light and friendly attitude of everyone participating. Maybe, I should have held my rehearsals outside. Perhaps it’s the open space, the green grass and blue sky, which keeps parent perspective in check.

 

Last night, when we were going to bed, I asked Mark how his day had been. He looked at me, sighed and said, “I am missing my students this week horribly. Don’t know why. It just hits me sometimes.”

 

I understood that completely.

 

For everything gained, something is lost. Some days, the loss feels more poignant than others. That, I guess, is a part of personal growth too.   I am very comfortable with the fact that my children no longer dance. I think they did so only because they were railroaded into it by nature of our family structure. And for them, dance was never just about dance. There were other issues muddying the water, such as the way it interfered with family time, or how it stretched the “unconditional love” issue, (it is a delicate thing to be both a devoted teacher and devoted parent, because it demands two opposing attitudes). Now, my kids can discover their true calling without influence. Dance just wasn’t there thing, but that doesn’t alleviate the fact that it was my thing. And when I see that the world is full of kids who don’t dance, it still leaves me unsettled. I’ve always claimed dance is good for the soul, a great way to developing discipline and personal integrity. I didn’t preach that because I owned a dance school and I was selling a product. I believed it. I believe it still. Guess that is why I would feel so much better if the soccer players would point their feet when they kick.

 

They say, “Keep your eye on the ball.” I think that is good advice, the kind I should take myself, for watching it is certain to make sitting through the game easier. That way, I’ll stop eyeballing all those kids, silently mourning the fact that they don’t dance.

 

One game, I saw a beautiful, young redhead girl walk by, giggling and flipping her hair in a punky way. I turned to my sister-in-law and said, “Wow, doesn’t that girl look exactly like Anna?”

 

She said, “Anna who?”

 

“Anna, our most beautiful dancer who was the prison guard in Mark’s fantastic behind bars dance.” I said, as if that was the dumbest question of all time.

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and said, “You see them everywhere, don’t you.”

 

I do. And even when I don’t, they are in my head. And my heart. . . And on the field . . . and in the grocery store . . . and at the football game . . . and the horseback riding arena . . . and mostly . . . in my dreams.

 

    Women can be really funny about their age. I don’t understand why, because the number has nothing at all to do with your physical, mental, or emotional state, other than fluctuating hormone levels. Yet, so many women feel as if admitting their age invites prejudice or makes them less appealing. Honestly, I know some older women who are shockingly beautiful (and definitely more interesting) while some younger ones can only be described as an embarrassment to the female race – how does defining the number of years we’ve been on the planet change that?

     I, for one, have never lied about my age – at least, not since I turned eighteen and could buy my own bottle of wine.

     Actually, I tend to round up when I refer to my age, something that drives Mark crazy. The other day someone made a comment on my agility and I said, “Not bad for a 50 year old, hun?”

    The woman said, “You’re not fifty!”

    Mark said, “No, she is NOT 50.”

   “Almost,” I quip.

    I figure 47 is pretty close and I was just making a point that I am up there in years. I’ve been 50 every since the day after I was 45. I’d been 45 for an entire 5 years – every since I passed the 40 mark, so it was time to head to the next round number.

    I think my rounding up annoys Mark because he is six or seven years younger than I am (depending on what month it is in the year- 6 ½ to be exact) and he feels the gap my falsehood creates makes it sound as if we are mismatched. But really, most people assume we are the same age. In fact, many people think I am younger than him, a fact that always makes him roll his eyes and sigh. (It is his gray, nothing more. I’d have it too if I didn’t help Mother Nature keep the red alive on occasion.) 

    I can’t imagine what would process a woman to lie about her age. I’d MUCH prefer to tell someone I’m 47 and have them think, “Wow, she looks great for her age. I’d never guess that.” I sure don’t want them thinking, “She’s only 40? I wouldn’t have guessed that. She sure didn’t preserve as well as that 47 year old redhead we met yesterday.”  The number you assign simply isn’t going to alter the impression people have of you. You will look as vivacious and pulled together as you look, the proof is in the pudding, not the number.

     My sister in law, Dianne, ALWAYS lies about her age. She will be 50 this Dec. She actually gets furious if we ever tell anyone the truth. (She doesn’t read my blog, so I don’t have to worry about her socking me for saying it here.) She believes she looks far better than the average 50 year old, so she wants to maintain this concept that she is a young 40 something. She doesn’t date much, but I think this is partially because she isn’t interested in any man over 42. Considering most men date younger woman as it is, that narrows her playing field. I myself hated that Mark was younger than I. Refused to date him for months because of it. It is all well and good to feel excited by someone younger and full of vitality – but if you are with them for the long term it creates pressure to “keep up”. I certainly don’t want my husband’s eyes to slip to the young 30 somethings then back to me and frown because his wife has wrinkles years before a girl his own age would’ve had them. True, women live longer than men, so marrying a younger guy may help us conveniently end this journey at roughly the same time, but other than that, it is a nuisance to be with a younger man.

     Personally, I think Dianne looks terrific for her age, but I think lots of 50 year olds look great nowadays. Our society supports middle-aged people dressing, behaving and pursuing younger interests, and that combined with technology such as skin and hair care, the focus on working out etc, means none of us look as ancient as our parents did at this age.  Some people let themselves go, true. But many, many don’t. Historically, that is no different than it always has been. Anyway, as such, even though she looks lovely, Dianne looks like most single 50-year-old woman today because I think the 42 year olds look more like they are 35 – saying you are 42 is inviting people to think you look old, all things being relative. After all, we all have the same advantages for preserving our façade nowadays – and this is not even taking into consideration all those 50 year olds that turn to cosmetic surgery for help. I won’t even discuss my feelings about that.(The big fat, egotistical cheaters.)

     I bring this all up for a purpose. My Mother in Law just had a birthday. She was supposed to be 79. As you know, Mark’s father is ill and he just celebrated what will be his final birthday, at 78. But in our discussions with his mother about where she should live when he is gone, and how much she will be capable of doing for herself, it was revealed that she is actually 84. She’s been lying about her age every since she was 18 and no one in her family ever knew! How strange is that? Long ago, she testified that she lied about her age making herself older so she could sign up for the war effort back when everyone wanted to do their part, When in fact, she was plenty mature when she left home – she was just creating an excuse for those awkward moments, like when her social security stated she was ready to collect years before she was supposed to qualify. She says now that she has always kept her true age a secret because she felt men (her husband) don’t like older woman. You’d think after 50 years of marriage you’d stop worrying about that. Guess not.

     I pointed out that her son married an older woman and he likes me plenty.

     She said that was a generational thing and that I was a rare case.

     Now, I can’t help but wonder if lying about your age is genetic, something the women of the Hendry family feel compelled to do. Or perhaps, Dianne sensed this shame about being mature from her upbringing, even if her mother never out and out said, “You must try to seem younger than you are or no one will like you.” Either way, lots of pieces of a puzzle have fallen into place this week regarding the Hendry woman and their egocentric attitudes regarding age. I just wish Dianne was happier with her age so she celebrates it. It is freeing to do so.

 

   I don’t mind growing old. I figure time has been good to me. It certainly has made me more well rounded and interesting. And I welcome all the perks that come with maturity – knowing yourself, having some degree of financial security from the accumulation of your years of work, and the release of pressure to be perfect. Our society puts an awful lot of focus on beauty and youth, and when you are young, you can’t help but knock yourself out to meet the bar. At 50, you are just happy to be healthy and you accept that you only have so much god-given resources to work with.

 

This month in Runner’s magazine, they featured dozens of Master’s winners, runners who are mature and have set impressive records. They have runners age 70-90 that have done things I couldn’t have done at 30 – and several of them didn’t even begin running until they were in their 50’s . It is so inspirational. They prove that age doesn’t have to stop you from leading an active, interesting life. It is all about mind-set and your willingness to work at staying healthy. I, for one, want to celebrate my age. I’m rather proud of what I have done in 47 years, and considering all that I have learned on route, I am excited about all I will do in the next 47 years – with far less self-doubt or flagging confidence to shadow the process.

      In my first 47 years, I was unclear of how much I could do – as if others had more talent or inner power than I. Now, I believe I have more talent and/or power than others, simply because “others” threw in the towel on dreaming long ago. “Wanting” made them uncomfortable and they stopped trusting their ability to create a certain sort of life because the effort to support themselves or raise a family or get a foothold on life simply wore them out. Sad, that.

    In the movie, Shawsank Redemption, they have this great line. It is about a man who lived in jail for many years. They called him “institutionalized.” He’d been contained so long that when he was given freedom, it made him so uncomfortable he killed himself. I never forgot that. More often than you know, I see people stuck in a life rut and think “Poor fool is institutionalized.” The powerful image stuck with me. 

     For my personal life philosophy, I’ve made a conscious decision not to compromise or accept limitations gracefully. I abhor ruts and I honestly believe that a person has a right – a need – to be excited to greet every day. We must each design a life that is filled with promise and adventure – whatever that may entail for the individual.         

       Not everyone believes in taking risks, but I do. You can’t hit a target if you don’t aim, and even if you miss, you gain practice in the trying. Throw enough darts, and you will eventually hit the bull’s-eye – and then, you not only have achieved a goal, but you’ve become such a good dart thrower that you can do it again and again and again.

   At least, this works for me.

