Category Archives: Special Interests

Kathy and I had our picture in the paper this week. We were both delighted – not because there was a short clip about our activities, but because the picture just happened to be a good one of both of us. (You see, we may be advocates of literacy, but we are women first, and what woman isn’t pleased when someone finally gets a decent picture of her. I am not at all photogenic, as most pix on this blog make evidently clear. It’s the dopey smile and the over-generous nose, you see. And the magic photo fat that appears when a camera is aimed my way.) 

Anyway, I was thrilled to see the mini-article because I considered it a perfect reading exercise for Kathy for our
next lesson. I am always looking for interesting things for her to practice reading. She read the article in her faltering, stumbling way, and I looked on, proud and amazed at how well she is doing. She could actually read the words “education” and “specific”. She has a long way to go, because she still has to sound words out letter by letter and her writing skills are behind the reading progress, but nevertheless, it is very rewarding to see how much she has accomplished.

In fact, she is doing so well that the director of the program said, ‘We will have to think about moving Kathy into a classroom environment soon and consider assigning you a new student.”

I thought Kathy was going to faint.
She said, “I’m not ready.”

I agreed, and the director, seeing how nervous the suggestion made Kathy, said we can talk about it another time. The comment did foreshadow an inevitable issue we will one day have to deal with. I can’t be Kathy’s teacher forever. But I can certainly be her friend for all time.

The article attached to our nice picture was a call for literacy tutor volunteers, and sure enough, FLAG (the literacy program at the college) got seven new recruits. I am the gal in charge of training them now. Next Thursday I will begin teaching adults how to teach other adults to read. Ee-gad.

I have spent a lot of time contemplating how to go about this new responsibility.  When I directed the dance school, I ended up spending more energy and emphasis on working with teachers than any single class of students. I knew the strength of the school lie in having enthusiastic, informed teachers. You can only be in one place at a time, and as such, your ability to spread knowledge is limited. But when you work with teachers, your efforts expand into many classrooms and touch many individuals. I had a motto that was no doubt very annoying to the people working for me. I always said “There are no bad students, only bad teachers.”

When teachers made excuses to me, such as saying “This is my worst class because the kids are not committed. They don’t come to class regularly and they don’t care.” Or, “These kids are out of control.” Or, “I get all the students with the worst feet (or attitude, or bodies, or stage personalities) I’d respond with, “So, what you are saying is you are not making the class interesting or fun enough to inspire the students to show up,” or “What I’m hearing is you have let discipline go and now your class is out of hand. So, what are you going to do about it?”

I always felt the responsibility lie in the person at the helm, because our students are what we make them. If we want them to be responsible, enthusiastic, and committed – or if we want them to be good turners, have nice feet or whatever, it is up to us to put emphasis in those areas. Our job is to make kids fall in love with discipline and commitment. You see, success begins with the person introducing the subject matter in a way that is engaging. Leadership is all-important.

Anyway, I feel the exact same way about teaching adults to read. It requires a lot of instinct, psychology, and enthusiasm to keep an adult interested in learning. You can’t expect them to come to the table devoted to the cause, because obviously, they have a history of discarding educational venues. So, the question is, what can we do about it?  How can we do this job without boring the student or making them feel inadequate, and help them see the benefits in the long term are worth the effort in the short term?

I am planning my lectures and materials, doing all I can to paint a comprehensive picture of the students we will work with and how our methods, if positive and creative, can make a difference in their lives. I may not be a formally trained educator, but I think I am a good person for this job. I just hope I can teach these tutors to not be judgmental, or condescending, and I make it clear how important it is not to combine religion with education (a problem up here, because most volunteers are also church recruiters) . I need to help them understand the mindset of the non-reader, then give them the tools to teach the skills required. 

Today, Kathy and I went to the high school to speak to the students in a remedial class. The focus was supposed to be about drugs and alcohol and how substances can ruin your life (Kathy’s specialty) but I was there to talk about education and how it opens the door to a stronger future. We live deep in the Bible belt, and everyone here (teachers, students, social workers, politicians) are bible thumpers who feel the only way to save your soul and live a decent life is to give your life to God. Needless to say, I believe there are many paths to a good life, and when I voice my honest opinion, it is not always appreciated. I would never, ever discredit religion and its role in serving society or forget how it gives people peace of mind, but I am also quick to profess that Christianity is not the only path to personal salvation.  We talked to the kids for about 1 ½ hours. It was interesting, albeit sad, to hear their stories of family tragedy and struggles with drugs (mostly meth) and drinking. The whole time Kathy and another speaker kept saying, “God will change you if you let him. God is the only way to live true and fight evil in yourself.”

I suggested they try journaling (don’t laugh, I did.) Who needs to clarify their thoughts more than a troubled teen with substance abuse issues? Journaling is like therapy – it can be a slice of heaven when life feels empty. Yes, God is good and all, but journaling is the ticket. It will fight the evil in your soul quite well, thank you very much.

Obviously, I didn’t offend anyone too much with my liberal attitude. When we were done, an administrator asked me if I would consider mentoring a troubled teen. It involves coming to the school one hour a week to counsel a student, one on one.

Although I am always strapped for time, I agreed to help.

The woman felt it only fair to make it clear that I’d be working with an emotionally handicapped young adult. “Can you handle that?” she asked.

I smiled and said I certainly could. I then told her that for years I volunteered at a school in Florida to teach dance to emotionally and physically handicapped students. I explained that I was probably a perfect candidate for this sort of mentorship because I do not fear people with mental problems and, thanks to experience; I don’t ever feel out of control or threatened working with them.  I also have a great deal of experience with teens. I relate to them rather well.

She tilted her head and said, “Do you still do that sort of thing. Dance, I mean?”

And there it was . . . that pivotal moment when I was once again at the dance crossroads.
I could have said, “I’m retired now,” and let dance slip into oblivion again. But I didn’t. I looked at the faces of those kids, their confessions and personal grief still ringing in my ears, and said, “You bet I do. Want to set up some classes?”

Now, I should point out that around here they don’t have much in the way of arts education, at least not in the dance venue. So my class will no doubt rock their world. The fact is, for all that I don’t teach dance for a living anymore, I still believe in the power of dance to reach deep into the soul of someone who needs an outlet for expression. And heck, I’m the girl to help get the job done.

I have some strong feelings about dance and its role in my life at this point. When I was young, I felt I truly made a difference in the lives of my students. But as the years wore on and the culture of Sarasota changed, shifting the mindset of the students, I started to feel that what I was doing for a living was superficial nonsense. Dance lost its magic for me when it became clear our role was nothing but to stroke egos and entertain kids. I wanted my life to have more meaning than that.

I wrote a book in my master’s program about a dancer who is retiring. The character is filled with anger and
disappointment and bitterness about her art. But she begins teaching a class of mentally handicapped students, and this becomes her salvation. By working with this bedraggled lot of awkward students, she rediscovers love for the art, remembering the purity and beauty of dance when competitiveness, ego and the pursuit of perfection is cast aside. She rediscovers how dance can bring out the extraordinary in a person. Teaching heals her and helps her cope with the inevitable way an artist looses dance firsthand through the aging process. When Mark read the book he said it was very disturbing because it revealed the complex feelings I was dealing with in regards to my life’s work. And, of course, it reflected what he was going through too.

Anyway, thinking about all that now, I realize that teaching a few classes to lost souls who need something positive to help their self esteeme would not only be helpful, but would probably be just the thing I need too. I certainly am qualified, and while I’m older than I once was, I can still out-dance and out-teach more than a few people who are active in the field. I’m retired, but, heck, I’m still me.

I’d say the hardest thing Mark and I have had to cope with during our life change is this nagging feeling that we are not using our God given gifts. It feels downright wrong for us not to be involved in dance anymore, and the guilt and remorse we experience over that loss is hard to describe. But despite these feelings, we can’t go back because having witnessed all the disappointments and frustrations selling our school triggered, we can’t bear participation in the dance world anymore. It is painful. Nevertheless, if teaching will make a difference to someone (beyond the superficial) I can and will be a part of it .

