Category Archives: Family matters

     I found a building I want to buy. It’s somewhat decrepit, but it sits on the rushing river that travels through McCaysville and I can imagine bistro tables on a deck outside, a perfect place for people to sit with a cup of coffee and listen to a flutist or folk guitar player. It could be refurbished – or torn down to put up a log style building. I was pretty excited, but when I called, they told me it was already sold. Sold in a day. Sure, I’m always a day late and a dollar short. They wouldn’t tell me how much it went for, but I bet it was a steal.

   I told Mark I had made the call and was disappointed, because it was a perfect place for a gallery and café, and a great investment.

    He sighed.

    I KNEW a sigh was just waiting to escape his lips to put the skids on my ambition. I guess, until I actually started making calls, he was hoping my cafe talk was just a passing fancy. Unfortunately, I don’t have many passing fancies. My fancies are like life-callings.

    He looked tired. He said, “Just write, Ginny.”

    He might have told me to go play in the street, only we have no traffic, so what would that accomplish?  

     I know what he’s thinking. We need to finish building our house first, get organized, take a breath, before embracing a new project. We are still tired from those last few years of FLEX, building a new building, dealing with the stress of expansion, selling the business. Then, there was the turmoil of refurbishing this cabin while we were camping inside – stress and discomfort is easier to take if, at night, you can cuddle up in a cozy home to get away from the mess. We had to lay our head on pillows covered in sawdust daily. No escape.

    And just because the cabin is finished, doesn’t mean the attentions this property demands are over. There is the fact that we keep getting great offers on the adjacent land on the creek now that we found a way to put a road there. We’re told it’s the best piece of property available in Blue Ridge for a rental cabin, and everyone in the building business seems interested. So, we are struggling with a decision – to take the easy road and sell it now, counting our blessings that we got this extra lot for free when we bought this dilapidated cabin, or dive in and build a spec cabin ourselves to sell or rent – a great investment. That would be like starting a new business too, for it would take effort, time and attention – mostly Mark’s. (Tired sigh).

   On our 50 acres, we still need to build a second workshop for Mark (the current one isn’t going to be sufficient for his goals because it isn’t insolated – we will use the current one for wood storage) and we need a barn.   In fact, there is so much to do on our land it’s intimidating. It could be a full time job for Mark for the rest of his days, considering the vision he has for it. He wants to remove a zillion beetle pines (cause they grow 50 feet, but the roots rot away and then they keep falling in storms) and he plans to make a huge lake where the springhead is erupting near the house. He has plans to landscape our land like Oz. Anyone who knows Mark and his way with outdoor design can imagine how busy he will be with 50 acres of raw land to mold. 

    And let’s not forget I have a year left of graduate school, we have to move into the new house this summer, we have to build a website and organize a new rental business if we want to rent our cabin (or do what it takes to sell it) and…. Well, you get the point. We don’t need a new café/art gallery to keep us busy.

 

    I think, for me, life is like an open buffet and my eyes are bigger than my stomach. And Mark is standing along side me, already full, wanting to push his plate away while I keep spooning on another lump of tasty fare saying, “Just one more bite. You’ll love it.”

     But caring for someone involves paying attention to what they need, want and deserve. And he deserves a break. And time. And some undivided attention from his spouse. He is forty and feels (and acts) eighty. He is out of shape, rundown, and instead of having fun sanding the logs that will be used for rustic detail in the house, he approaches the work with dread. It’s important that I am sensitive to his state, and do what I can to alleviate his exhaustion rather than toss a new project his way, which is like feeding him arsenic. I worry that I am killing him. Really.

     So, I will drive by the building I didn’t get to buy every day and trust that my calling a day late was meant to be. And I will tune in to my husband’s sighs and know they are very, very important signals about what I can and should do at this particular time in our lives. He won’t sigh forever – I trust that. And I need to remember it is my job, as spouse, to change those tired sighs to sighs of pleasure. (That, my friend, is a full time job in itself.)

    People have always told me I have a lot of energy. My parents and in-laws chuckle and say they’ve never met anyone that does so much with such enthusiasm. Even my teachers at school have said I have “energy” – Odd because they only see that small element of my world that deals with their assignments. How can they know? Anyway, it’s a comment made often to me. “Gee, you have so much energy.”