 

  

OH MY GOD! *  $ # ! ## * . My cat just slipped into the screen while I was writing this blog and grabbed another baby chick from the cage. I chased him down the deck, but he got away down the mountain with it flapping in his mouth. I’m sure he’s crunching away at it now. I’m so furious. Gonna torture that cat when he comes back. Poor Silkie. I need to do something about this TODAY!  For all that I pretend life is perfect, as you can see, success is a constant trial and error thing. Damn, now I’ll feel badly all day. Damn cat.  Maybe if I wrap some small wire around the gage. Yea, that will do the trick. Damn cat.

  

A dear friend from afar (one of those special students from the time when FLEX was filled with true dancers . . . and true joy, has requested a few more pictures of our house in progress. It is hard to get a good picture inside when you have no electricity – but here are a few. Actually, this week the stone work has been done which is really exciting – makes me feel like we are creating something permanant – castle-like. Anyway, a few images to springboard one’s imagination.

This is the house from the forest (on a hill) out front. The midgets in front include my dad, brother, sister and nephew. Don’t let the classless troublemakers prejudice you against the architecture . . .At this point in time, the entire front and the base of the house is stoned with the round stone you see to the left. Slate covers the walkway. It is to die for. The arched doorway has key-stones and a rounded stone archway. Ah, nevermind. I’ll put a picture here one day soon rather than bother to describe it.


This is the outdoor fireplace on the huge porch. It also is awaiting a stone facade. The cubbies are for storing wood (very good thinking, Mark). You can see the logs overhead. They are 23 feet each and Mark did them himself. He also did this mantle, but the picture doesn’t do it justice. Like everything you see here today, it is all a work in progress. Building a house is like choreographing a dance. Takes clean-up to see what you’ve really done. 

This is the entryway. It leads from the front door to the main room. I added it to show off Mark’s logs. This will all be stoned and slated too, opening into a room with 25 foot ceilings. That fireplace has stone all the way to the top and will support another mantle made by yours truly. The doorway to the left is heaven. . . that is, my writing room. The logs in front are actually supports that will be attached to the stairway leading up to mark’s loft office (with the porch over the main entrance that you can see from the front). those stairs are made of half logs – very earthy and substantial. The stairway leads to the downstairs too, where we lock the children up tight. (evil grin)
A wonderful dining room is to the right, but I don’t have any pictures of that yet. Tough – you have to wait.

This is the area where our kitchen table will be. The kitchen sort of curves around this wall with a stoned sink and some see-through cabintry – the area is open so I can talk to others when cooking. The best part of this area is the view, but you can’t see it in a picture. Outside of these windows is the creek and beyond that, the pasture where our horses roam. It’s quite soothing.

That is it for now. I have taken more pictures, but I don’t know how to download them yet.
Anyway… enjoy, Jamie. Thank your lucky stars you are not still on scholarship. Imagine putting Christmas lights up on this roof? Eeek. But I must say, I miss having our favorite slave to keep me company while painting and/or picking up the worksite. Damn that growing up thing you all do…

Oh, and here is a picture from the back. It allows you to see how our bedroom opens onto a small private porch and the back porch too. Mark did all these logs that support the porch.  This is the view of the house that the ducks will have when we get around to making a pond where the springhead is. Actually, that is scheduled for a few weeks hence. The coyotes get this view too.

  
 

I was away without internet access this weekend, so I wrote a bit on my laptop in sections and can post it now. You may wish to read it in spurts, for it is long. But believe it or not, if I had more time, I could go into more vivid detail about all I’ve seen and felt. Ah, the frustrations of having a mind so full and fingers so sluggish – not to mention a clock that ticks too fast to fit everything you desire to accomplish in the day. Anyway, here goes:

Friday: 

This weekend is Mark’s Birthday. I decided to take him away – pry him out of his house-building drudgery for a short weekend of leisure. So, I made reservations and tried to keep them a surprise. However, about a week ago, he started complaining about how busy he was and how he couldn’t be absent from the worksite for even a moment or things would go wrong. He pointed out mistakes being made every time he came home for dinner or had to meet me for an hour in the afternoon. I started to panic, thinking he’d kill me when I told him I’d planned a weekend away at this crucial time in the building process. I stressed about it for days, then cracked and told him about my plans. I had prepaid the weekend so there was no canceling. Leaving the surprise until the last moment seemed as if I was inviting resentment, or at least, a load of bad temper to spoil everything. Didn’t want my romantic get-a-way to turn into an obligatory thing. I wanted it to be something special.

 

So, I spilled the beans. He didn’t react negatively – he actually seemed pleased, although he mentioned how hard it would be to go away without some painting being complete because the hardwood floors and ceiling were going in this week. He couldn’t bare the thought of them being accidentally stained with color before they were treated. No problem. I got up at 5:30 am and went with him to the site and painted away. By 11:00 he was satisfied that things were in order, so we could leave guilt free. That was important – you can’t relax when you are thinking of all you should be doing. Luckily, none of the workers come in on the weekend, except the stone mason, so Mark won’t miss anything important – just the chance to get ahead. I figure, he can take a weekend off for a birthday.

 

I’ve taken him to see the Biltmore Estates in Asheville. Staying at the Biltmore seemed a bit pricy at 500 bucks a night– as a couple we’ve never been that impressed with extravagance, we are more delighted with charm – so I picked a Victorian Bed and breakfast with all the trimmings instead. It seemed thematic.  We are staying in the Beaufort House in the Dogwood Cottage. This is a beautifully restored Victorian home, complete with vintage antiques, china and old world quaint decor. They serve a formal breakfast in a gorgeous dining room, china, linen, and all, at 8:30 AM. We were greeted today with a wine and cheese banquet, having missed the high tea at 4:00. I have to tell you, I’m loving the ambiance. My mind slips away and I am in one of my romance novels, seeing my heroine walk down the grand staircase, her face vibrant with enthusiasm for the adventure I will thrust her into with my keyboard. I find myself taking notes of the details around me, the trim on the chair rail, the throw pillows, the pictures and china patterns. It is like stepping into the past. Fun.

 

At this moment, I am sitting outside on a small wooden deck at a bistro table while Mark is getting a massage inside with a physical therapist/masseuse. This was a service offered by the Beaufort House that I couldn’t resist setting up in advance. I figure it will set the tone of this birthday weekend – time to relax. Mark’s body has been so beat up and sore lately, he can barely function. I think this, above all else, will make his birthday perfect. I had a special mocha cake delivered to the room and a bottle of wine, chocolates and special tea bath crystals with candles. These are the kinds of luxuries you can organize in a quaint bed and breakfast – such a far cry from the average hotels bustling with tourists down the street. And all of it comes to less than half the cost of the Biltmore, so the luxury comes without guilt. That makes everything even nicer.

 

Tonight we will go explore downtown – or maybe just have dinner somewhere. They have a jazz club here – that always makes my knees go week. Ashville is one of the top eleven art districts in America too, so I’m betting we will spend some time in the galleries. Tomorrow we will see the amazing Biltmore Estates, home of the Vanderbilt’s in the early 1900’s. It’s the closest you can get to a castle in America (the largest home ever built in this country), with some 288 rooms. I’ll talk more about that after I see it tomorrow. We are taking a special behind the scenes tour to learn about the construction and how things worked in the house – fun for Mark because he likes to build things and for me because I like to experience things, ask questions, so I know enough to write about them.       

 

This bed and breakfast has an amazing history too (I’ve been reading information provided about it out on the porch while sipping my wine). It was built in 1895 by the State Attorney General for his new young wife. It went through changes, turning into a boarding house in the 1970’s and believe it or not, Charlton Heston and his wife rented a room here for a year while they saved money to go to California – the guy had this crazy dream of becoming an actor. Ha. Maybe this place is lucky. Anyone really curious about this Bed and Breakfast can see it online. It’s a marvelous place to stay.

 

Ah – the massage is done. I can go inside now. I’m almost sorry… it is lovely out here and I could write much more . . . but I don’t think ignoring the birthday boy would earn me brownie points.

 

Later:

Mark was so relaxed after his massage; he looked like someone strung out. His eyes were all glassy and blood shot, his arms hanging limp at his sides as if it was too much effort to lift them. He said he felt great, but I think the combination of a glass of wine, a massage, and just being away made him crash. We went to an authentic pizza joint recommended by the masseuse, but didn’t eat much. We chose to return to the room and ended up laying in bed and watching a movie instead of going out – not a bad choice considering the feather quilts and pillows and the big double Jacuzzi hot tub in the room. Ha. Don’t think that is authentic Victorian décor (the hot tub) but it sure is welcome by someone all broken and beat up by trees, as Mark has been. Tomorrow we will go to the Biltmore. Can’t wait.

 

Morning:

We gather in the dining room for our complimentary breakfast (which is why this is a “bed and breakfast”, not a “bed and bagel” stop, I suppose). They had a full house, all 11 rooms were occupied by couples so 22 people sat around a huge Victorian table set with china and adorned with flowers. A few extra tables were set up about the perimeter and we sat at one of these. It provided a beautiful view of the bushes outside and the veranda (complete with an old fashion swing). We were served juice and coffee first while we shared conversation with other couples. Such interesting people choose to stay at a place like this, it makes conversation vivid and enjoyable. We especially connected with a couple our age who have been married just a year. They are building a house now (two lives merging into one requires a new start – what better way to go about it than by building a place of their own) and they came to Asheville to purchase a piece of art for an empty wall. They were lovely.