So, I’ll be teaching a class for mentally handicapped students, and another one for emotionally handicapped kids, soon. Can’t wait. And I’ll be a mentor to one teen. Bet that will be interesting too.

Speaking of interesting, the other day I accompanied Kathy to her drug court meeting. It turned out to be a court appointed Alcoholics anonymous course. There were 95 people participating with only one therapist and one volunteer trying to oversee everyone. I was overwhelmed with the futility of the task at hand considering the lack of resources.

All evening I heard people stand and say, “Hi, I’m Dave and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Dave” the crowd says in response.
“Hi, I’m Sandy and I’m an addict.”
“Hi Sandy,” we all recite. Then she gives us her testimony.
I learned so much by observing these people. It helps me understand Kathy and her struggle better too, which was the point of going. But I must say, my heart bled for the troubled people I met and the stories I heard about their struggles.

For a while, they were working in small groups and I was just observing. A group of about 10 women were trying to interpret text and have a discussion about it, but often they missed the point. It killed me not to speak up or try to lead them back into what the book was trying to teach. They even had issues with understanding the actual words on the page when reading aloud. One time, they came to a word no one knew (I think it was “manifest”,  and they all looked at each other, lost. Then Kathy looked at me, and all eyes followed. I explained what the word meant, and they were like, “Oh. OK. That makes sense.”
The fact that these individuals are dealing with drug addiction, family violence (one woman had a black eye that she explained was “man trouble again”, and to top it off, they had inadequate education, made the problems they face seem tenfold. I admired them all for their resilience, yet felt deeply for their plight knowing most of them will never know the lovely side of the world that I take for granted, thanks to the advantages I’ve had.
   
On the walls, I saw pictures drawn by participants that stated their goals. Several women wrote “I just want to get my kids back.” 
One said, “I just want to stop hurting the people I love.”
Several referred to wanting a decent place to live, or “to not lose my house.”
Kathy’s said, “I want to learn to read.”
It was so real – so dismal – it shook me to the core.

When I came home I said to Mark that it kills me to witness so much need in our community, because there is only so much one person can do to help. I felt inspired to volunteer at that organization, but I am already committed in several other places, and no matter how strongly I feel about the issue, I can’t take on all the problems of the world.

I have thought a lot about my personal skills and what I have to offer others, and I keep thinking writing may be the best vehicle I have going for me at this juncture of my life. I haven’t mentioned it, but I have been asked to help design and promote an adult education program at Tocco College and I am working with the director to organize classes. The first class they want to introduce is a memoir writing class and a fiction class taught by yours truly. Yes, I’ll be teaching others to write in January. I guess that’s a no-brainer considering I’m a natural teacher, a writer, and now, I have the degree to authenticate my teaching. But planning that class has got me thinking. If I am going to become a writing teacher and prepare lessons, I don’t have to limit it to tuition paying adults. Imagine what I will learn if I choose to turn those skills on to people with remarkable, heart rendering stories to share with the world? All repressed, hurting people need is someone to help them learn how to expand their universe and understand their obsticles.

I think writing is a healing process and a way to discover the best in you. It certainly clarifies my thoughts, and I believe I tapped into my authentic self when I began putting my feelings into words. Why not share that experience with others?

So, I talked to a woman involved at the Ester House, which is a halfway house for women overcoming drug addiction and we are going to discuss setting up a memoir writing class for the residents. It is a start, I think. And if it goes well, perhaps I’ll branch out to other populations that need someone supportive to help them work out their feelings on paper. If nothing else, I will learn something from my efforts. It will teach me to be a better writing teacher at least. Practice makes perfect.

The point is, I feel myself evolving. I am creating a world where I am carrying the best of what I once was forward, while exploring what else I have inside too. Who knows where it will lead. Someplace new, I guess.

So now, dance is making a comeback in my life, albeit a small one. And writing is gaining a foothold, expanding it’s presence.
Interesting.

Sixty is a lot of miles. To get a good idea of just how long it is, next time you get on the highway going 60 miles an hour, take note of just how far you go in an hour’s time. You are probably many, many, many cities away from where you began – maybe a third of the way through your state. Imagine getting out of the car and saying, “I think I’ll just walk back now”. You will laugh when you witness just how far it is.

I often walk on my treadmill and I can cover 5.5 miles in an hour – no sweat. Even with a nice incline. So I figured it would take us about 4 hours a day to walk a twenty mile route. Three days of that – no problem. But as everyone signed up agreed, the three day mile is not a normal mile, because the course involves eight to ten hours of hard walking time each day, even going at a brisk clip. With lunch and a few breaks, that means you are out on the road for eleven hour days. Perhaps it’s the hills and curbs and endless stretches of pavement that makes it harder. All I know is, I underestimated how difficult walking 60 miles would be. Everyone did.

But I’m proud to say, I walked (and hobbled) the entire route. Many, many people took the sweep vans to a forward stop or all the way into camp as the day wore on. Even Denver had to call it a day after the first ten miles (on day two) when her knees started bothering her. I was determined to walk the entire 60, so I plodded on without her. The next day, she finished the route with me, so it isn’t like she is a slacker – she did walk 50 out of 60, which is still a lot of miles. And she was hurting, let me tell you.

Everywhere you looked, people were injured. The medical tents at each stop were swarmed with people having blisters lanced and strains looked after. Half the people there had wrapped knees and ankles, people were icing ligaments and rubbing sore feet, lying down with wet kerchiefs on their foreheads. I have a pretty hardy body, so by the third day, I only had the normal muscle soreness and one blister on my baby toe. On day three, I noticed my big toenail had turned a light shade of blue, but beyond that, I held up rather well. My most painful day was day three (as it was for everyone) and what really did me in wasn’t walking – it was driving back to our hotel squished into the car with luggage on my lap at the end of the day. It was a 30 minute drive, followed by another hour and a half to drive home. I could barely get out of the car.

I think the thing that made this walk hardest was the fact that you must sleep in a tent on the hard ground each night, which isn’t very kind to a body that has been abused. It is freezing out at night, so your muscles cramp and seize. I would have given my kingdom for a warm bath to get the kinks out each evening, because that is how I endure physical taxing, and always has been. Had I been staying in a hotel where I could have refreshed between each length of the journey, I know I would have covered the 60 with nary a sore bone. But you are roughing it in the three day. After day one, you limp into camp and they hand you a tent which you must put up yourself. You can’t help but think, “You have GOT to be kidding.” But they are about the easiest tents to put up I’ve ever encountered, so even that isn’t so bad.  Denver and I were ready to collapse and maybe hobble to the dining tent, when someone said, “They judge the tent decorations in about ten minutes, if anyone is interested.” Eeek. So we quickly slapped together a sorry looking boob infested tent. People were amused. Had we not been so tired, or had we planned in advance, we could have done a better job, but for first-timers, I think we did alright. All weekend after that, people would pass and say, “Wow, can I feel your boobs.”   Now, it isn’t like I haven’t had that question asked of me before, but rarely has it come from a bunch of women. We ended up giving away our boobs on the second day to the people who admired them most.

The wonderful organization and the logistics of this event amazed me. They served warm food to three thousand people and it was good. We all had hot water for a short shower in a mobile shower unit each night. They had medical help at the ready. But best of all was the upbeat spirit of those supporting the walkers. Everyone was in a good mood and endlessly encouraging. That made the walk bearable. The best part was the people you continued to meet. Everywhere you look ,you’d see people, young and old participating. Everyone is there for a reason. They are wearing pictures and/or names of loved ones they’ve lost or are walking in honor of, and you hear stories and meet survivors. You pass people and people pass you, so all day you are hit with images of breast cancer victims and hear their stories, good and bad. It is remarkable that this disease touches so many lives.