    I always poo poo the statement, thinking it’s off the mark, cause, heck, I’m always tired. I flop into bed at the end of the day feeling like I ran a marathon. I feel old. Beat up.  Sometimes, in the middle of the day, I just want to sit, have a cup of coffee, do nothing. But doing nothing just doesn’t suit me. When I do nothing, I think of things to do. BIG things. And BIG things require energy.

    I think I’ve figured out the discrepancy. I do have tons of energy – only it is MENTAL energy. My mind is racing all the time with ideas, aspirations, inspiration. Keeping up with the physical self is another story entirely.(That’s the kind of energy I could use an extra portion of, God, if you don’t mind). I resent that there are only 24 hours in a day – I need more. And I need some powerful vitamins to kick-start a body that is slowing down and causing a bigger and bigger gap between what I want to do and what I can do.

     I only have my own self to blame for the ongoing stress in our lives, so I try not to complain or act like I am a victim of life’s constant trials. We live the life of our own design, and I must take responsibility for making decisions that involving pushing forward through muck to see what is on the other side of the swamp. I could stay put. Be comfortable. But I’m just not the sort of person who is comfortable coasting. I am all about pedaling.

     Anyway, I am putting my idea for a coffee shop/gallery on hold – until we are settled into our home and I graduate. I need to see where the dust lands from the huge life reconstruction project we have taken on – THEN see what direction we should take next. Until then, I will channel my energies into writing. I haven’t exactly given that the attention it deserves. I’m writing books, but doing nothing at all to sell them.

     Anyway, I will know when it’s time to break ground on a new adventure. It is simply a matter of listening, and respecting, my husband’s sighs.

     Huge messages lie in silence.

I miss owning a business. Not a dance school. I cannot describe how much I DON’T miss that during this particular season. For the last eighteen years, spring has been a time of stress and overwork as we hustled to prepare a recital for 1000 performers. Moreover, our efforts went far beyond choreography and cleaning up dances (which – because we were the primary artistic contributors in the school meant a great sacrifice of time – total focus) but we also wrote the programs, sold ads, designed the light plan for the stage lighting, did picture displays, and did hundreds of hours of backstage preparation and organization. It took years to put our systems into effect. And no matter how good it got, we always believed we could do better, so it was always a matter of brainstorming – working out the glitches from year to year – adding a new element – which amounted to more effort. The last year, I actually wrote a recital-planning book, but it will never be used now. Ah well –I was committed to never ending constant improvement. No effort is ever wasted, so I am glad I put to words all I learned. I might use it someday.     

     This was also the time of year that all the planning for the next season had to be completed – class schedules, school season planners, defining our yearly goals. And we were hustling to plan our summer program. And I was always preparing my notes for master classes or seminars I was commissioned to teach out of state (Well, I still have that – and they are currently due – sigh). In other words, there was never time to smell the roses as they began blooming in spring.

    Now, without all this recital stuff demanding our attention, I am enjoying spring the way I haven’t for years – not since I was free and unencumbered by the dance school season’s schedule – not since New York, where spring made studying dance feel like a creative party.

    Now, I’m noticing flowers, trees in bloom, and feel the sultry wind blowing in across the pasture. I marvel at how fresh and new life feels. We have butterflies – hundreds. I watch my daughter running across the pasture, chasing the llama, giggling, while dozens of butterflies swirl about her head, thinking it is like watching an animated movie. Too perfect. (Like in the last Harry Potter Movie when participants from the girl’s school enter Hogwarts, butterflies are set free by their sighs.) My blueberry bush is 9 feet tall and 12 feet wide. You can actually walk through it to gather the berries from the interior (now that my husband carved a walkway through the monster). It is so covered with butterflies and bees pollinating the new blooms, that it looks alive, constantly in motion. Fascinating. This month, we are taking hikes, having long, lovely talks, and enjoying the changing season with such a deep appreciation for the leisure it is beyond inspiration. It is like personal nirvana.  

   No, I don’t miss owning a dance school this time of year.

 

     But I do miss having a business. I loved the challenges involved – the way it taxes so many skills. You must be good at accounting, finance, planning, design, marketing, and of course, endless creative thinking. That is the best part – tapping into your creativity to make your business different. I loved the resource a business provides too – I could contribute to the community through the vehicle, donate services, projects, space, whatever was needed to help others. This satisfied something within me too. 