 Breakfast arrived. We were given a homemade banana muffin (mine are better) and eggs benedict (mine is also better) and a hot, crusty pear dumpling. (I never made one, but I would be hard pressed to do better. This was fantastic! Wow. You can bet, I’ll try it at home so next year, I can claim mine is better . . . maybe.) Breakfast made this stay truly special. I was fascinated by the woman who runs this establishment – she does all the cooking, organizing, checking in – etc. She was a marvel.

 

For years, Mark has said he would love to run a bed and breakfast. I’ve never been as keen on the idea. I love to cook, but only for the people I love. I certainly don’t want to do it on demand, as a job. And clean after others?. Thanks but no thanks. He had this romantic vision of us growing herbs in a garden and me cooking with them, people entering our lives to share our home and leaving feeling refreshed and inspired. But one man this morning was complaining about the creaky floors as if the bed and breakfast was unkempt because of the noise in the hall. I commented that when you stay in a one hundred year old Victorian home, the creaky floors are a part of the ambiance. They make it all authentic so really, they shouldn’t be offensive. The man rolled his eyes as if I was an ass. I looked at Mark and whispered, “That is why I would hate to run one of these establishments.” The point is, you can’t control the people who visit, and so much of the public is spoiled and impossible to please. If we haven’t learned that in our years of business, we’ve learned nothing.

 

With the lovely morning meal behind us, we took off for the Biltmore.

 

The Biltmore experience:

 

    George Vanderbilt’s great grandfather borrowed $500 to purchase a ferry to transport vegetables from the main land to Staten Island. He must have been a hard worker because in his lifetime, he grew his business to a net worth of 100 million. (And in today’s time that is worth 8 billion – not bad for any entrepreneur.) He got into shipping just when the timing was right. His son (George’s father) inherited that fortune and doubled it- got into the railroads just when the time was ripe.  I think that is where the work-ethic gene (and good timing) in this family fizzled out. George Vanderbilt, the youngest of 8 children, inherited 5 million from his father and 5 million from his grandfather. He devoted his life to spending it.

      George considered himself an intellectual. He read a great deal – in fact, he kept track of everything he read from the age of 12 on. It totaled about 3500 books when he died. That is two per week all his life. (I wasn’t much impressed. I may even have him beat – certainly, my MFA work has me pushing the numbers.) He traveled the world collecting art and antiques and studying architecture to plan his spectacular home in the <ST1laceName w:st=”on”>North Carolina</ST1laceName> <ST1laceType w:st=”on”>Mountains</ST1laceType>, patterned off the grand estates and castles in Europe. No one knows how much he spent, because he paid for things privately and kept no records, but I walked through the estates thinking he certainly didn’t have enough money with a measly 10 million (estimated worth today at 66 million) to build Biltmore. He must have had some investments too, because to build this house today would top 66 million for sure. Heck, Disney spent more than that on a theme park years ago. 

    It’s amazing – for that investment doesn’t include the art and antiques inside, which include Renoir oils and over 1600 prints by famed artists. Most of the furniture is 16^th century or older, and the tapestries are from the 14^th century. George acquired the table that Napoleon’s heart rested on for 5 days as they were doing an autopsy. Guess that is the kind of conversation piece you get for the man who has everything. Amazing. His library holds thousands of hand tooled leather books, antiques by their own right. The china and linens alone are worth a fortune.

    We walked through this monstrosity, amazed and slightly put off. What kind of person chooses to live this way? They say this home is George Vanderbilt’s contribution to the world. I couldn’t help but think that is a pretty dismal display of a life well lived. Considering the man’s resources and family power, it all seems grossly indulgent to me. I guess if he made the money through hard work or innovation I’d feel differently – or if he left some other significant mark on the world, the house would seem a just reward. As it was,  I imagined a spoiled rich kid who thinks he is important because he can buy things, traveling the world to acquire more and more, and probably not understanding or having empathy for any of the repressed people he encountered along those travels. In the lecture that accompanies the tour, they kept mentioning how kind the Vanderbilt’s were to their servants etc. but it didn’t change my gut feelings about the family much.   

    Biltmore, when it was built in 1890, (finished in 1895) was a marvel of modern convenience. All 288 rooms were wired for electric lights. Unfortunately, there were two systems being claimed as the route to the future, but George did not choose Edison’s. They had to upgrade to the correct system after all the electrical work was initially done. George Vanderbilt also had a marvelous new convenience that the country help they hired didn’t trust at all. Flush toilets. With some 45 bathrooms in the house, people had only to pull a chain to see their waste disappear. Amazing! The bathrooms were all identical, with plain, cream tile like something out of a prison, each sporting a claw foot tub and toilet.  Sinks hadn’t been invented yet. People still used a washbasin to wash their face and hands, calling for a servant to bring them a pitcher of warm water when desired. The running water in the home was all cold, so I suspect the servants were bringing in hot buckets of steaming water to add to the bath too – “convenience” is a relative term.  

      Downstairs they had an indoor pool, a workout room with all the newest equipment (a medicine ball, parallel bars and a rowing machine). We toured the kitchens complete with a pastry room, roasting room, vegetable storage and other divided rooms to combat the heat. The laundry rooms were fascinating too, with a new fangled device that spun the clothes to remove the water after things were washed and a huge drying room where sheets were hung on long poles and slid into a warm oven sort of device so they dried where they wouldn’t be seen.

     I especially loved our back stage tour where we saw unfinished rooms and the basement. I saw how coal was delivered for the three huge furnaces to heat the home, the air vents used to cool the upstairs, and the room devoted to electrical switches that controlled it all. We saw how the dumbwaiters worked and the small tubes set in the walls, which allowed staff to talk to each other from one level to another (like talking into a Dixie cup on a string when you were a kid).

    Many of the rooms have invisible doors that you can only see when you look very carefully, because paneling and pictures are on them so they blend into the walls. This allowed servants to move about unseen and reminded me of gothic horror movies. George built a bachelor’s wing, so the men could come in late and not disturb the female guests (hummmm, guess convenience has many faces). A few nudes are hung in the hallway here. Fascinating. I loved how, when you walk by the men’s smoking room by the grand dining hall, the smell of tobacco is still pungent (or so I was told). A hundred years later and the whiff of those men is still there, like the ghost of their leisure.

      There were some odd facts that jumped out at Mark and me, for example, the family never finished the music room on the main floor (until 1970). The room is in a significant place in the front entryway, yet it was boarded off and left. Why? We speculated that the wife caught George with a female maid there or something, so she demanded it be closed off, never used. It was such an unexplainable odd thing – and no one talks about “why” today. In fact, the tour contains many such mysteries that make you wonder about the people who lived there. I think the Vanderbilt’s keep their family secrets in the closet as well raised, affluent families do. For example, George died in 1914 from appendicitis; but his wife only lived in the home for two more years. When her daughter married, she claimed that there was only room for one woman in the house, (in 288 rooms?) so she moved away and never returned again. Sounds fishy to me, as if she was looking for an escape clause. Their daughter divorced ten years later and went to Europe, never to return either -another one bailing from the family home . . why?  Makes you think it may not have been the happy place history paints it to be.

    The home is still privately owned by the family, only it is now open to the public as part of a “for profit” enterprise. At 35.00 a ticket and 7.00 more for the audio lecture (which you must get to understand any of what you are seeing) and 15.00 for the behind the scenes tour (that makes it 57.00 per person) I imagine they are working towards recouping their investment. Takes time with a white elephant of this size.

   The grounds were spectacular – the gardens amazing. They have fishponds and mountain views, a waterfall and bass pond, some 17,000 acres to explore, much of it developed for ultimate beauty.  They have a winery, of course, a carriage house and stables – just about anything you can imagine.

   We had lunch in a posh restaurant on the grounds, actually it was built in what was formerly the stables. We ate in a refurbished stall on a table decked in linens and china, the windows and sky-high tile ceiling the original of this carriage house. I imagined a young stable boy sitting on a bucket right where our table was placed, flies swarming around his head, straw at his feet and horses whinnying nearby, hearing someone telling him a tall tale about how one day, a hundred years hence, people would pay 12.00 for a sandwich to sit and eat right there in the stables. That kid would laugh himself off the stood at such an absurd claim.

       All told, it was a fascinating trip. I so love history and writing about it, that walking through those halls has special meaning for me. I see the faces of the people who lived this way in my mind, both the privileged and those that served them, and the many guests or the children born into this lifestyle, imagining what they thought and felt as they went through their days. It’s like stepping back in time and being a fly on the wall.

       Mostly, I think the entire project was sad – doomed from the beginning. Had George Vanderbilt built his magnificent home 300 years prior, it would have been happily used by his family for years to come. Like the great castles in Scotland or mansions in England. I’m sure that was his intention, but as it was, Biltmore was only used about 40 years. Why? My theory is that it became obsolete almost as soon as it was complete. America went through such a huge leap of growth in the industrial revolution that this home, seeped in history and heritage, couldn’t keep up.

    Within twenty years, the automobile was invented. Oops, there goes the main use of the carriage house and stables – and I doubt the automobiles back then could make it up the mountain – thus alienating their rich guests from visiting and sticking the family with a passé mode of transport. All kinds of new things were invented from sinks and refrigerators, to water boilers and stoves. The phone and telegraph was invented – and suddenly the tubes in the walls (designed so staff could talk to each other) had to seem old fashion – George’s original intention of building the most progressive home ever became the exact opposite. Probably a dismal disappointment to him and his wife.