So it is no wonder so many people are active regarding helping to find a cure. And these are commited people who don’t feel sorry for themselves, who have a sense of camaraderie and love for others. At the crosswalks, volunteers are dressed up in amusing ways, wearing pink tutus and cowboy hats and capes and hula skirts and what have you, and they are cranking up the music, dancing, slapping you five and singing “keep going, keep going,” for hours on end. And when the walkers finally pass, they drive to a forward stop and you see them again. They become familiar faces and they feel like good friends.

Then, there are the walker groupies. We kept seeing one man over and over. He would be at one corner playing the guitar and singing a song he made up about the breast cancer three day. Then, we’d see him an hour later with a little pom pom saying “Woo”. Later we’d see him at another corner with Halloween candy. Denver and I started looking for him in crowds at cheer stations, and he was always there – it was like Where’s Waldo, so Denver and I started calling him Waldo. We decided he must be jumping in a car to hurry ahead of us each time the group finally passed. Finally, on day three as we got to our final destination (and of course he was there at the finish line), we asked him if he had someone walking and he said his wife was out there with us. He devoted the entire weekend to cheering her and everyone else on. He was cute and memorable, so we got a picture with him.

There was a group of older, gray haired women in a decorated convertible that called themselves the “Walker Stalkers.” They appeared over and over dressed in funny get-ups, cheering us on, driving the route and honking obnoxiously and shouting jokes or pelting us with candy. They became our best cheerleaders and we loved them.  

All along the route, people honk cars, waved, shouted “thank you for walking!” and offered us tokens, like candy or a drink. It is one endless three day party. Best of all were the cops. They had these handsome cops on motorcycles that looked like Chippendale dancers. They drove around all day in dark glasses, muscles bulging saying, “You ladies need anything?” and we would all laugh as our minds answered the question in the most inappropriate ways. It became quite a joke among the walkers as we wondered how they managed to find so many hard body cops to work one project. They were inspirational in the best of ways.

So many of the traditions of this event are touching. For example, you will be eating dinner two hours after you’ve arrived in camp and suddenly they announce “Our last two walkers have just arrived,” and everyone will stand and clap wildly as they parade these bedraggled, limping women through the dining hall. Everyone is shouting support and the poor walkers are crying with pride and relief, and it is really funny and beautiful all at once. Or when they parade the walkers who are also survivors into the closing ceremonies, and all three thousand walkers hold up their tennis shoes as a sign of respect to remind everyone that we are walking for them. Lovely in it’s symbolism. 

Thousands of people came out to cheer us on. I was touched by so many comments and signs of good will and support. Like the Girl Scout troops that stood out by the roads and cheered, handing us candy and holding up posters that say “Thank you for making a better world for young women like us!” These kids decorated our port-a-potties and that was cute too. People came out with their children, sitting in lawn chairs hooting and hollering and clapping as the endless processing of walkers lumbered by. It takes almost 4 hours for three thousand walkers to pass, but the crowds hang in there. While walking through a residential area, a man was sitting at the end of his driveway clapping. He’d made a sign that said, “My mother would have thanked you,” and it had her picture and the date she passed on from breast cancer. (Denver and I both cried over that one. All weekend it seemed we were either laughing or crying.) There was a bald women out there clapping and telling us to “hang in there”, yet it was obvious she is battling cancer, so we shouted back, “You too.”
I could go on for hours with the moving things I witnessed during that long, long walk.

By the end you are on automatic pilot and it seems like port-o-potties and blisters are all life is about anymore. And pink! Everywhere you look you see pink, until you feel like you are in another, parallel pink universe. I don’t much like pink after years of being drenched in it with dance paraphanilia – but it became a color of hope and symbolic action that earned my respect. When we crossed the finish line, we were celebrating with thousands upon thousands of people, all joined together, suffering together, laughing together, for a common cause. It felt like humanity at it’s best.

 

 


We signed my Mom’s name to about a hundred signs, the memory tent, and more than a few honor banners.
At the end, we were so tired  we could barely stand up (as this picture shows). I guess these pictures are more a bad hair day fashion show than anything else, but what do you expect when you are plugging on without a daily shower to start you up, or blow dryers or makeup or mood lighting. Well, it wasn’t about looking good anyway. It was about feeling good, and that part was a sucess.


It was a good thing to do – a great thing to do with your daughter. Now, I need to wrestle up a foot rub somewhere.

P.S. For those of you wondering, there is still time to donate. We have four weeks to get our money in, and Denver and I are still working on it. www.the3day.org/atlanta07/ginnyhendry 

for those of you who did support us in this project – THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU.

I’m on my way to go walk 60 miles. Weather looks good – coolish, but pretty out. I’ve got my compression sleeping bag and cancer sucks shirt and pink whatnots, and whatever else I can fit in my one, small duffel that is allowed. We’ve opted to forgo an air mattress or pillow to make room for 30 joke jelly boobs and pink ribbon and tulle to decorate our tent. Just goes to show how frivolous our priorities are. I’m sure that after walking 20 miles each day, I’ll be sorry about that choice . Ah well, what we lack in practicality we make up for in enthusiasm. I’ve packed a book and a flashlight, but I’m guessing Denver won’t let me read – she’ll want to talk. Nevertheless, I don’t travel without something to read, so I made room by tossing out something less important – I think it was the sunscreen.   Not like I was going to get rid of my popcorn stash. Can’t expect me to survive 3 days without that! Thankfully, Advil does not take up much room.

I am ready. Excited. Looking forward to spending a weekend with three thousand other female activists. Better yet, I’m looking forward to three interesting days alone with my daughter. I’m thinking this will be one of those experiences that cements meaningful memories – the kind we will both carry into our old age. That alone is worth any number of blisters or sore feet.  And of course, I’ll be thinking of my own mom.  Afterall, this is mostly about her.  

I am bringing a camera, so I’ll return with pictures. Not like we’ll be our glamorous best, but I’m counting on the scenery to be interesting enough to make up for that.

Think of me when you snuggle up in your comfortable bed. I’ll be passed out on the hard earth, feet trobbing,  in a tent covered in bows and jelly boobs.

Friday, I had the task of going to the five different locations to check on the raffle baskets Denver and I made, pick up any funds collected, draw a winning ticket and notify the recipient to get them. One basket did very well because the owner of the business was enthusiastic about the cause and she encouraged people to purchase tickets. I guess we made about 300.00 in that case. In the other four locations, we didn’t even make enough to cover the costs of the baskets, so we ended up doing all that work to break even. Drat. I found our beautiful, lush baskets shoved off in a corner on the floor behind a coat rack or under a desk. Our community is featuring a raffle for “Toys for Tots” with Christmas coming, and apparently, the raffle tickets for this fundraiser are everywhere. I guess the businesses here think helping to raise money for toys is a more worthy cause than breast cancer, because face it, it’s certainly more fun to imagine kids smiling on Christmas than women dying of breast cancer. Anyway, they were quick to replace our baskets with the other fundraiser literature and no one thought to call to notify us of the decision. It was rather frustrating to find the baskets we slaved over pushed aside and forgotten. Of course, no one is going to buy a ticket to win something they don’t know exists.

 

Whatchagonnado, you just don’t know what will work until you try. I chalked it up to bad luck and I just wanted to pick winners and get the baskets off my to-do list. But something happened that made me realize raising money for breast cancer was not the reason we made the baskets – at least not in the big cosmic scheme of rhyme and reason.

 

At one location, a bank that happened to sell the least tickets (this basket only raised 24.00 while it held over 100.00 in beautiful goods within, not to mention the time and effort devoted to all the handcrafted items inside) I drew a man’s name. David Morgan. I called him to tell him he’d won and could pick up his basket at the bank. He had a mature voice and sounded very delighted. He said he had never won anything before.  But he also told me that he and his wife had discussed what to do with the basket if they won, and they decided they’d like to donate it to someone who is actually battling breast cancer. They figured a woman dealing with something like that could really use some pampering. He said, “Can you handle that for me?”

 

I told him I certainly could, and called Denver to tell her about our winner’s generous attitude. We both had someone in mind. 