    So, while I don’t need to start another business, and don’t need the income, I can’t help but think about businesses I would enjoy starting. (I am definitely an entrepreneurial sort – I would NEVER buy a business. I am all about laying a foundation and designing a new enterprise from scratch.)

     There is so much opportunity here, endless enterprises so bound for success, it drives me crazy. I am committed to slowing down my life, not taking on another huge project, yet I find the idea of starting something fresh and building a new empire hard to resist. (And frankly, I like hard work.) This area is growing so fast (happens to be the seventh fastest growing area in the country, and oddly enough Sarasota was the seventh fastest growing area when I began a business there – interesting) that it is no surprise they are starved for commerce.  And I keep thinking that this time around, we don’t need to make so much money – it isn’t vital that our business make enough to support a family of five and their future. It would be nice if it supplemented our income, gave us cash for indulgences like a trip to Africa or acquiring a racehorse – ha) but we don’t have to make so many sacrifices or compromises to secure our future (because it is already secure –thanks to some savvy real-estate investments we have made over the years. We are lucky in that way – made some great choices this year too, that made us as much as we would have made working the entire year. Apparently, we have good instincts. Who knew?)

   Mark has always said that if we put the same amount of energy, creative thinking and sheer labor into any other industry (besides dance) we would be shockingly successful. Dance is not a business that traditionally makes money. The arts isn’t prosperous that way – but we managed to commercialize dance education without losing artistic integrity in a way that is unlike any other studio I’ve ever known  That is something we will always be proud of. But, just imagine if we applied that kind of energy and innovation to a business with more earning potential – one that doesn’t demand so much actual hand-on creative effort that ravages your emotional stores. Wow.

   I keep circling an idea. I bounced it off my husband and he doesn’t seem turned off at all. Funny, because for years, whenever I had an idea, he would sigh and be so aggravated that I was forever feeling guilty and miserable, as if I was the cause of our never-ending stress. My idea’s symbolized work – but I’ve come to learn it was not innovation and work he despised – it was more about the atmosphere of the dance school world and how it stripped us of the time and privacy he wanted for other things in life. I kept pushing the envelope. He just wanted to mail the damn letter to someone else and find a new P.O. Box.

   But I wouldn’t start a business without him on board. It would have to be something we did together. I don’t want to take on a journey alone, and he is, after all, my partner in life travels.

   A dance school here would be so successful – people ask us to open one every other day. And with our experience, our connections, our resources, etc… we could be back where we were before within three years. Tempting. It would be like pulling up the roots of our business and relocating it to the area we have always wanted to live. And there are other great elements of the idea – such as the fact that kids here have discipline and a different mentality – and nothing to do. We both recognize that we could make amazing dancers here. But what then? Would we just want to sell and move again? No thanks. I love it here.    

   So, what is it I want to do? Well, there are many things, from opening a canoe rental company, open just six months a year, or running a summer dance camp for serious dancers (which includes whitewater rafting and other fun between serious study) – two ideas that only require half a year of work. We could remain semi-retired that way. Or cabin rentals on our own land and creating vacation avenues for our customers. (Horseback riding, pontoon boat – we could provide it all…)

   But what I am really stuck on right now is the idea of opening an Appalachian Arts Café.

    The town of McCaysville, right by our new homestead, is growing rapidly. The stores there are changing before our eyes, from dismal antique shops and rundown country stores to upscale shops featuring fare that is more specialized. The Blue Ridge Scenic railroad leaves Blue Ridge (where the shops are very upscale now) and goes to McCaysville everyday. Six years ago, when it opened, they had 6 thousand passengers. This year they had 60 thousand! They expect it to continue growing. Ummm. That’s a lot of customers looking for someplace to shop and view regional mountain fare in our little town. And there is no coffee shop. Drives us crazy – coffee drinkers that we are. (The nearest Starbucks is a 60-minute drive from us – no kidding. Our powerful community leaders keep franchises out.) You can’t buy a bagel or a donut anywhere within miles of our town.