     Considering the impact of the great industrial revolution, you can see that this monstrosity of a home, designed in the fashion of the wealthy family ancestry homes of Europe, just didn’t fit in to the new world’s lifestyle. Even the servants required to run the home would have had other options for employment. They went to factories, or to war – got married and had their own businesses as the world suddenly offered opportunity to the common man. Women could suddenly go out in public. They could vote. They didn’t have to fold sheets and be invisible in the great house anymore, protected from the world. All people slowly became free of the strict Victorian policies and attitudes. Once that ball started rolling, it didn’t take long (imagine the roaring 20’s a few short years after this ridged old world attitude existed)  Class distinction was not as powerful as it once was and everyone learned they had rights- not just the rich. And they wanted to exercise them.

   I think Biltmore was simply a home built too late for it to thrive in the manner it was intended.

   But that doesn’t mean it isn’t impressive and a marvel to witness. I loved every minute of the tours and the hours we spent leisurely walking the grounds. We speculated about the personal lives of those that walked this plat of earth before us, the fights they had over the original construction, the way George must have poured over plans and designs as he built his dream home. The Vanderbilt’s must have showed off at first, inviting everyone who was anyone to visit, then I bet they felt trapped by it later. I wonder how the future generations feel looking at it all today – or how his father and grandfather felt the first time they looked at the opulence, knowing their boy never worked as they did but spent so liberally. Bet they didn’t like it much, and this probably caused stress between son and father.

      For us, seeing Biltmore was not just about seeing Biltmore – it was imagining the stories behind those walls. Fun!  

     The family still owns the home, and they certainly have family pride, evident in how they present it all to the public. The grandson’s voice introduces the home on the audio tape, making it all sound so romantic and whimsical, as if George Vanderbilt left this terrific accomplishment behind for all of mankind. But knowing history as I do, and having studied America’s culture from 1850 and on, helping me understand the realities of life back then, I came away with a very different feeling from the tour than intended by the presentation. On the surface it is beautiful and amazing – a virtual museum of artifacts and living history. But underneath –the reality of the project, ah, it makes a history buff/imaginative girl’s head spin with the possibilities.

   Word has it that in the depression they charged a dollar to see the mansion. But it was a huge drain of the family resources, losing 250 thousand dollars a year just for upkeep (in today’s dollars, just imagine how much that was). It fell to disrepair, unused, but in the 1970’s it underwent a huge restoration. The family actually had companies make copies of the original wallpaper and fabrics so what you see today is the original mansion. They planned to turn it into a tourist attraction – which worked beautifully. There were busses and busses of people being carried from the parking lots to the house like it was Disneyland or something. We were a bit off-put by the crowds, but at least when we walked the grounds we found some solace and could imagine that was what it was liked a hundred years ago for guests.  

     For all that Biltmore is a successful tourist attraction today, I imagine a wealthy great grandson’s dilemma now of making a business out of this family land just to keep it from draining them dry. He is wrestling with state taxes and all kinds of financial red tape that George Vanderbilt never had to deal with. This man probably has a very different work ethic, an empire of investments to run, much like his ancestors that ran the shipping empire to build the family fortune. The day’s of inheriting wealth and being a gentleman of leisure (those that worked were considered a poor excuse for a gentleman in the pre-Victorian era and many a family’s estates were lost through the excess gambling, drinking, and spending done in the name of gentleman’s leisure in Europe) are gone. 

      Business rules the world now and success in business is admired foremost, even in the world of wealth and privilege. As such, a home like Biltmore is an investment, and in the tradition of the 21^st century American way, the family has found a way to make it profitable.

    Historically, Biltmore is a gift to the world. George intended something different, for sure, but he left a legacy in a historical home that, due to it being made of stone, copper and marble, has permance, not to mention a collection of authentic artifacts preserved for generations to come. Anyone with a healthy bank account balance can enjoy them… um…. not to be confused with state run museums or libraries that are a true gift to the world, available to all.  It all goes to show something good lies in everything . . . you just have to be patient until time reveals the true value to mankind. And perhaps, more time must go by before the true legacy of the Biltmore estates is revealed. Until then, it is great fun for a visit if you can afford it.

 

In closing:
I need to sum up this weekend, so I will end by just saying we spent the late afternoon browsing through art galleries (I’m becoming ever-more convinced we could run one of these successfully, so I look at them through different eyes – summing up the business potential, artistic integrity and such.) Then, we were so tired and still full from our stable lunch that we decided to have a picnic in our room rather than go out. We stopped at this amazing fresh market deli/grocer and bought apples and gouda cheese, crusty bread, shrimp, a chicken, watermelon and crab and artichoke dip and took it back to the room, where we ate in bed watching another movie (I swear, we never watch TV – but it felt decadent and lovely for some reason to lay around – totally lazy). We polished off the rest of the wine and Mark’s cake. Indulgence seemed the theme of the day.

 

The next morning we had another wonderful Victorian breakfast with Cranberry muffins, fruit salad and blueberry waffles. Yum. We then went to a huge art festival at the convention center to browse the high-end craftsmen and their goods. We were lucky it happened on our weekend in town, for this is a well-known exhibit in North Carolina – one we have often said would be nice to attend. We talked to a woman who makes quilts that we have admired at other events and saw some other unique work. Fun. Then, we went home to gather the family for the real birthday celebration. We went to dinner and saw a movie, “My Super ex-girlfriend”. Ha. Guess we reached our intellectual quota for the weekend, so a mindless movie was all we could face. Kids liked it best.

 

And now . . . I am home. Behind on my work (the theme of my life) and hustling to get on top of things. But somehow, stepping away, removing yourself from your life for a short while, gives you great steam to tackle it once again. So now, without excuses – I must get to it.   

Last night, my husband came home from his first real estate school class complaining. He has reading, you see, and some homework. Granted, he chose an accredited school that is quite involved. If he is five minutes late, they lock the door and he has to pay 25 bucks to retake the class on-line. This is the sort of real estate class that provides a foundation for being a broker and/or appraiser too, so it isn’t one of those help-you-study-just-to-assist-you-in-passing-the-test classes. This one is more information based, with a reputation that employers look for, for those with long-term, serious plans in the field.

 

Nevertheless, I looked at him drolly and said, “Homework? And you’re expecting empathy from me?”

 

He sniffed and said, “I’m NOT in a master’s program. This is different. I don’t have time for homework.”

 

Ha, the only thing “different” is our personalities. He likes to learn as he goes, and he doesn’t have the fortitude or the patience to learn anything in a traditional way. He gets a smidgen of information, and he runs with it. I tend to feel a smidgen of information only wets my appetite. I’m certainly not comfortable “running” with it.  If anything, I’m someone whom the more she knows, the more she discovers she doesn’t know. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and as the outer layers of the onion are unpeeled, I’m compelled to keep stripping away to see what is underneath. Most things are more complex than they seem on the surface, and digging in to unveil the mystery makes me feel a deeper connection with the subject. My husband, on the other hand, would just swallow the entire onion in one ungraceful bite, burp, then say, “Taste’s good, give me another onion.. . or how about a kumquat?”

 

I told him we could do our reading together at night, and even do some homework side by side. He snarled.

 

I know what he is planning. He will do the same thing he did when we went to college together. I didn’t enroll until I was 35. I was very intent on becoming formally educated. He waited about a year, then decided to follow suit, claiming it wasn’t healthy for one-half of a team to have a life alerting experience without the other participating. If you aren’t careful, a couple can grow apart when individual growth upsets the balance between them. I didn’t agree totally, but I understood his theory, and it’s nice to think your spouse wants to share in an experience that is meaningful to you. Therefore, he enrolled – and began taking some of the same BA classes I was in. As I poured through the readings and assignments, he would maybe glance at the book.   He is a good faker – but beyond that – he has a quick mind, like one of those computers in futuristic movies that is programmed to teach itself. It learns on top of what it learns, like some kind of pyramid intellectual system. When we had tests, don’t ya know, he often whipped my butt (though my academic papers couldn’t be topped). His ease with making the grade through a surface attention span annoyed the dickens out of me. Finally, I refused to let him take any of the classes I was taking. He wasn’t as enthusiastic as I was about college, and even though he came in with some preliminary classes to match those I already had taken, he enrolled in fewer classes, so his progress was a bit slower. I graduated over a year before him, and then, he just discontinued. He claimed he had gotten all he wanted and needed from college. And I think that is true. He certainly learned a great deal, and doesn’t feel anything intellectually lacking in his world. And here I am, still murking around in books and academia. It isn’t that one of us is less intellectual, or smarter, or more devoted to personal growth than the other. We are just different.

 

Anyway, I suspect he will glance through the real estate books only a few times, and still end up the star student. And when he completes the course, he’ll talk to people in the business, use his instinct, and before you know it, he will be up and running, giving advice to others who by all measurable standards, should be giving advice to him. 

 

In the meantime, he will grumble, sigh, and complain because of the damn inconvenience regarding what is involved in learning the basics. But, like it or not, he’ll do what it takes. As far as I’m concerned, that’s what counts. The “doing” is vital, even though doing is often no fun. Fun lurks in the “having done”. Like dieting. Giving up food is a drag, but being thin is a pleasure. It’s all a matter of faith –  trusting you are capable of following through to create the life you desire.    

 

All journeys begin one-step at a time. At a leisurely walk, or a dead run. Regardless of speed or what shoes you are wearing, whether you pick a steep upward slope to tread, or a simple straight paved road that won’t make you break a sweat. A step, is a step, is a step.

I think, today, I will talk a bit about our new house. I will post a few pictures, but they don’t do it justice. And it is a work in progress, so you have to use your imagination a bit.