 

On the day we had the soggy bake sale (another not so successful fundraising concept . . . what can I say, our heart and effort is in the right place but it seems fate is working against us) a woman came sloshing through the rain to be our first customer. She works in a legal office next door and she bought 20.00 worth of muffins and cakes and then took a fundraiser slip to her boss. He also made a generous donation. 

 

We told her we were surprised she bothered to face the rain to visit us, because it looked as if no one else was going to. She said, “I been waiting all week for you and I wouldn’t miss it just because of rain.” Then she told us that she had breast cancer, and had just finished chemo and radiation. She stood there in the rain sharing some of her ordeal, thanking us for working for a cure. She was very positive and friendly, and after she left, Denver and I both talked about how everywhere we went, we met people who had breast cancer or people with someone very dear to them battling it, some surviving, some not. Once you get involved with breast cancer fundraising, it is remarkable how many people come forward to share their story.

 

Anyway, I met this woman again at our closing, because it took place in her office, and she was very gracious and lovely. We again talked of her health and she said she was “hanging in there.”

 

Since she is the one person we know in this area who is actively fighting breast cancer now, I decided to take the basket to her. I had to rush because it was a Friday and I had already devoted a full day to running these baskets around and I just wanted to be finished with them.  When I went into the office, I saw her at the desk. She was not her smiley self. Her wig seemed a bit off, and her eyes were puffy. Her skin even looked gray. She greeted me, but her smile was vacant. I was shocked.

 

I told her about the basket and the man who wanted to pass it on, and that Denver and I had thought of her and decided she was probably just the person it was meant for. She got up from the desk, put her arms around me, and then burst into tears. She told me she’d had been a particularly bad day and I would never know how this particular day she desperately needed something nice to happen to her. Things were not going well for her, but it was very uplifting to think someone out there cared. Just when life feels darkest, she needed reminding that she is not alone. Looking at her, so dejected and sick looking, I suddenly knew that all this basket work that Denver and I felt compelled to do was not about fundraising at all. It was about this moment. It was a very poignant, life affirming moment.

 

I called Denver to share what had happened, and driving home I was feeling pretty good about it all. So, I decided I should share that feeling with the man who actually chose to give the basket away. I called him and said, “David, I just wanted to thank you for your generosity again, and to let you know that the few dollars you donated to the raffle will help, but the decision you made to give the basket away to someone with breast cancer made a huge difference to one person. I thought you’d like to know.”

 

He thanked me for calling to let him know how the story ended and told me he couldn’t wait to tell his wife because he knows it will mean a great deal to her too.   

 

I got off the phone, marveling at how a brief decision and a small act of generosity made so many people feel good. David and his wife feel good, because they are obviously caring people who want to give something back to the world. Just giving away a few bucks to a good cause is the kind of thing we barely remember – it feels disconnected. Now, he has a concrete image in his mind of how his donation really made a difference to one person. That day when he threw a dollar into our bucket skewed the fateful end of this event. Denver and I feel good about making those baskets now, even if they didn’t make any money for the cause. Had someone else won and walked away with an expensive basket at our loss, I’d be feeling pretty frustrated by our insufficient returns on all our efforts, and may give up devoting so much time to a good cause in the future – cause what is the point if no one else out there cares? Now, thankfully, I feel differently.  Last but not least, the recipient of the basket feels good, because in the middle of her private nightmare, she was reminded that even strangers care and are pulling for her.

 

Sometimes it feels the problems of the world are too massive for one person to make a difference. We assume we can’t make a dent in the problem, so we do nothing. . . except complain about the problem. But today reminded me that even slight acts of good will, however small, can make a difference.  So I will continue my small acts knowing there may be a chain reaction that creates ripples on the flat water of despair. You just never know when these ripples add up and suddenly you are making waves.  It is not about saving the world on a macro level. It is about making the world a gentler, easier place to exist for a even one real person, helping on the micro level. For example, I can’t end world hunger, but I’ve sponsored a child in Ethiopia for over 14 years, so I know one person is not starving because of me. And to that one person, I know my efforts make a huge, life altering difference.

 

When you think, “What can I do, I’m only one person”, remember that life can and should be, very personal. “One person” helping “one person” is life at it’s finest. 

Only a down and dirty girl like me could fully appreciate a project focused entirely on efforts to live clean. That must explain why I had such a nice time this weekend at the John C. Campbell Folk School learning to make soap. We’re not talking glycerin soap here, the kind of soap made by melting prefabricated chunks of glycerin soap, adding some scent and pouring it into molds. We’re talking about rendering animal fat and working with lye to make organic soap from scratch. We’re talking about adding essential oils extracted from the earth’s bounty (not fragrance oils that are synthetic) and combining fats and oils, such as jojoba or shea butter, olive oil, lanolin, cocoa butter, and/or bees wax to add texture and lather to the soap, then throwing in herbs, poppy seeds or oatmeal to create other properties, such as exfoliation or ambiance. (The lye actually kills any scent from spices, teas or herbs, but they look lovely in the soap and it does enhance the illusion of scent which comes from the essential oils alone. Who knew?)  We’re talking about adding natural clay to the mixture so the soap draws oil from the skin while coloring the bars naturally. The combinations are endless, the recipes flexible.  Cold processing was fascinating! Decorating the bars at the end to make a pretty display was fun too.

I usually read about any subject I’m going to explore before going to a new class. I feel better if I go in with an intellectual foundation on a new subject so I know what questions to ask, but this time, I didn’t find the time to do any advanced research, so I went in without any concept of what making soap entailed. It was more involved than I expected, but in the best of ways.

When people heard I was taking a class to learn how to work with bees, they said, “Gee, you are brave. That seems so dangerous.” Ha. That was nothing. Bees are small and fuzzy and covered in sticky sweetness.  Now, making soap – THAT is something scary. Because lye can kill you. It can cause blindness, serious burns and if ingested, you die.

To begin, we combined natural lye to water. Instantly the water heats up to 130 degrees or higher, a chemical reaction that makes it seems as if lye has a life of its own. While waiting for it to cool naturally, we whipped up oils, such as coconut oil, olive oil and palm kernel flakes, some of which had to be melted first. These were added when both pots were around 100 degrees.

My teacher kept saying things like, “Never pour the liquid into the lye – ALWAYS pour the lye into the liquid solutions. Otherwise, you can have a volcano effect which will blow up in your face and scar you for life.”

Um… thanks for the heads up. Meanwhile, I’m thinking that, with my memory for details, I’m a goner for sure. Vinegar neutralizes lye, so at least with a spray bottle at the ready; I have a fighting chance at surviving this hobby. This is me handling lye (notice I forgot to put my mask on. Ee-gad.)

I know what you are thinking – this is a good look for me. Yep, I am ever so glamorous nowadays. i should be a pinup for soapmaker quarterly, don’t ya think?

(I wasn’t sleeping at the job – probably just praying the stuff wouldn’t explode all over me.)
 
Each student made two batches of soap, one with goat’s milk and the other a Castile soap. After the first day, it hardened enough to cut into bars. Some people decorated it with oatmeal or herbs crusts – especially when the batches hardened quickly so they were not as pretty as we wanted. That is something that will get better with practice. We were told you can’t overmix, but, um… obviously you can. Our second batches were all better than our first (for looks).


 My friend Patty (married to the fellow who draws Spiderman for Marvel Comics – standing in front on the right in red) took the class as well, and we made a pact to share our batches in the end. We ended up trading with the other people in class anyway, so everyone went home with a sample of scented soaps, each with individual properties. It was a casual class, with supportive new friends that encouraged experimentation while offering creative support. I enjoyed the great conversation and camaraderie. Here are a few of my new friends at the end of session show as we show off our sample trays.


We learned about tracing, curing, saponification, and SAP value.  Making soap is not unlike making wine, heavily dependant upon chemistry and learning about the unique properties each individual ingredient offers. Actually, I thought it was a lot like making fudge. You heat the ingredients to a particular stage, mix, then wait for a specific sign that it is beginning to turn and quickly slap it into a prepared pan before it hardens or seizes up. Soap even looks like fudge, almost good enough to eat. Of course, you can’t even use soap for the first four weeks, much less eat it, because the lye is still so strong it will burn you. Raw soap must rest first and cure before you actually put it to your skin.