    So, I am thinking we should open a coffee shop – the kind with a big roaring fireplace and leather chairs, specialty drinks and fantastic treats. (My mother says my muffins will put it on the map. Ha. I would love to make gourmet cakes each week and sell them by the slice – an excuse to cook without being accused of keeping my husband heavier than he should be). And I want it to be an art gallery too, featuring local Appalachian artists and their handcrafts. I did some research, and the galleries here take artists for a 60-40 cut, so the store doesn’t even have to purchase this art in advance – just provide great displays and move the merchandise. You can return what you don’t sell and if you have an eye for art (which we do) and travel in the artistic circles to meet the right people (which we do) a good store would have a wealth of artists to chose from. That means low investment for gallery merchandise. Not to mention that my husband’s wood art would have a home and we could move that too. And perhaps some of my jewelry…. And our other new interests in folk art  (My husband has made over 10 Antler baskets and is preparing to do festivals next fall – they sell for 125-200 up here and his are better than most.)

   If we had a coffee shop/art gallery, I would want to schedule folk musicians and storytellers to entertain on the weekends. I would have an open mic poetry night and get the local writers to gather there (I travel in those circles too). Might have a spare room designed for community meetings – writing groups or book clubs – a way of providing someplace special for the community to gather. I’d carry books too – only local writers and regional books to enhance our focus on regional art. Might include my own.

   Of course, we also have another option. When the train pulls out at 3:00 each day – WE CAN CLOSE – because we feel like it.  We don’t have to be a slave to a business anymore, and a coffee shop is something you can hire someone to work for you. In fact, the coffee shop in Blue Ridge that we regularly visit is owned by a woman who lives in Florida. She only spends the summer’s here.  So we could have leisurely hours to work the train crowd alone, on extended hours for community customers. But we would not be the one making the coffee drinks and running it on a daily basis, unless we wanted to.  

    Rents are low in our area, so the startup would be easily manageable for us with our current resources. But that is the problem – I don’t want to rent space. I will never rent for a business again. When you are a renter, you really are only setting up a glorified self-employed job for yourself. A business is never really yours till you own your building. We learned that the hard way. When you rent, you are limited by a landlord’s permission regarding what you can do in and to your business, or if/when you can expand. Rents add up to a lot more than mortgages. So you are working to build someone else’s capitol – in short, half of your work is spinning wheels to support their business gains. This is a financial drain on a new business too. But when you own your space, the business really feels like yours. You can change it, expand it, sell it, or close it, and the choices are all yours. No long-term responsibility with contracts or leases. Just your freedom to make choices and create a business as large or as unique as your imagination sails. Our entire fortunes changed – and our potential – the day we bought our first building.

    So, I’ve begun looking at buildings. There is a fantastic Japanese restaurant that is never open, resting in the perfect location. You could put bistro tables outside – it is quaint. Adorable. We’d buy that building, but it’s not for sale. But then, the operation there is not doing much business either, so who knows what is going on. We are looking into it. And there is a small house for sale in the town too. I am going to go see it and find out if it is commercially zoned. We could do wonders with that. Of course, we could buy a big ole building and rent the other storefronts out to others too. We could manage that. I just know I won’t open a business ever if I have to be a renter myself.

    So, my mind is spinning.

     I keep reminding myself that there is more to life than work, and I must take the time to slow down, watch the butterflies, pick blueberries and take long walks. Write.  But then, I also think life should be an adventure and we should continue to grow and learn from it. I imagine there is much to learn and accomplish in a new endeavor like an art/gallery coffee shop for us. It’s a business that circles art (which we love) and appeals to the gentle nature of people (which we also love).  When people stop to have a cup of coffee in a beautiful atmosphere, having just stepped off a scenic train because they are enjoying vacation, they are usually feeling fine.  I would like to surround myself with people like that – make conversation with people who approach you with a joyful smile, then share what I know about the area so they will enjoy it as I do. We could make the interior of this place all logs and rustic furniture, have amazing displays of folk crafts, a big showcase with desserts and every kind of coffee (served in hand made pottery mugs). Maybe smoothies in the summer (we don’t have those in this area either). A total indulgence in artistic mountain atmosphere.

   And now is the time. Opportunity is ripe. I feel it.

    I can’t stop thinking about it.

    I should, but I can’t.

    And if my husband continues to listen, holding back that exasperated sigh that I came to dread so much, I’m afraid my idea might become more than a passing thought.