It’s still in the throes of construction. It doesn’t look as if we’ll get in until September, but when something is special, it’s worth the wait, so I am not complaining.  This house will have taken us over a year to build. It has been stressful living in the cramped confinement of the cabin, and our lives have been in this transitional place longer than most people could stand. But we deal with it because we know, masterpieces take time. (The house, and our life, qualifies as a masterpiece, I believe.)

 

To say this is our “dream house” is not an understatement. It’s everything I’ve dared imagine – and if you know me, you know I have a vivid imagination without limits. Frankly, it’s out of my comfort zone as far as a humble abode could be. I never imagined I’d live in something so grand or so perfect for our personalities.

 

 I think that is the key. Not that a place must be extravagant, but it must fit the residents. This home is a work of art and a work of nature all rolled into one inspirational package. I’ve never considered myself a homebody, but I don’t doubt, once in, I’ll become one. Most importantly, this project has made Mark happy. He is going crazy with the work, but he is, at the same time, filled with satisfaction and joy. He has always wanted to design his own home – this particular rustic style of home. And while we don’t have unlimited resources, he has enough money to work with to make his vision a reality. Actually, our limits force him to be creative and resourceful, and he responds well to that kind of challenge. Most of the best things we’ve done in our lives have been in response to our wanting more than our resources provided. We are masters at finding ways to accomplish something without writing a big check (we never had the capability of dropping cash like that). It’s not a bad thing (character building) to have to think out of the box.  

 

For example, Mark wanted huge log pillars and detail in this home. But the size and quality of the logs he needed are bought by builders from out west and shipped in – which costs about $1000 a log (not to mention shipping and time factors etc). He wanted about 80 such logs in this house. So he learned to do them himself. He walked the property with the builder and together, they picked out trees that had the size, shape and wood they wanted. They chopped them down and carted them with the tractor to Mark’s workshop. He then debarked them with a chainsaw and began the laborious process of sanding them. Later, they were brought back to the house and since they weigh about 1000 pounds each, it took six men and prop devices to wedge them into place – in a few cases, they need a crane. But Mark got his logs. In fact, people who have worked on the house have said that they know builders working on multimillion dollar homes that would go crazy to buy some of Mark’s logs. Does he want to start producing them?  If we ever get cash strapped, he has this option, not that I’d let him do that for a living.

 

The first day that Mark began a log, he came home so broken and beat I thought the project would kill him. Really. Lifting that heavy chainsaw and carving up these huge logs takes muscle. He’s out of shape, has arthritis in his hips and he was so exhausted and spent, I was certain he’d taken on too much. But he slept it off and the next day returned to the task. He is determined that way. The man always gets what he wants simply because he will endure whatever it takes to get it. That is an admirable trait, except when you have visions of widowhood looming each time he steps out the door.  At times, he would prepare a log, and it would turn up a few feet short – all that work for nothing. Broke my heart. Slowly but surely, the logs took their place in the house. They are the pillars that hold up the huge back porch, and they create a majestic entrance in the front too. Inside, they hold up the staircase and run along the 25 foot peeked ceiling. Amazing.

 

When I walk through the construction site, inspecting progress, I always stop to caress a log with my fingers. I can’t describe how much I love these damn logs. My daughter chuckles when she is with me. The other day, she said, “You sure adore those logs –of course, you would. It’s so very you.” I said, “It isn’t very me. It is very dad.” And she smiled and said, “That’s what I mean. You love that your house is made of the essence of who and what you love.”

Ha. She is as romantic and corny as I am. But she is right. I do.

 

When we sold our home in Florida, I cried. I walked through the empty rooms and balled. Mark didn’t understand.

     He said, “It’s just a house, and I’m gonna build you a better one in the mountains, where you’ve always wanted to live. Your next house will have all the things you want, like a big closet and a good kitchen.”

     I tried to explain that it wasn’t the house I cared about, but what the house represented. Our kids were born there, and he had turned the house from a cracker box, average sort of home into a beautiful, stylish representation of us. And the garden! I looked at his pond, his 200 orchids hanging in the trees – all his gorgeous landscaping and I wept.  I said, “I don’t want to give up all this beauty. I love waking up and looking out the doors at this Garden of Eden, you’ve created.” 

     He shook his head and said, “You will have 50 acres of Eden. Trust me. You won’t miss this house.”  (I do miss the house – but not for reasons I can explain.)

 

    Anyway, our new home is remarkable, because it’s original and born of my husband’s vision. Mark spent months pouring through log home magazines to determine what he wanted. He cut out pictures and talked to builders about what was possible with our budget. Then, when he couldn’t afford something, he shopped and made compromises until he could get something as close to perfection as possible. For example, we needed a front door. Mark wanted something stately, so he looked everywhere. Night after night, he did research, comparing prices. Eventually, he found an amazing door that he could get shipped from Bali. It was only two grand with a thousand dollars for shipping. Two months later, the door arrives. It’s massive, made of this gorgeous African hardwood. It has a curved shape (It looks like a door from a Hobbit house in the movie The Lord of the Rings). Windows frame the perimeter, covered with iron detail. It’s rustic, but stately – (this home isn’t a cabin, it is just a rustic style home so it combines rustic detail with more classic design.) The company delivering the door wouldn’t drive in the gravel road to take it to the house, because it’s simply too big and heavy, and they didn’t want to be responsible for what happened. So Mark, the builder and 3 laborers lifted it into a truck and drove two miles an hour, screaming and panicking all the way, to bring it to the house. It took five guys to set it into place.   But, let me tell you, we have a terrific door to show for the trouble.

    When the electrician came to the house, he said, “Man, how much money do these people have? That door must have cost 15 grand!”

      The builder grinned and said, “I think it was only 8 grand. This guy knows how to find bargains.”

      Mark smiled but kept the real price to himself.  Not many people would go to all that trouble over a door. For Mark, “trouble” is simply the price of satisfaction.   

      He has done the same kind of thing when it comes to light fixtures, fireplaces, cabinets, etc… He works magic, finding amazing bargains, and he rolling up his sleeves to dig in to do work himself when he must. He is doing half the contracting, the logs, some of the stonework, landscaping, and lots and lots of creative planning.

     

    I guess it would help if I described the basic house plan. We’re building a 5000 square foot home (Our last home in Florida was only 1700 Sq feet, so you can imagine how excited I am with the space). It has four bedrooms, a grand (living) room, a kitchen connected to a breakfast nook, a family room downstairs, a big private writing office for me, a loft office for Mark attached to a craft room for his junk, a laundry room, dining room, a room for a pool table (grin), a huge workout room (yippee) and four bathrooms. We have a big (clean) garage and steps going upstairs to a large storage attic. We have lots of holiday decorations, camping equipment, etc, so this is a particular luxury. This home has a huge screened in deck, bigger and more lovely than the one we created in Florida, with a large stone outdoor fireplace and 25 foot cathedral ceiling with recessed lighting and fans. The mantel is a huge half cedar log that Mark sanded. He carved around the knots and burls to add detail, and the piece is filled with wormholes and spaulted designs in the wood. Beautiful. We also have two sets of French doors from the master bedroom that leads out onto another private deck (held up by Mark’s logs). Mark also has a large private deck off of his loft office. I think he imagines he’s going to be like the king lording it over the peasants in that big space in the sky over us all. That works for me – but if it is HIS space and we can’t go up there as he claims, he can clean it. Ha. Bet he invites me in before the first week is out.

 

We have four fireplaces in the house, a huge traditional one in the great room that is stoned 25 feet to the ceiling. We have collected geodes and unique stones to embed in the stonework to make it a conversation piece.  Lights have been positioned to showcase this focal point. In this room hangs a 5-foot wide massive iron chandelier. We also have a fireplace in the downstairs family room. This is where we will have a big TV and a bar and what have you for casual living. (We always keep the primary room sans TV, so it is used for adult pursuits or the family when they are up for reading, talking or anything other than the boob tube. We are not big TV watchers in this family.)  We also have a lovely iron stove fireplace in the master bedroom. It has a design in the structure so that when it is lit, it casts a subtle leaf pattern on the walls. This one has a remote control so we can switch it off when we go to sleep. We are lazy, I guess.

 

Like any log cabin, the inside of the outer walls are log. But we have some drywall inside too so the home isn’t pure cabin. It will be our home for many years, and we didn’t want it to be too hard-core cabin-ish, which would prohibit decor change or evolution.

 

We got rid of most of our furniture from Florida, other than a leather couch. So this house has no furniture. We are not planning to buy much. Mark plans to build it all. He is taking a rustic furniture making class in August and I suppose after that, the sky is the limit. We have picked out some pretty amazing pieces that he intends to reproduce. We will hustle to get this done, partly because we have to live in it and need furniture, but also because our builder thinks we are candidates for a log home magazine spread (He’s done several before with homes like this that stand out), and that would be a fun way to show off Mark’s final project. Nice to have for prosperity.

 

I have a huge closet – the size of my daughters former bedroom – all my own. This is such a kick. I will actually be able to see my clothes. I have a disgustingly massive wardrobe, and if I can see everything, I tend to be a creative dresser that puts things together in fun, new ways. I will be the best-dressed gal in the sticks, let me tell ya. Mark has his own big closet that he can keep as messy as he wants without hearing me whine.     

Our master bathroom features a huge tub with hot tub jets. Mark will actually fit into it (and he could even invite friends if he wishes, it is so big.) I had to lay down in it before I would give it a seal of approval, because I like to read in the tub, and I require a comfortable backrest sort of design. I think nothing of laying in a tub in a store. I’m grossly inappropriate that way.