I must admit, I really felt disappointed that I do not have a sense of smell this weekend, because so much of making soap revolves around scent. Of course, scent has nothing at all to do with a soap’s effectiveness or how the skin reacts – but people like smelly soap – they are drawn to soap because of its scent now adays because they associate this to luxery. The class spent an hour sniffing the raw essential oils, combining droplets on a card to create just the right, appealing scent to suit their taste before they made their decisions. I watched, jealous.

Patty was my nose for hire. She picked out scents for me. I ended up making one soap with clove, cinnamon and orange, and the other a fresh cucumber scented soap. She made orange and rosemary, and a flowery scent. I tried to marble my cucumber batch by using fern colored clay in a portion of the soap and lacing it through. I imagined this would make the batch look “cucumbery”. It turned out nice. 

Some people liked making smooth, skinny bars. I opted for big hefty fat bars with a rustic look. It was fun watching everyone experiment to create a soap that fit their idea of organic, homemade luxury. It all looked appealing to me, and whether it was left to cure in Pringles cans, in big square boxes or smaller bins, the variety of shapes and textures was as interesting as the diverse recipes. I can’t wait to try all these soaps out in a few weeks. In the meantime, they sure look pretty in the big hat box I brought to carry it home. This is all the soap I made in the class. (that’s cranberry seeds decorating my bumpy bars. It’s a stretch, I know, but I was trying to make it look pretty.)

 

I asked the teacher questions about how to make coffee, tea, and cocoa scented soaps because I was thinking I might make a line of earthy brew scented soaps, lotions and bath salts to sell in our shop. I asked Mark if he thought it was a good idea. He said, “If you love doing this, go for it. Coffee soaps would be a great addition to our store.”

After all, the class also taught us how to bottle, package and market homemade soaps too. Homemade organic soap is a viable business up here.

I thought about his comment later. “If I love it.”
Humm… do I love making soap? Good question. The fact that I can make professional grade organic soaps now is fun, but that does not mean I should do it full throttle. Because honestly, I can’t say I LOVE it.

I certainly know I love learning new things, and this class was no disappointment. I can’t wait to experiment some more at home. I imagine homemade soaps will make great gifts and I’ll probably save a bundle if I start making my own skin products, because I’m a girl who loves bath salts, lotions and the like, despite my “broken smeller”. And I will have a big herb garden next season, so I will enjoy making my own shampoos etc.. because gathering the ingredients from my garden will make it more meaningful – it seems so natural and wholesome to collect things from the earth and put them to productive use. I purchased several books on making soaps and lotions to do more research at home. I’ll no doubt experiment with a variety of homemade bath products. But would I like to make a business of soap making and become a slave to meeting demand if customers enjoy the product? Do I want to brainstorm ways to market something I am making, perhaps having to set up booths at craft fairs to move the product to make the investment of time and effort worth it? Who am I kidding? Probably not.

I’ve learned that I will embrace just about any interest if I allow myself to do so. And I have so many now, it is almost laughable. The thing is, everything takes time, and as sliver after sliver of my life gets consumed by special interests, I notice that the things I really want to devote myself to suffer. I am talking primarily about my writing, of course.

I loved dance. I loved it more than anything, and as such, I didn’t mind forgoing other interests to serve the art well. So many things I would have enjoyed doing were push aside for years and years during my term as a dancer. I was never sorry, because dance filled my heart and soul and it enriched my life in the best of ways. I didn’t need much else in my world. Good thing, because there wasn’t room for much else.

I love writing now. Writing is how a person brings order to the chaos of life. For me, it is how I get to truly know myself. I love organizing my thoughts and defining them, or in cases of writing fiction, I love losing myself in the vast universe of imagination. I love creating characters that personify all I admire in others. I fall in love with them and they become a part of me – or perhaps they are a part of me to begin with, and this hidden element of my personality suddenly takes on a life of it’s own through a designed character, bringing that part of me to the surface. Yes, I love writing and how it puts the world into perspective for me.

I LIKE making soap. I LIKE making wine and jam and keeping a garden and beekeeping and spinning fiber. I LIKE my horses – (no, I love them, its true – they do something for my soul). I LIKE hiking and making jewelry and baking muffins and making gourmet meals . I LIKE all these things A LOT – and I’m good at them. But I don’t love these things enough to sacrifice too much time from the projects I feel are more important to my heart. Knowing this, I must keep it all in perspective. I will make soap for fun because fun (and diversity) in life is important. I will probably have a house full of soap soon, just as I have hundreds of bottles of wine building up. I will no doubt make some soap for the store one day too. I’ll seduce Mark into spending a night helping me scent the stuff (my handicap is a nuisance, but it doesn’t have to stop me) with wood and forest scents, and/or cappuccino flavors. But I don’t imagine I’ll ever decide to commit myself to manufacturing earthy soaps, even if my concoctions sell well – any more than I expect to build my home wine making into the Hendry Valley Brewery. Not that these goals couldn’t be aspired to if I was driven to accomplish them– but home craft production is not something I feel passionate enough about to devote huge chunks of my life to.

The truth is, I am exploring new things all the time, because dancing so long and so obsessively, I became starved for diverse intellectual input. I crave new experiences and can’t seem to get enough now that dance has been shelved. But in the end, I hope to channel all the new things I’m experiencing into written pieces – and unfortunately, that demands time. Lots and lots of concentrated time.  The pie can only be sliced so many times without starved out the diners. So I must be careful with my inclination to embrace a new project with such enthusiasm. Time to slow down and refocus. Time to write more, play less.

But even as I say this, I must admit that I can never go to the Campbell school without signing up for another class in the future. Whether the next endeavor is in 6 weeks or six months, I am so enamored by the creative atmosphere and the non-competitive environment – so appreciative of the wonderful people and the holistic aura of the classes, that I can’t resist committing to one more session. It is as if, by signing up, I assure I’ll stay involved. I don’t want to let life get so busy I forget the important things – to live a creative life, sharing positive experiences with like minded people.

So . . . What did I sign up for this time? Don’t laugh.  Intro to Fly fishing.

Mark said, “Fly fishing? You are so weird. That class will just be a bunch of old men. Why on earth does a girl like you want to take fly fishing? Why don’t you take weaving. You’ve been interested in that for some time.”

I reminded him that everything we learn doesn’t have to be a craft or art related project. I know it seems out of character, but I’ve been thinking about fishing a lot since we moved here.  My dad took me fishing all the time growing up. I never appreciated it much, because I wanted to be left home so I could dance all the time. As such, I felt forced and I didn’t embrace it. I didn’t pay attention to the subtleties of fishing technique – I didn’t enjoy the experience as much as I would have had I just paused to let the nature and my Dad’s company soak into my soul. I think I missed out. 

We live right on the best fly fishing waters this side of America. I see old geezers out there all the time in their wading boots tossing out a line. I am jealous of their solitude, the quiet as they stand in the rippling waters alone with their thoughts. I want to be out there in nature too. Just me and a rod and, hopefully, a fish or two.  (Not to mention, I adore old men. They flirt in the best of ways – they know how to flatter a girl while never taking themselves seriously. Fun. ) Yes, I will enjoy learning all about fly fishing. The week long class will teach technique, how to tie flies, and even how to determine a good fishing spot etc…. The class is in late October, so I’ll be out there wading in the water with other nature lovers as fall leaves add ambiance I can’t wait! I will probably end up signing up for the class on how to make a handcrafted bamboo fly fishing rod  in Feb. knowing me.