    

Hey – I just got a call from Mark. My llama is out. Gotta go chase him.

Ha. Do I have time to run an art gallery and chase a llama too when the need arises? I better be sure to put that into the equation when developing a business plan.

 

 

        

I’ve been somewhat quiet lately (for me). This is because I’ve been feeling melancholy. I find that joyfulness, curiosity, profound meanderings, devilish teasing, and excitement, gushes from me like toothpaste when you step on the tube. It’s kind of messy and it surely is an accident, but all the same, what’s inside squirts out with force. But when I’m sad, the cogs of my mind seem to jam up. I have lots churning inside, but moving it through my system is difficult.

 

I’m being vague. Pardon me.

 

Yesterday, they gave my father-in-law 4 months to live. He has lung cancer. (And blood clots, anemia, diabetes, ulcers and pneumonia.  But gee, at least he doesn’t have a hangnail.)

 

He was fine 6 weeks ago, or seemed to be from all appearances. He seemed to be slowing down, but we thought it was just stress and over work. We moved my in-laws up here, one hour away, so they could be near their two adult children and the grandkids. Unpacking boxes, learning a new area and such is difficult on even a healthy 80 year old, but his discomfort and symptoms started to alarm everyone, which led to the discovery of more serious problems.

 

When we were all looking at houses, I argued that relocating them an hour away was too far, considering their age. They also bought a big house – twice as big as their former one, and I thought they should be scaling down- the upkeep had to be considered. I thought we were putting off the inevitable and soon, they would need more assistance from us and a more manageable life situation. But my husband and his sister wanted some distance so their lives wouldn’t be too disrupted by duty visits or un-mandatory expectations, and they assumed their mother had certain needs that had to be met in order for her to be happy – a big posh home in a more suburban environment, one of them.

     I guess it’s harder for kids to see their parents as anything but the competent, self-sufficient caretakers they were in earlier years, because what was obvious to me was ignored by them. The fact is, these people can’t do what they could do in earlier years, and it’s time we address it and help them adapt.

     I kept saying “But, we’ll have to move them again in three to five years, and it will be harder then, because they won’t be in nearly as good health.”

    And they responded with, “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.” (In other words, we want to put off until tomorrow the shit that stresses us out today so leave us alone and stay out if it. They’re OUR parents.)

     As it turns out, less then a month after the move, the location and size of their home proves a poor decision.  This is not a “I told ya so” moment. I’m just very sorry what was an obvious, inevitable scenario came about before the first mortgage payment was made.

 

We’ve been driving the two- hour round trip almost daily to visit Bill, my father in law, in the hospital. Upon the discover of his tumor, Sonia, my mother-in law, succumbed to a stress related illness that made her incapable of walking or moving (bad back) and so she became bedridden too. Now, we had two invalids to care for and the stress factor went through the roof. Dianne, relatively free at this time, moved in with them, putting her life on hold. (She’s been wonderful). Because we have kids to care for and Mark is needed for building the house, and I am in school etc…. all we can do is relieving Dianne as we can and lend our support.

But all of it is awkward and frustrating. It is fair, all things considered, but unfair at the same time, on an individual level.

 

In the meantime, one beloved parent is dying, the other beloved parent, you want to kill – and lying like a panther ready to attack, just under the responsible surface, are all these emotional issues that a life zinger like this provokes. Lingering childhood resentments, relationship regrets and revelations, concerns about who takes responsibility, finances, the well-being of the parent left alone, the future concerns of everyone involved, and all kinds of little nasties, start tampering with the simple issue that Mark and his sister are losing a loved one. It’s just plain sad.

 

My role in this is different than theirs. I have fond feelings towards my father in law, and I feel badly about what he is going through, and I empathize with my mother in law. But my main concern, honestly, is just how to “be there” for my husband. I worry about how he’s taking it, and what kinds of deeply seeded issues are being conjured up. I can’t really soothe him or make this better, so I just encourage him to talk and try to second-guess what it is he needs from me. I’m willing to do whatever he wants regarding the decisions that now must be made. But I also want to preserve his long-term dreams at this time – a time when his defenses are down. It’s hard to figure out just what the “right thing” to do is, for the “right thing” is subjective, depending upon whose interests you give priority.