 

This house is really Mark’s project entirely. He had done an amazing job. The things I wanted for this house, I made clear. I wanted lights. Lots and lots of lights. We have canned lights everywhere. The electrician said, “No one needs this much light.” But Mark said, “It is all my wife asked for. She’s gonna get it.” I have tons of light in the kitchen and there are recessed lights everywhere. What can I say? I don’t see as well as I did when I was younger, and I read everywhere – in bed, the bath, on the porch, in every room, you name it. I also like mood lighting. It is important to have illuminating options depending on your mood (wink).

 

I also wanted lots of counter space in the kitchen. Got it. I have a spiffy new stove with five burners and two ovens – but it isn’t as large as I wanted. In the end, we had to make compromises, and while I would have loved to spend a fortune on my kitchen, I can do fine with anything. I tried to be reasonable in this regard – but I did press for a good cooking set-up. Only fair considering the time I spend in there.

 

Downstairs, the famiy room open onto a large stone patio where we have the hot tub and plan to string some hammocks on the support logs. My kids each have a big bedroom. Kent has a drum room built into his with a loft over it to dull sound (grin). We have huge windows everywhere, which look out onto the most beautiful wilderness you can imagine. The best part of this house is the setting. When you are on the porch, all you hear is wind in the trees and birds. It is remote, like heaven. 50 feet from our porches is a gurgling creek. We plan to clean out all the underbrush after the house is complete so you can see it better, but this must wait until all inspections are complete. Can’t mess with Mother Nature without permission.  We also have two springheads just beyond the house, and Mark plans to dig a big pond there, with an island for my future ducks to nest on. (We will have creek front property and a pond stocked with ducks and fish. And I want a SWAN. Yippee.) All around the house is forest, and if you walk down the drive, you come to the field where the horses graze. We plan to build walking trails with benches and such, so walking the property is a easy and soulful. Mark will also put stairs to, and places to sit, by the creek.  In the long term, we have some exciting possibilities, which include a gazebo by the creek, a tree house attached to our home by a bridge from the deck, and maybe a guesthouse nestled in the woods nearby for friends. Of course, it all depends on money and where life takes us. The best thing is, 50 acres allows you 50 thousand possibilities. It is fun to plan, even if some of our ideas are far-fetched.

 

I am pleased with the house, but I must confess, it isn’t what I wanted when we moved here. We had agreed to live simply and to allocate our resources to things other than an extravagant home. Previously, it seemed our life was just an endless struggle for “stuff” and to create a beautiful home – but we were so busy working we never enjoyed any of it.  I wanted different things this time – to travel the world, have experiences rather than things, buy toys to play with. I imagined us living a more conservative lifestyle so we had money to spend in other ways.  I especially wanted a boat – we even looked at them last summer – but now that will have to wait. I got the horses, so it isn’t as if I didn’t get something to play with. 

 

The house we planned to build originally was half the cost of this one. When Mark is on a creative roll, nothing stops him, and things escalated. I saw it happening, but I kept quiet. I figure we will still live simply (now we will have to) but in total elegance. If I want to travel and have a boat, I’ll just have to sell a book and generate income for those additional things. Or open a business (now you know why my mind shifts to those possibilities. It is to keep up with my man’s lifestyle tastes).

 

What is most important is not where you live or what you have, but the happiness factor for those involved. I am happy anywhere and with anything. But this house is what Mark needed to feel satisfied. And I get the benefit too. So I am thrilled with it. And frankly, it is a fantastic investment too. Our land’s value has already increased a great deal. Someday, when we decide to bravely shift into a new chapter of living, we will sell this and I’LL TAKE A TWO-YEAR TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, no compromises. I won’t have kids then, so it could happen.

 

In the meantime, I can live with staying home – since I can’t afford to go anywhere –after all, the home is a luxurious work of art. (Ha – do I sound spoiled or what?)

 

Now, I just marvel at watching this incredible project take shape. I’ve lost my husband to the search for perfect tile and stone, fixtures and trims, and that is lonely. I thought, this, our first year without FLEX would be a wild celebration of leisure and rekindling our relationship. We needed time to heal the last few years of turmoil and stress that our business created. Instead, it has been a ton of work. I don’t see Mark much. My laundry is filled with sawdust, and proof of his exhaustion is evident in his heavy snoring at night.

 

I guess certain sayings prove true.

Anything worth having is worth working for.

Because I know this, life is good.

Patience is a virtue.

That is the one I must remember.

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

My husband has been terribly stressed lately. Part of this is because he is designing and building a house, but mostly it’s over his parents. I won’t go into the emotional impact this ordeal is taking, but it’s a doozie.

 

Anyway, yesterday I wanted to do something to help alleviate stress. But really, there is nothing I can do. The house is his project alone, and while I can help care for his ill parents, the stress associated with this situation goes beyond the daily tasks involved.

 

So – I did the only thing I could think of. I cleaned house.

Now that might seem like a frivolous thing to do in the name of “helping out”, but honestly, I believe it’s easier to handle stress if you have a welcoming home to come to at the end of the hard day. When you feel driven to simply crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head, it’s simply nicer when you are retreating from the world between crisp, clean linen. At least, this is certainly true for my homebody hubby.  

 

So, I rolled up my sleeves and did the floors, scoured the bathrooms and vacuumed and dusted. I lit candles so the room would smell inviting ( I may not have a sense of smell, but my husband always knows what animals have been inside and/or what I’ve been cooking in any given day. His nose is keen enough to make up for my lack of sensory awareness.) I made healthy blueberry bran muffins (using the last of our handpicked blueberries from our bush last summer) And of course, I put fresh flowers on the table.

 

Now, this isn’t something special for me, because I always have fresh flowers on the table. Even when I was broke and living in New York, I bought flowers for my table. Sacrificed a meal to do it if I had to. I guess flowers have always been my way of feeling in control of my environment. I want pretty things, nature, around me.

 

Because I was busy and limited by the fluctuating availability of the flowers in our yard, I used to purchase nice bouquets of hothouse flowers from the grocery store or Sams. Not now. Now, I just go outside and pick wildflowers. This is one of my dearest pleasures living here. Suddenly, those perfect hearty flowers you can get at the store seem undesirable to me. Processed or something. The flowers that grow wild on a hillside, while less uniform, seem more natural. Delicate. Their stems are limper and they don’t last as long, thanks to the fact that they were not designed for packing and transporting and they haven’t been dyed or soaked in flower preserver. The wildflowers are less groomed, yet still they have charm. And the offering is always a surprise, determined by the weather and regional fauna cycles.

 

Some kind of flower blooms here in Georgia constantly from April to October. I used to think our back yard with the 250 orchids was spectacular, but it can’t compare to the earthy beauty here as all these dormant flowers that have slept the winter underground make their appearance in their own sweet time. It is so inspirational.

 

Anyway, once I clean, I walk the mountain and pick whatever is growing on that day. I am always surprised to discover my bouquet de jour each week. This week, I picked the last of the purple irises that grow outside of our bathroom window. We have zillions. I don’t mind cutting them because they are hidden in the back area of the cabin and as such they bloom and die un-appreciated if I don’t bring them in.(OK these technically are not wildflowers – they are bulbs, but they are bulbs that have spread wherever they want and no one has gardened them to my knowledge – so they feel like wildflowers to me).  Currently we have wild daisies and yellow thingabobbies everywhere. (Let’s be honest here– I love flowers but I don’t know squat about them).

 

We also have poppies growing on the roadsides. When driving to feed the horses,  I will sometimes pull over and start picking them right there on the side of an empty road. Poppies should be called floppies, by the way, because their stems are so weak they are a pain to arrange. But they are certainly pretty.  We have a huge wild rose bush on our hillside too. I like to cut a few blooms and put them in this lovely piece of handmade pottery that our friends, the Chesleys, gave us when they visited last. It holds water and has spaces for three short stemmed flowers –the perfect thing for these short stemmed roses. Not only is it pretty, but I like how it reminds me of my dear friends. And roses have a particularily special connotation for me. They are a flower that symbolizes love (this is why they were all over my romance website – no accident ya know – red roses are special.)

 

Mark always makes fun of my flowers because I am bad at arranging them. I am the sort of gal who just takes fistfuls of blooms and shoves them into a vase. That does it for me. He will later take them out and rearrange them, as if my sad display offends his artistic sensibilities too awfully. Well, if that’s what you need to do, go for it, Babe. I just like the color and the way our cat sleeps under the blooms as if they inspire grand dreams of the outdoors (she is too lazy to explore it on her own).

 

I guess wild, unruly flowers suit me better than perfectly orchestrated collections. The fact that they are free makes them seem even more like a gift for the soul.

 

My house is clean. Flowers grace the rooms. But the stress is still swirls around my husband, an aura of concern as thick as Jell-O, causing him to pop Advil like it’s candy. 

I want to say, “Please. Take a moment to smell the roses, Dear.” But such words sound shallow, like a surface level pep talk, to someone dealing with true troubles. All I can do is make sure there are roses within range of his nose, and hope that even if he doesn’t consciously notice them, they sooth the endless ache inside in some small measure.

My last several Mother’s days were spent at dance competitions where all the focus was on students and performances. I was lucky to get a stray hug and a “happy mother’s day, can you zip up my costume” comment. Now that I’m free and no longer encumbered by  business demands, relishing my God given role of “mother” in a natural way, the holiday is mine to celebrate. For the first time ever, I’m aware of how special it is to have a day designated to appreciating mom.