The way I look at it, my interests are compatible. I can get all fishy and stinky when I crave a bit of solitude, then I can go home and wash up with my lovely homemade soap.  Contrast makes a person interesting. I don’t suppose I’ll look too glamorous in my waist high wading boots and an old fishing jacket. I’ll wear a hat sporting my hand tied lures, my hair askew and no make-up.. But while fishing, I can write at the same time. I will weave stories in my head, because I’ve found that when I’m out in nature, I do my best thinking. And fishing is something you can do alone, or with others. I can share what I learn with my kids or a friend. Or, I can use it as an excuse to be by myself to meditate on the water.  And fishing (if sucessful) gives you something you can bring into the kitchen too – everyone knows I love anything that leads to meaningful cooking. 

It just goes to show you that when you walk through one door, you never know where it will lead you next. I learned to make soap this weekend, and that will lead me to fishing.
 
Isn’t life interesting? Wonder what fishing will lead too. . . hummm……

Denver calls me at 9:30. “Ready to go?”
“I think we should cancel. The rain is pretty bad.”
“After all this cooking? Not on your life!”

So, off to the bakesale we go. We have about 30 minutes of overcast weather, then the skies open up and it gets WORSE than before (if that is possible.) Sigh.

 
It was a pretty bakesale while it lasted, if “pretty”  counts for anything. We had balloons and boa and hershey kisses decorating the table. One man came by and bought five items (1.00 each) and gave us a ten. A woman who works next door bought thirteen items and told us she just finished chemo for breast cancer. She took our donation slip and talked her boss (a lawyer) into sending  $100.00. Yippee. Even if we didn’t sell much more, that made facing the rain worth the effort. We also met the other neighbor who has an antique shop, and she bought some baked goods to put in the store. They sell coffee and food, but they chose not to bake today because they knew we were coming. That was kind. I will enjoy being their neighbor. 
  
We had made earrings to sell, but it wasn’t as if anyone was thinking fashion today. Had we brought unbrellas for sale, we might have made a killing.


When the skies started pouring down buckets, our potential customers stood across the street under a shelter. They waved, but they weren’t willing to tackle the weather for a brownie. Meanwhile, the grass where we were setup started to flood. Uh Oh. This does not look good. As we sank deeper and deeper, I argued for closing down. Denver was determined to sit the full time. When that girl is on a mission! I had to leave at 1:00. She stuck it out another hour until the train departed. All together we had about eight customers. Dang.

   
People said they saw our signs and they felt badly about our bad weather luck. Only 40 people were on the train, but tomorrow, they have sold over 250 tickets and the weather should be better – only tomorrow, neither one of us is available.

In the end, we made $150, and passed out a few donation slips. We have a plan to put our leftovers into pretty baskets and deliver them to businesses, like real estate offices, with a letter asking the employees to make donations if they’ve enjoy the offering.  Can’t hurt. Not like we want to eat all this stuff. I will take some to the Campbell school tomorrow for my soap making class and hit the students up for a donation. I have no pride.

Drenched and dissapointed, at least we laughed about it. In the end, something like this brings a daughter and Mom together for a few hours of damp conversation and gives us something to remember and that is worth something. And hey, if good intentions count, we’ve earned brownie points to get into heaven. If not, then at least we have the actual brownies. 

Failing isn’t defined by effort that doesn’t work as planned. Failing is not trying, ya know.   

It’s raining. Huge torrential buckets coming down in sheets.
Shoot me.
Because you know what I sent ALL day doing yesterday?
Baking.

I made:
Apple Bran Muffins,
Chocolate Chip Banana Bran Muffins
Banana Muffins with Dates and nuts
Chocolate Cheesecake Muffins
Oatmeal Cinnamon Chip Cookies
Dark Chocolate Raspberry Cookies
Double Chocolate Mint cookies
Strawberry Jam Muffins (With homemade jam)
Chocolate Chunk Carmel Brownies
Mandarin Orange Cake



I packaged each in little servings with a pretty pink bow and identifying label.

You see, today we were having a bake sale for our breast cancer fundraiser.

I told Denver that bake sales don’t make much money for the time involved, especially considering it would be a two woman show. Usually, many people contribute to a bake sale, but if only two people are cooking, then it will be a lot of work, not to mention the cost of ingredients all coming from one kitchen for what will probably be not a huge return. But she was insistent that this was something we had to do. She said, “Not everything has to be fancy and made from scratch, Mom.”

Then she rolled her eyes as if remembering who she was taking too. I don’t cook anything that isn’t from scratch. Nevertheless she was so enthusiastic about the project, I couldn’t say no. She put pink flyers all over town, got a few friends to donate some baked goods, and called the City Hall to get permission. She bought us obnoxiously bright pink shirts that say “Cancer Sucks” to wear, and picked up balloons. What’s a mother to do? I started cooking.

One good thing is that we are setting up this bakesale on our new land in McCaysville across from the train station. This is the future home of our art gallery/coffee shop. I kind of like the idea of bringing my muffins to this place, because I’ll be establishing myself as resident gourmet baker in this very spot next year. This can be sort of a warm-up, pre-business experiment on how to present things well enough that people will want to buy them. And I’ll no doubt get to meet people who will be examples of our future customers. Fun.

Mark came into the kitchen yesterday afternoon and saw the explosion of flour, sugar and baking chocolate. He kissed me on the top of the head and said, “You are a good person.”

“Not really.” I grumbled. “At this point, I’m not baking for cancer. I’m just doing this for my daughter.”

He grinned. “I know.”

Anyway, it is 7:48 am. I’m holding out hope that the rain might stop and we can still have a soggy bake sale. If not, I don’t know what to do– perhaps I can freeze this stuff and we can try another day – only I really feel strongly that everything should to be fresh, which is why I chose to bake everything in one day.

Now, I’m settling down to make clay and glass earrings to sell too.  If you are going to bother to have a fundraiser, you might go to the trouble to do it well.

Denver leaves for her jewelry silversmith craftsmen school next week, so this is our last opportunity to work together towards our common fundraising goals. We are behind in our efforts, partially because we have four big baskets being raffled in area businesses and we haven’t picked up the earnings yet, and partially because living in this quiet town makes it mighty hard to fundraise. The dribbles coming in from friends can’t compete with corporate donations and the donations from acquaintances that people in the work force can pursue. And the little businesses around here can’t give much. We are plugging away however – doing our best. (And if you are one of those friends (ahem, luckily for you,  I would never name names J.S.) who said, “I’ll give later”, there is still time. www.the3day.org/atlanta07/ginnyhendry

But rain can’t ruin a day completely. The good news is, there a constant tapping coming from my incubator that is host to my 16 assorted breeds of duck eggs. Perhaps something fun is about to occur. The eggs are due to hatch tomorrow, but after the peacock disappointment and having left to go to Florida again so I wasn’t available to tend to them; I’m not expecting much – no reason to set myself up for dissapointment. If anything does hatch, it will be a special delight.

Ah, the rain has subsided. Might turn out to be a good day after all. Hope McCaysville is hungry and that lots of tourists ride the train today, despite the weather. I will wear my Cancer Sucks shirt, but I feel inclined to take a fabric marker and write (Rain sucks too) on it underneath. See what a whiner I can be.

Wish us luck.

 

Tomorrow, Mark and I will be going to Sarasota for a few days to help Cory set up business management systems for SRQ (the new school located in the previous FLEX building) and to teach some dance classes. I am looking forward to the trip, but I dread it too. Don’t laugh- it is possible to feel both sides of the spectrum in a case like this.

I’m looking forward to dancing and working with young students again. I miss the creative process and the energy of the student/teacher exchange. Mark and I both look forward to sharing what we know with Cory about building a stronger school. Mark will spend time with him in the office to set up systems to talk about the nuts and bolts of budgeting, taxes, etc… I must admit, I look forward to walking into our previous business without fear of being thrown out or treated with distain. Glad those days are over.

But I hate leaving my life here, even for a short while – I worry about the safety of my animals and I am uncomfortable stepping away from the daily routine I’ve come to enjoy. There is an intimacy connected to our relationships here. The people we encounter at shops or in the street all are quick to stop to chat and the general atmosphere is jovial and warm. I always go through culture shock when we step back into “civilization” – which seems rather uncivilized by comparison. I also hate canceling lessons with Kathy whenever I travel – which has been more often than you’d expect considering we are semi-retired.