 

In the meantime, this entire issue makes me ponder what constitutes a well-lived life as I put myself in my in-law’s place. They are only 30 years our senior and that’s not a lot of time to squeeze in all the living I cherish and hope to experience. I wouldn’t presume to pass judgment on the choices my in-laws made now, or critique their life, but witnessing this ending sure makes me contemplate my own time on earth. It inspires me to embrace happiness and health and to live fully, every day and it makes me want to approach my work, my marriage, my family, my interests, and my contributions to the world more passionately too. Life is precious. Gotta celebrate it everyday. Every hour. Every second.

 

I won’t write about my in-laws illness, their marriage, or how they deal with the reality of “till death do you part” becoming more than a vague concept. It just isn’t my story to tell, and to begin philosophizing about these issues would be overstepping boundaries I have set for myself. Sure, it might lead to some interesting conversation, but that wouldn’t  be in the best interest of my husband (who doesn’t read this blog, but does check-in once in a great while for reasons unknown – and the only way to honor him is to respect his privacy and to protect his feelings.) And a blog just isn’t an intimate enough forum for opening up this kind of emotionally packed conversation.

So- I won’t write about it. But because I won’t, I find myself avoiding writing about other things. It seems sort of frivolous and self-serving NOT to address this important life situation, because it is swirling around us like unexpected storm that hit while we were sleeping.    

 

I guess this factual explanation of the details is my acknowledgement of our spot of trouble – an excuse for my being distracted and skirting my blog duties – a disclaimer for why my writing has lacked profound contemplation lately. And it lets my friends know what’s going on in Hendryland this month.

 

Now, I have two heated subjects I’m avoiding. Dance and the demise of our former, admirable school, and … personal loss. That leaves me with mundane subjects, such as animals and crafts and weather. And school, of course, and books. Ah well – self-censorship is rule for maintaining good manners. I read that in Dear Abbey, I think. And a blog is not the same thing as sitting with a glass of wine in a corner of a pub having a heart to heart with a friend you trust. (But, I could use that, I tell you.) Unfortunately, in Blue Ridge, there are no pubs, it’s a dry county, and, as yet, I have no close friends. So, I’m out of luck.

 

Due to this upheaval, I am behind on my homework, housework, healthwork, and my book. I’ve also gained four pounds. I’d say, “Shoot me”, but I’m not feeling as frivolous as usual so I wouldn’t dare make a quip that putting me out of my misery would be welcome. Wouldn’t want to miss a moment of this amazing adventure of life. After all – it’s all good.

 

Now, like it or not, I have to attend to real world duties to attend to.

My Dad and Mom came to visit last weekend. I can’t describe how happy this made me, because, while I know our life has been in turmoil with incessant construction etc… and I know it’s been winter… and life just isn’t set up for guests yet . . . I was disturbed that they haven’t seen our cabin, land or any of the new world we’ve selected for the next chapter of our lives. I hated how, when we talked on the phone, they couldn’t picture the things I was talking about, such as the cabin we live in, the outlay of our land, our animals, or the general atmosphere of our existence. Even though I know it wasn’t true, I still felt their not visiting signified a lack of interest or something. It bugged me.

 

Deep down, I expected my parents would adore our new set up, for they’re the people who taught me to love nature. In fact, we first fell in love with the mountains up here while visit my parent’s cabin fifteen years ago. They’ve already done the “Georgia mountains” thing. Therefore, I knew they would “get” it. (Unlike my husbands mother who claims our lifestyle is “barbaric”. She refused to get out of the car when we took her to our land, vowing to never visit our new home because, apparently, she detests trees. Whatever….) 

 

Anyway, my parents were going to Atlanta to visit my brother for a business reason, and decided to stop by for a two-day visit. (I know two days doesn’t sound like much of a visit, but they will be coming back when it is warmer for a longer stay.)

 

The construction for our bunkhouse is finally finished, which means have a private, comfortable place for them to stay. The road to our creek front property is complete, so we can drive them down to see that, and we’ve started construction on the house too so, there’s tons for them to see. And to top it all off, the weather has been perfect too. Halleluiah!   

 

They arrived on Saturday morning. They are 77 & 79 respectively, so a big drive from Florida is no small potatoes. I was vividly aware that they might be tired, and I wanted to be understanding. The spirit might be willing, but an almost 80 year old body might balk, unable to handle some of the rugged terrain involved to show them everything. I figured we’d take it one hour at a time, and just feel out what was comfortable for them.