 

Mother’s day is a designated family day. The best part of this specific family oriented day is that Mother (me) gets to choose how the family spends it. My family asked me a week ago what I “wanted” for Mother’s Day. I said, “Nothing tangible. No gifts.  I just want to have a good time.”

 

I don’t want “things”, per say – but man-o-man, I am thrilled to have the power of choosing the experience for one day. That is truly a great gift. As the mother (I.E. the nurturer, mediator, compromiser) I am always throwing out suggestions, but they are overruled by the majority – or, I withdrawal my desires because I read a family member’s face and feel guilty for pushing for something I want. I tend to feel compelled to give everybody else their wish first and foremost. Not on Mother’s Day. That is a “no-guilt push for whatever you want” day.  Therefore, I did.

 

I told my family I wanted to go kayaking, weather permitting. If that wasn’t possible, we would go to Atlanta to the Fernbank Museum of Natural History to see all the exhibits, especially and specifically, the current tour of the chocolate exhibit, an educational and historical look at chocolate. This is my idea of a good time.

 

It was only 54 degrees Sunday morning. Overcast. 50% chance of rain. This did not make conditions attractive for kayaking, so we opted for the museum. I dressed in a pretty skirt and lacy top and the family took me out to breakfast. When we left the restaurant, it was a sunny 60 degrees. Now, that isn’t ideal, but it is promising. It might get warmer. I suggested we change plans (and clothes) and go back to the kayaking plan. My husband said, “It’s your day.”

 

So that is what we did.

 

We drove to the local River Adventures Company that sponsors whitewater-rafting tours. They also rent kayaks, tubes etc. Because it was rather cold, we didn’t think it would be wise to set up a scenario where we would be wet for hours on the water, so we opted for two canoes rather than kayaks– one for Denver and Kent, and one for Mark and me, with Neva sitting in between. Fun – I love canoes.  I packed snacks and water bottles.

 

The company offered two trips, one a measly 1 ½ miler (which isn’t nearly long enough) and the other a 6 mile float. This is rather long for beginners – which includes everyone in the family other than me, however, it was my day and thus my call. Since I was comfortable being totally selfish, we took the 6-mile trip.

 

The guide kept commenting about “When we flip the canoe…” I chuckled and said, “I have no intention of flipping these boats. I’ve been canoeing all my life, haven’t turned one over since I was twelve and stupid.” ( O.K – confession – I once stood up and bailed right in the rapids because I was scared. This caused my boat to capsize and my dad (and all our sleeping bags etc) to get drenched. Needless to say, I learned the folly of canoe acrobatics then and there as an adolescent, and I’ve never forgotten it.

 

The guide smiled and said, “I promise you, at least one of these boats will flip on this trip. Count on it.”

 

Silly, faithless man.

 

We get to the site where we put in and Denver and Kent get into a canoe, arguing all the while – much ado about nothing. Too many green paddlers in that boat, I guess, but whatcha gonna do? As they go hilter skilter with the tide, it was our turn to load.

 

I was going to sit in the back, because I know more about steering, so Mark had to get in first. The guide and I reminded him to hold onto both rims of the boat and step into the middle. He heard us, but his body did not obey the practical advice. The boat rocked. Mark lost his footing and he plummeted into the water – only it wasn’t deep there on the shore, so he fell into mud. He came up with gobs of goo up his shirt and down his pants.

 

I, of course, started laughing. Couldn’t stop. I asked if he’d be OK for the trip, (trying to be nice) because here he was, already wet, and we had six miles ahead of us and no sun to warm him up. Didn’t bode well for a comfortable trip. He insisted he was fine, the mud in his crack was refreshing and good for the complexion. He was ready to go. He wouldn’t even rinse off as the guide suggested. He was just embarrassed to have slipped in front of this experienced boat guy. And I think he wanted to get this trip over with – the sooner we started, the sooner it would be over.

 

We loaded a nervous Neva, I got in and we shoved off.

Thus begins a Mother’s day we aren’t likely to forget.

 

Let me begin by saying, I love canoeing. I love being out on the water. I love the motion of the boat – simple – fueled only by quiet paddling. I love looking at the trees on the banks of the shore, animal sightings and birds, or houses built right on the riverfront. I love how my arms get tired – the sounds of the wind in the trees and the fish jumping and quiet voices rolling over the water from one boat to the other. I love the challenge of maneuvering the boat when obstacles like rocks or a tree get in the way. I especially love rapids. Exhilarating. Canoeing makes me think of my dad and growing up. Canoe trips were normal weekend fare for us – we even owned a canoe. It was painted like white birch bark. I have many fond family memories of that boat and the hours we shared on lakes and rivers and such.

 

For the first half mile, we all got used to our “teams”, learning how to communicate and paddle to propel the canoes in a controlled manner. My daughter was sitting in the same position as I, in the back of her boat, so I tried to teach her how to steer, but she insisted she and Kent had their “own way” of doing things. I was told to stay out of it.

O.K. Sister. Knock yourself out.

 

Mark had his own paddling method. I call it the splash and crash method. He slammed the paddle into the water (too shallow), and managed to get everyone behind him wet in the process. He didn’t want to hold the paddle as suggested, so he kept slamming his fingers between the frame of the paddle and the boat. In short order, they were black and blue. Throbbing. Ouch. But he wasn’t much interested in paddling lessons either.

 

Apparently, the environmental department lets releases water from the damns several times a day which causes a great, hearty flow and a higher water level in the Ocoee river (that is where the former Olympics was – yep we live in that area where the perfect river runs and the entire world agreed that season). But on Mother’s day, they were not letting water out till midnight, so it meant a shallow river. This meant our trip was a virtual minefield of rocks. Cool. Mark did not find this cool, however. He felt rocks are a call for much cussing and complaining. I kept pointing out that he was the lookout and had to tell me where to maneuver the boat. He couldn’t just scream “rock” as we were hitting them. I couldn’t see from the back – partly because he is too big to see around and partly because my eyes suck.

 

It took us about two miles to get him on the ball in the rock-warning category. But eventually, we started working together fine. We had a method – I call it the “let the kids get ahead and when they get stuck, we will go the other way” method. It worked most of the time.

 

I think it’s fair to say that much of the six miles we covered was not a float – more a push and scoot method of forcing the boat forward. Sometimes, up ahead was such a perilous obstacle course we just had to let the current take us wherever it wanted, because it was impossible to avoid turmoil and hard work to get through. But get through we did. And we didn’t get out of our boat once.

Everyone was not so lucky.

 

At one such area where the rapids were rough, my kid’s boat tilted and Kent lost a flip-flop. He reached out to get it just as Denver was compensating with a lean, and their boat flipped. They were dowsed – freezing and mad – yelling. They had to lug the boat to the shoreline to turn it back over to get in.

 

I felt terrible for them. I couldn’t stop laughing.

 

I must admit – I laughed all day. I mean, it was like I was possessed or something. I couldn’t stop. I laughed at my loved one’s discomfort, their awkwardness, their stupidity, their good humor, their willingness to go canoeing when they didn’t want to, their jokes, their complaints. They would be in the rapids yelling and shouting at each other, and I’d be yelling “Ye-haw! Whoopee!” and laughing .  And the more fun I had, the more annoyed they got.

 

Finally, Mark looked at me, shook his head, and said, “You are loving this, aren’t you? For the first time ever, instead of the family making you miserable, you are having the time of your life and you get to make US miserable.”

 

So sue me, I like canoeing.

 

To be honest, everyone was a great sport about the day for the first three hours. But then, tones began to change. For one thing, everyone was cold. Of course, it is only fair to point out that everyone was wet, but me. I am the only person who remained dry, other than Neva, and since she was sitting in the middle of the boat and Mark had splashed so much water in with his brutal paddling, she was pretty wet from the waist down too.  So, naturally, they were less comfortable than I. Their lips were blue and their feet numb. And everyone said their arms felt like they were falling off. Big surprise. They were all paddling furiously for hours on end, while I was paddling and steering and taking leisurely breaks between rapids when we had smooth sailing. I wasn’t sore in the way they were – and frankly, I am more in shape (other than Kent) and that helps too.  So at this point, everyone (other than me) lost their humor because they were so darn uncomfortable.

 

They started singing songs about how they hated canoeing.

 

I said, “Come on – take a minute to look at the baby ducks. You have to admit the scenery is beautiful. If it was sunny out, this would be great.”

My daughter glared at me and snapped, “It isn’t sunny. And we are OVER this, Mom.”

 

I was very sensitive to their misery. I laughed some more.

 

It took us 5 hours to complete the trip. I tried bargaining with snacks to get everyone in a better mood, but when Kent stopped paddling to eat some popcorn or a cereal bar, his sister yelled at him because the boat got off course. Mark dropped his crackers in the water so he threw them overboard with a disappointed snarl. Neva said her fruit roll up was gooey from moisture. Big disappointment.  But, I enjoyed my snack. My crackers were crusty and good, even if the duck swimming along side us wouldn’t trust us enough to eat some.

 

We were half a mile from the exit when Mark shut down completely. He said he couldn’t paddle anymore. He sat there as if he was on a Disney ride and he was expecting it to roll to a halt in front of the exit any minute. The boat kept rocking perilously as he shifted in his seat because his hips and knees were killing him.

 

He announced he would NEVER get in a canoe again.

 

I said, “What does that mean? You can’t mean you will never canoe again, just because today it is a bit overcast and cold.”