I’m guessing I’m in for no small amount of discomfort. I will pay a steep price for being out of dance shape. I don’t hold back when in dance mode, which means I’ll have trouble walking after my first class. Ah well – while the wisdom gained from aging is nice, the physical challenges are no picnic. I deserve every ache and pain for being a big barn potato (as opposed to couch potato)  in Georgia, considering I have a workout room/studio right in my house.  But with the weather so beautiful, who can blame me for choosing nature over the mirror? I’ll return to the more traditional dance, pump and Pilates workouts soon when the winter lures me indoors.

Since FLEX crashed, 5 new dance schools have opened by people previously connected to us. I was told tonight that there are actually 9 new schools in Sarasota. Humm…… Everyone wants a piece of the pie. Forgive me for a moment of honesty, but sometimes it feels like the vultures are circling overhead to pick over the remains. We tried so hard to keep everyone together, a united front. We could have kicked FLEX with our baby toe and helped set the place up back at it’s best again under Cory’s lead. We believed that would be in the best interest for everyone involved. But I guess the last two years took their toll, and trust was hard for any one director to gain. If nothing else, the things that transpired after we left taught everyone that talk is cheap and good intentions can fall flat. In the end, I think everyone feels safer now manning their own boat. 

I also think people mistakenly believe that all they need do is hang out a shingle and throw a few kids into a room with anyone who knows a few dance steps and a school is born. If only it were that easy. Mark and I always spent far more time brainstorming and calling upon every ounce of our knowledge, experience and creativity to piece together a strong program than we ever spent actually teaching. Heck, teaching is the easy part.  In some cases, people are opening dance schools now with no real knowledge of dance education, other than office procedures or a smattering of dance experience. In other incidences, they are trying to copy the FLEX methods, atmosphere and systems, to be the “new FLEX”, falling short of the goal because they lack heart and/or ambition overrides all propriety or integrity. In these cases, I see a lot of effort being poured into image and hype, but little focus on what it takes to deliver on the promises. As such, I doubt all these schools will be around in a year or two.  Nevertheless, it makes the going rough for those who are qualified to run a school.

I should mention here that one of the newly spouted schools in Sarasota  has been opened by our former preschool teachers. (Stagedoor Preschool). They have a dance division too.  I’d like to publicly state that we understand and support their choice. We wish them the best and send them good wishes. (I also sent them some homemade wine to celebrate! Lord knows there is nothing a school owner needs more than a stiff drink when things get frustrating.) They are lovely teachers, very devoted, and they endured two years of hell, hanging on to the bitter end with unfailing commitment to their students and FLEX during the frustrating transition period. They deserve success, and Mark and I both pray they will find it. We think they will have a fine school. A small and specialized preschool most likely, but perhaps that is for the best. The bigger you are, the bigger your problems tend to be. And loving your school and being happy is key to serving it well and staying for the long haul. Take it from two people who were driven out of the business. Sad, but true.

While we feel no ill will towards people opening alternate schools, Mark and I are giving our physical support to Cory and SRQ– not because we are playing favorites, and not because they bought the building (heck, we did have other offers), but because we believe this couple will make the best candidate for building a school that will be closest to what we founded –the fact is, our school filled a viable need in the Sarasota community and we have felt badly since its demise. We still hope something decent will rise from the ashes.  I’ve been talking to Cory for months, long hours on the internet and on the phone, and while others are quick to ask how we attracted so many customers and made money, he always circles round to “how did you create such a strong school and keep up quality?” Cory is interested in the long term. He cares about dance education, and he understands that parents, even if they have the best intentions, are not qualified to run the show like some kind of backseat dance school driver. This means, he has to hold firm to his vision and work to make it pan out – that kind of directorship means you are not always the most popular fellow in town, but you sure are the most consistent.  I think that if Sarasota gives SRQ the chance, it will provide the dance education people are seeking. You certainly can trust Cory to teach those elements of dance that go beyond dance steps – the aspect of the art that builds character.

Anyway, without saying anything more about the dance school biz, I do want to say that I look forward to teaching again. I’ve missed it.

It’s funny. When getting my MFA they taught me to “read like a writer.” After that training, I can’t pick up a book, without seeing it through different eyes. I am no longer oblivious to technique or style, and as such, I can’t ever really lose myself in a story. I am always calculating how the author accomplishes his goals.

After years as a teacher/choreographer, I now listen to music as a dancer too. I never hear music and just enjoy the sound of it. I am always choreographing in my head, or contemplating how it could be used to teach a movement concept. I see huge production numbers in my head, always featuring my past students, I guess I see them because their body types and movement idiosyncrasy are imbedded as my last ingrained dance memory. Even tonight, as I listen to music choosing what to bring to the studio, I feel movement seep into my body and I see past students orchestrating it. The energy builds inside of me and with it, steps, concepts and teaching objectives – it is as if the ideas come through me, not from me. I am out of shape, yet just the thought of returning to the classroom makes me instantly feel like a dance teacher with lots to share once again. I wonder if this dance persona will ever leave me, or if this is some kind of art residue that will linger forever.

My only disappointment is that I know the students we will be teaching this trip will be new faces, or younger students that we were not heavily involved with during our tenure at FLEX. Working with young, eager dancers from any source is always a joy, but I will miss the faces of the students I knew and loved. They have all moved on to other schools, and their time and focus is carefully controlled and manipulated by their new teachers in ways I can’t begin to understand. It sure is peculiar from a mentor’s point of view, but what can you do? I’ll never get over their lack of respect or their rude dismissal after years of our involvement. But as I’ve said in the past, I can’t be accountable for the influences they’ve had after our term as teachers. Obviously, what we tried to instill about honoring and respecting those that contribute to your artistic growth didn’t stick. Or maybe it is just that our society (and the dancers in it) has changed and the new generations haven’t got the time or inclination to waste effort on anyone or anything that doesn’t serve their immediate interests.

Whatever . . . if nothing else, it makes me very glad we retired and left the dance world behind. I am old-school and I haven’t much tolerance for the “what’s in it for me NOW” approach to dance training. I guess my attitude is perfect proof that I’m an old fart. You know you’ve become crotchety when you start saying, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to…” and “when I was young, I walked 10 miles in the snow, uphill both ways, to pay homage to my teachers.” And the younger set rolls their eyes and blows you a big raspberry.

Ha. I am not as offended as I sound. I’ve long since passed the offended stage. I landed on disappointed and resignation long ago.    

So tonight I am preparing to reenter the dance world for few days. I had a busy day  getting ready to leave town. I tutored Kathy (*side note – cool thing happened today. She was reading from a book, her finger slowly tracing the words as she stumbled over them, and she came to a big word. She sighed, and then gave it a try. After sounding out the letters, she looked up at me with a grin and said, “Marvelous?”
“Yes… and isn’t it marvelous you can read that word?” I said.
She hooted with excitement, then slapped me five, because it really is a hard word, and not one she would have gotten a mere month ago. That brief moment – her beaming with pride and celebrating a simple thing like reading the word “marvelous”- stuck with me all day. Little things like that make life fun.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, I did laundry at a mat, because my laundry machine is broken and I have to have some clean clothes to pack, and I cooked some peach preserves, because I didn’t want my big bucket of peaches to go bad while I was away. I am now waiting for Denver to come over so I can take her on the animal rounds because she will keep the ranch creatures fed and cared for while we are gone. So after this busy day, tired and ready for a break, I am going down to the studio downstairs to pick out music and work out a few ideas in front of the mirror. Nothing like waiting for the last minute to prepare. But I know some of my best classes are the ones I do not plan – and you really can’t prepare a class when you don’t know the students in advance.