 

We began by giving them a tour of the cabin, (which they adored). It was more rustic than they expected, because their cabin was more like a rustic wooden house with fine, themed furniture. Posh. Ours has rough sawn wood molding and big tree columns holding up the porch walkway between the primary cabin and the bunkhouse – a big log for a mantel and wood everywhere. They loved it all the more for the natural details, and said our remodeling was “ingenious” considering the dilapidated, old cabin we started with. My Dad said he just didn’t think he would have gone through all the work and mess to end up with what we ended up with – nor could he have thought up such a plan. It was a nice compliment.

 

We had coffee and then drove them down the windy, narrow, steep rock road to our creek front property that rests alongside the cabin. I gotta admit, it was the first time I was in the car when Mark drove this road, and I was more than a little freaked out. It’s steep and narrow and the edge just drops off the mountain. I held my breath. My parent’s were unfazed. They said, “Hey, our cabin was on a road as steep as this, but we had it paved. Just pave the road and it will be perfect.”

What troopers.

 

At the bottom, my Dad got out of the car with his hobbling gait (he had a hip replacement a few years ago that went bad) and he actually lumbered down the steep dirt bank to look at the creak. He wanted to see just  where we would put a house, should we build there, and hear about our plans to clear the area. He and my Mom built several spec homes in North Carolina ten years ago, so they understand the building frustrations and processes better than we ourselves do. We stood for a while, listening to the rushing water, enjoying the view, talking about the possibilities.  

We went back to the cabin and took a break. Naptime. More for us than for them. (We’re the old farts in this story.) Later, we went to the land. My dad was raring to see these 50 acres of ours.

 

We began with a general drive through along the roads in the car. My parents marveled at how beautiful the land is. They said they had doubts about our decision to buy 50 acres – that it was too big and unnecessary and perhaps not a good investment, but actually seeing it put it all in perspective. They said they were more impressed than they would ever have guessed. They expected something plainer. Less potential, I guess. The land is remarkably beautiful with wooded areas circling a clearing and gently rolling hills. We have trees arched over the road like a natural entryway, apple and black walnut trees and a king sized blueberry bush. It’s rather like the garden of eden, without flowers. We stopped to introduce them to our animals, where my Dad spied our huge fire pit (already set up for the next bon fire – I’m no fool, I know how to entertain) surrounded by our Adirondack chairs, all ready to go. He grinned and said, “When’s the Winnie roast.”

“Up for that?” I asked. It was a dumb question. Not like I didn’t grow up with this outdoorsman.

“Tonight,” he said. “But now, take me to the four wheelers.”

 

I was thinking four wheelers are pretty bumpy riding. Dad is slowing down physically now-a-days, so perhaps we shouldn’t push our luck. But he insisted. He was delighted to see they were substantial machines, not little go-cart sorts of things, but big monsters four wheelers. (That is more for safety than power. I confess.) Anyway, he cranked up one and my mom hopped on the back. Mark and I got on the other.

 

Off we went to explore our 50 acres. We took them down all the small roads and cavities set up by the previous owner when there were plans to develop the land. We zipped through the creek and along the pasture, and every time we got to a new area, my Dad would look at me, grin and say, “So, whose land is this?” As if it was impossible to imagine it all belonging to his kid.

 

We rode up to the house site, where my Dad took some time to watch the construction for awhile. Men can’t resist big machines and power tools, don’t ya know.  He met our builder and marveled at the “good material” we are using on the house. Dad understands all this building stuff, having built several houses of his own. He understands our impatience and excitement, and he couldn’t resist kidding us about it. He gazed around and said the setting, there in the woods by the creak on the hill, was perfection. (I think so too.) He asked about the house plans, staring at the first floor (already built) imagining what’s to come, picturing our future home in his mind. It was nice watching my husband share this exciting project with my Dad, two generations talking guy talk with enthusiasm.  After a rest, we were off on the four wheelers again. 

 

I kept asking my Dad, “Are you OK?” which clearly offended him. He still imagines he is a rough and tumble adventurer – which he is, obviously – but he is a 78-year-old adventurer, so we have to be careful. And he said, “Hell, I jumped out of an airplane two years ago. I’ve been doing this my whole life, of course I’m OK, never been better.”