He assured me, I’d be hard pressed to ever convince anyone in this family to go canoeing again. “Unless your dad comes up to visit and you go out with him, you will be alone if you ever want to get in a canoe again.”   He said, with my kids nodding support.

 

It didn’t matter what they said., because the fact is, Mother’s day comes every year.

 

I told Mark he had to participate, like it or not,  at the end, because we were getting lodged on rocks and the only way he could end the misery was to help me get us to the finish. He started bashing at the water with his paddle, as if he was trying to kill an alligator or something – when the only thing around us was gentle waves. He argued that I wasn’t steering well, when really, I just needed more motion for my steering to have effect. It didn’t help that he changed sides every two minutes all day long. I tried to convince him to just stay left and I would compensate, but taking canoe orders is simply not in the genetic code of these Hendry’s, it seems. But I wasn’t angry at anyone’s bad temper. It was a long trip, after all.  

 

When we finally got to the end of our six-mile adventure, Mark couldn’t even stand because his hips hurt so bad. Denver said her feet were so cold she couldn’t feel them, so she fell as she walked, as if both feet were asleep. Kent was miserable, and Neva (because she didn’t want to feel left out) started complaining too. We dragged the boats onto the shore and I threw away the trash. We lumbered to the car, dragging our wet sweatshirts and shoes.

 

Denver did comment that she thought we would laugh about this day in the future – but not until then. I had to be quiet until then. I tried. Really.

 

So, we sat on towels in the car and I drove home (it’s only a fifteen minute drive). Everyone had a shower and slowly, the circulation came back. The heavy gray clouds let loose and it started to rain.

 

“See, we were lucky in a way.” I said. Everyone groaned.

 

After changing – tired and beat-up-  they took me out to dinner to a Chinese buffet (also something I love but they feel cool about. Hey – it is still Mother’s day – my pick). We laughed a little at their misery. They passed a bottle of Advil around like it was candy, complaining that their arms hurt too much to life their forks. My mother’s day concluded with us opening fortune cookies – all of which seemed eerily apropos to our current life situations. Neat.

 

It was the BEST ever day.

 

I don’t think it could have been any better, even if everyone was in a good mood the entire 5 hours of canoeing. I didn’t mind the complaining cause, heck, my family was truly uncomfortable and they don’t have to hide a simple truth that is so apparent. What counts is, they were there, floating along beside me, doing my thing because they were committed to giving me one day a year that is mine all mine. And that meant a lot. I loved it all – the gray sky, the shallow water, the hard seat that numbed my butt, and even the complaining family.

 

I am seriously thinking it is time to turn in my two-seater kayak for a one man, easy to lift boat. I may have to throw in the towel on the “teaching your family to love a great river trip in a canoe” quest. After this Mother’s day, I’m thinking it aint’ gonna happen. But then again, when the sun comes out and the hot days of summer arrive, it’s amazing how quickly people forget the cold. I might finagle another family try at canoeing, which might go better if I am smart about it.

 

Yesterday, as I was dropping my daughter off at the airport (I had to lift her luggage cause her shoulders and wrist were so sore) my daughter said she might join me for a gentle cruise around the lake someday in my kayak since there are no evil rocks laying wait to capsize you in a lake. She also said, maybe on a day when the river flows well, she’ll even try a short three-mile trip in a flat bottom kayak. She had to admit paddling must be great for a gal’s arms. I pointed out that her aunt says it gives you boobs like a rock too.

 

Later, Mark said he wouldn’t mind putting in at the same spot if we parked the car at the public park that is a few miles down the way, on a day when the river is higher.

 

Humm………

 

A shorter trip?

On less frustrating water?

We are talking compromise, right?

Grin.

I can do that.. . until the next Mother’ s day at least.   

 

    I am missing my youngest daughter today. She’s been on a five day field trip with her school (the small gifted program here at Blue Ridge Elementary) to Orlando. They’re taking classes at Disney. We sure didn’t get field trips like that in Sarasota. She’s armed with my cell phone so she can call home whenever she wants, and I get cute little “check-ins” every few hours, excited descriptions of the rides she is waiting in line for or descriptions of those she’s just experienced. We’ve been to Disney a million times, but for some reason, she thinks it’s more exciting when you have to travel all the way from Georgia to get there. The group took two educational classes at Epcot too, and Neva says they were wonderful. We took our dancers to an educational program at Disney once – they do a good job.

     We’re about the only parents who did not chaperone on this trip. We just aren’t that protective and I’m comfortable with the family that volunteered to have her in their room (makes it easier to keep their own child entertained, they say). My older daughter is in college in Orlando and she made time to visit Neva – so it’s not as if my baby is far from home without family nearby.

     Our family will be going to Orlando in July to find a new living situation for Denver, because our pre-paid contract for a dorm is up after this year. Groan – I figured at the time that two years of prepaid dorm payments were enough because an upperclassman would want an apartment. Now that the time is here to shell out funds for an alternate living situation, I could kick myself in the patootie. What was I thinking? Anyway, we thought it’d be nicer to spend our Disney time as a family on our own than with a school group, so we let Neva take this trip on her own.

    To raise money for the trip, the group sold bottled water. A local water company gave them cases (24 bottles) of purified spring water for only 2.00 (cost) and the kids sold them for the market value of 12.00. (Generous support from that company, I’d say.) That meant the students got 10.00 per case to pay for the trip. We didn’t know anyone here to sell water too, so we bought 40 cases. We figured we had to pay 400.00 for the trip anyway, so why not get some water out of it? This way we ended up with 40 cases of water for only 80.00 cash outlay– a great deal. But now, we have water stacked up along this cabin, at Mark’s workshop, by the horses – everywhere. If there’s a nuclear war, we won’t go thirsty. I could build a barn out of them if I don’t ever get around to building one out of wood. Of course, this also means I might be giving my relatives cases of water for Christmas if we don’t get drink’in soon.

    Denver is coming home from college today for a two-week visit– I’m going to Atlanta to pick her up at the airport in a few minutes. I’m thrilled she is coming and we have some fun things planned. This weekend we’ll be taking a silver charm jewelry making class at the Campbell school and next Wednesday, a bead weaving class at a local bead store – all a part of her birthday gift. (She is turning 20 – wow!)

      Last week I was enrolled in a clay bead class at the Bead shop. On the day it was taking place, it rained heavily. This meant Mark couldn’t go to the land to sand logs, so he decided to join me and learn to make handmade clay beads for his antler baskets (no store-bought garnishes will make interfere with the” integrity” of his baskets, say’s the man – now a country craftsmen extraordinaire).

   We had a ball learning how to make coils that join in dozens of ways to make these remarkably complex beads. They are striking – with fine detailed patterns and glorious shapes. They’re also fun to make because you can experiment and venture from established patterns to discover innovative designs hidden in the mix. In fact, we liked it so much that the minute we got home, Mark went on-line and bought gobs more clay. We plan to have a bead-making party with Denver, Kent and Dianne this week. (And Neva can roll some clay too.) It’ll be a jewelry themed visit for my daughter, I guess, which is a dream come true for her. For our family bead night, I’ll make chicken wings and we’ll open a bottle of wine. My beads may end up a bit lopsided, but hey, it will be a good time.

   I took the beads I made in the class home and made a fantastic ornate necklace that looks very Native American. These unique clay beads add a completely new dimension to my new passion  -making jewelry. They offer another texture and another way to make my creations original – but I must admit, it’s getting ridiculous. I have about 40 new, funky, creative necklaces (no simple bead stringing for this girl). My handmade jewlery is a central part of my new uniform now– jeans, cute top and unique necklaces and earrings.  Mark says I better plan to start selling them soon or he ‘ll have to build me a “jewelry room” in our new house. Watch out fella, don’t give me any ideas!

     When Denver is home, I actually shop – she comes home with almost empty suitcases and I always send her back with it stuffed. We go out to the Chinese place for lunch (only the girls in the family shares a passion for lo mien so I don’t get to eat my favorite food much.) We go play pool, screaming and squealing as we aggressively try to outplay each other. Denver and I are competitive in a funny way. We’ll be taking hikes this trip too to see the waterfalls. And we are taking the kids to Dollywood and Gatlinburg on Mother’s day weekend. Then, there is the fact that I plan to take Denver horseback riding a few times. She fell last time (big weenie) and it’s important she get back in the saddle again.  But this time I’ll put her on Peppy – the horse is good and healed from his injury now. He’s a perfect mount and riding will be a very different experience for her this time. We can ride along the trails and talk. It will be nice.

   So, overall, the next few weeks will be prime family time. I have a huge writing packet due for school next Monday, so I’ll be burning the candle at night to free up my daytime for all of the above stuff, but that’s OK. I’ve learned you don’t need “time” to go to school – you need to be willing to “make the time”, no matter how inconvenient.

    I am off to the airport. I want to leave early to stop at the nearest Starbucks along the way (an hour drive) so I can get a cup of coffee and experience the suburban environment. Sometimes I like reentering “civilization” and I enjoy the convienience of it all– other times, I find it off-putting and I’m hit with a wave of distaste for pop culture and how it makes everyone go through life like the overworked, bored fella from the Duncan Donuts commercial – “Time to make the donuts” (sigh). This makes me grateful that I’ve moved to some place more interesting. More alive. Funny – I don’t know how the traffic, people and franchises will strike me until I get there, but either way it goes, I can count on the coffee being a delight.

    Time to go. Neva just called. She is just leaving “Fronteerland.”
     Ha. So am I.