 

And I looked at him with the wind in his hair and his cheeks glowing with excitement. There was appreciation and joy in his eyes – and I was overwhelmed with respect for him. This is a man who knows how to live, who doesn’t choose to be old before his time, who ignores his aches and pains as long as it entitles him to one more thrill. Fearless, and at home in the wild, he doesn’t forget to smile at the sun, breathe the fresh air, and appreciate all the beauty of the outdoors.

God – when I grow up, I wanna be like him.

 

And there was my Mom, sitting behind him, gritting her teeth, hanging on for dear life, saying, “Slow down, Honey, you’re not as young as you used to be….” But, despite her worry, she let him have fun, and better yet,  chose to be a part of it. She makes a career out of sharing all the things he loves, whether it’s a day on a boat, or careening around the great outdoors on a four wheeler. Lord, she’s a perfect spouse.

 

Watching them, I found myself wondering if I’ll have half the vigor they do when I’m their age. Heck, I don’t have that much now. I just know I want to live fully as they do, in the same manner they do – being active as long as my health and heart allows.

 

Mom told me that, later, they had an argument because my Dad told her he wanted to go horseback riding “one last time before he dies.” But Mom put her foot down on that one, because she thought riding might pop his hip out, and here he would be in the wilderness without a hospital nearby. She is indulgent, but practical, and in the end, her word is law. (That is the power of being a supportive wife. If you say “yes” almost every time, your guy is honor bound to respect the rare “no”. Good lesson in that.)  Horses, she explained, were off limits, like it or not, so Dad just pet them, admiring our four legged trouble makers from the ground. He recalled stories about those years when our family owned horses when we lived in Missouri years ago and we laughed at the fact that we had different renditions of the same event. Life through the eyes of a child does color history, I guess.

 

Frankly, not riding was a relief. I didn’t want to be responsible for the animal’s behavior. With my luck, they would pick this one day to be ornery. Beast are not something you can control the way you can control a motorized ride.

 

That night, we had our bonfire and we toasted marshmallows and roasted weenies. Dad couldn’t resist coaching the kids on the perfect technique required to make a sizzling bratwurst. My son just likes to burn his hot dog until it looks like a seared hockey puck, which offends Dad’s outdoor chief sensibilities. Ha. Whatcha gonna do?

 

Well fed, Dad sat there, looking at the stars, enjoying the fire and his grandchildren playing outdoors. He later said that that time, sitting together by a roaring fire, was the best part of the visit. Mark and I each told a story (practicing our skills learned at that storytelling class – prime material for a campfire) and that inspired fun exchanges of family memories and stories. It was all perfect. Simple, yet perfect.

 

The next day, we took my parents to the wood art gallery to show them what Mark wants to do in the near future. He is making inroads with galleries and shops already and will no doubt have some work featured in them before you know it. We walked along the shops of historic Blue Ridge just to show them the town and the more refined, artsy elements of our world. We ate at Sue’s (best burger in town) but alas, we were all too tired to play pool or air hockey (my favorite). Just goes to show, whether you are 79 or 40, a day in the fresh air can wear you out. They enjoyed the town, comparing it to a western vacation resort, or a fancy Gatlinburg. It’s true, Historic Blue Ridge is an upscale arts area designed to attract tourism. It’s busy, but still, its nice to have that kind of quaint area nearby when people are visiting.

 

All told, it was a perfect, but short, visit.  

 

Now, when I call home and talk to my parents on the phone, they’ll have a picture in their mind of what I’m describing. That’s nice, but what’s better, is the picture I have in my mind now of them.

 

I’ll always remember watching my parents on that four-wheeler, their wrinkled hands cranking the gas, their gray hair blowing in the breeze. I will remember the tender way my mother wrapped her hands around the man she has loved and supported for 60 some years and the way he smiled at her and said, “Ready, babe”, each time before taking off down the graveled drive. They are a perfect couple. Still in love after all these years. Still playing together, exploring the world. Still a team, two admirable characters who, together, are stronger than they’d ever be alone.

 

I’m so lucky to have had parents who are an inspirational example of enduring romance and a lust for life.

 

I can only hope that time will reveal, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.