It is hard to believe that tomorrow at this time, I’ll be teaching jazz in the very space we practically lived in day and night for eighteen years. Mark will be teaching ballet. While visiting, we will go out with the teachers who maintained a relationship with us through it all, and they no doubt will make fun of me and my winemaking and peacock rearing experiences, as they are so fond of doing. It is fun celebrating friendship now that we are not “the boss”.  The ease between us and old acquaintances (and the laughter) is precious. We will teach again on Friday. On Saturday, Cory set up a master class where all the proceeds will be donated to my upcoming cancer walk. This was his idea, and I’m truly grateful, although his generosity didn’t surprise me a bit. It is just like Cory to give something back even though he has barely gotten organized himself in this new endeavor. That is the spirit of dance I’ve always tried to instill and one more example of why we feel good about him taking over where we left off. Anyway, it will be meaningful to me to teach in support of a cause I believe in. A nice way to end the visit.

Tonight, I will go to bed dreaming of dance, feeling like the old me. Thoughts of donkeys, llamas, horses and bees will be pushed to the back of my mind as I revisit my first and foremost love, dance. It feels good. I am grateful for the opportunity to teach again in the building that holds so many happy (and some not so happy) memories for us. I hope I will leave at least a small, but positive impression behind, a humble contribution to help set Cory’s dancers on a positive learning path. But mostly, I am glad to have an opportunity to walk through the halls of the place that will always be FLEX to me, to convene with my memories and make peace with the final end of an era.

It was a good school. A good school will take its place. Life goes on.

 

I went to the rodeo last weekend. Don’t laugh. I adore the rodeo and go every year. Denver and Diane have never been, so this year I invited them to come. Everyone needs to experience a rodeo at least once. Mark went to an arts auction fundraiser and didn’t make it back in time to join us. Honestly, I don’t think he worked that hard to get home at the designated time. He likes the rodeo, but there are other events he enjoys equally as much, and I didn’t mind him skipping it this year. He was having fun with a friend and I think that’s important. Besides which, it gave me free reign to ogle the cowboys.

I am always impressed with the rodeo participants. I marvel that there are people in the world who are willing to get on a wild beast to prove their manhood and show off their unique skill of handling livestock. It is like watching history and a slice of timeless country culture all at once. The competitors share a supportive camaraderie. They maintain a sense of humor and respect for each other as they vie for purses and titles. 

You find die hard advocates involved in every human interest – dance, beekeeping, horseback riding, winemaking, raising angoras, gardening, woodturning, basket making, collecting, – you name it. It always intrigues me that every endeavor you can think of seems to have a sub culture of people who take it to the next level. If there is any kind of definable interest, their will always be a group of people obsessively involved. There are competitions to validate talent, seminars to explore the latest research or techniques, and organizations to keep the people with the shared interest in communication. You can pick the most obscure thing, and before you know it, you discover there are tons of people totally in to it.

The rodeo (participants, not the audience) is another sub-culture – a world of horse lovers, trainers and ranch hands, taking their particular interest to a new level. It’s an event  designed so cowboys and cowgirls can vie for the highest standing in competency tests for roping, steer handling, bronco riding, barrel racing etc…. They win prize money and recognition. It’s also nice for the ego and I suppose it’s a way to gain income to support their fondest pleasure – spending every waking moment working with horses. 

The rodeo is a bit like a circus, only instead of sequins, the performers are covered in dust. If you sit up close, you dodge flinging mud rather than confetti thrown from a clown’s bucket. Gorgeous beasts parade around, muscular and wild. The cowboy’s mounts are impressively trained, quality horses – it’s obvious these boys love their equestrian best friends.  The display of fine animals alone, working in harmony with man, is breathtaking.

We found a seat in the first row of the stands, balancing some “chicken on a stick” (barbeque) and some fried chips. First, there was the parade of horses and the introduction of those competing. Next, we sang the national anthem and watched a big, fully-loaded Ford truck drive around the ring – at half time, three names would be chosen to toss a boot into a bucket from 20 feet away. Dunk the boot and you drive home the truck. I’ve never seen anyone win.

Then the riding events took place.

When the first gate opened, a wild horse came charging out, bucking and rearing as the young cowboy hung on with one hand, the other flailing in the wind, barreling past us and slamming into the gate where we sat. Diane and Denver both squealed and almost dropped their chicken on a stick.

“Holly shit!” Denver said. “That looks so dangerous. This is like . . . REAL.”

“What did you think? The rodeo is not like wrestling, where they stage pretend matches and growl and posture for entertainment. Animals react by instinct. The gifted cowboy is ready for whatever is dished out. But aren’t the animals magnificent?”

“Magnificently? More like wild! Someone is going to be killed.”

“Not likely. The boys get hurt sometimes, but they consider a few broken bones a badge of honor.” I pointed to the ambulance at the ready at the back of the horse paddocks. “These boys are good at what they do – they travel the rodeo circuit months at a time, and make a living this way. The clown cowboys are there to distract the animals and help when dangerous situations occur. It is a controlled environment, even though the animals seem out of control.”

Denver and Dianne were instantly enthralled, enough that they even ignored the cotton candy man. Neva had the presence of mind to stop him, however, which is good because I love cotton candy almost as much as I love the rodeo.  Denver was amazed that when the cowboys were thrown, they simply picked themselves up, brushed off their jeans and limped to their friends with a shrug.

She said, “They look so young . . .  and so cute. They look like they’re only 18 – 24. Just about my age.”

“Anyone much older can’t handle the physical challenges. And I think a mature person just grows smart enough not to engage in something that may end up giving them a concussion and three broken ribs. Most of the bronco riders are young. Some of the ropers are adult men. Early 30’s. ” I said, imagining my daughter toying with the idea of becoming a rodeo groupie now, thanks to my invitation.

Denver perked up in her seat. Ha! She thought she was coming to the rodeo to see the animals, but now that she realized this was a prime opportunity to watch young he-men strutting around and spitting, she recognized how important it was to pay attention.

“Ah, that one fell hard. He needs someone to kiss it to make it better,” she said with a grin. “But I wouldn’t want one of these fellows as a boyfriend. You don’t want a boyfriend that can get broken at work.”

“No, that would be inconvenient.”

Dianne kept wincing as if she could feel each participant’s pain; also as if she was sure a horse would bash through the fence and ride right over us at any moment. She kept asking what they were doing and trying to accomplish. I explained the best I could. I still don’t know how they determine points. But I do know the basic goals of team roping, bronco busting, barrel racing, and things like wrestling a young steer down to the ground in less than 10 seconds. I shared my skimpy knowledge between shouts and exclamations of delight as I watched the feats of skill in the ring.

Every few moments an animal would ride by us, snorting and sweating, kicking mud our way. We could catch the face of the young man riding by, grim determination matching his struggle to keep astride. We could feel the breeze and heat from the animal, hear its hoofs hit the dirt, and see the wild look in its eye. Few things in the world feel this real anymore. I love the raw, upstaged element of a rodeo. It is so unlike theater performances or movies or other amusements. I love the earthy wildness of it all. The rodeo is passion, nature and masculinity all rolled up in an entertaining package.

There’s comedy to keep the night moving too. While the techies change out animals, the announcer introduces silly events, just for the fun of it.  They call all the kids under 8 into the ring and let a calf out with a ribbon tied to its tail. A hundred little giggling kids chase the calf, trying to snag the ribbon to get a prize. Next, they do this with the kids 8-12, and you can bet Neva was at the head of the line. Alas, the calf darted a different direction and someone else got lucky.

I’m shocked that in this day and age they’ll let a bunch of pedestrians into a ring littered with horse dung and a live, scared animal, without first making everyone sign some kind of legal release. Kids slip in the mud, get run over by the excited calf, and get shoved into the fence. They crawl back through the fence dirty and smiling.  But no one cares or runs to their little darlings to fawn over their boo boos, cussing the organization. This must be the last place on earth where kids can be kids and parents don’t threaten to sue.

As they set up the stalls with the next animal and a rider gets into position, the audience listens to jokes and watches the antics of a cowboy clown, who works to keep our attention on the center of the ring and off the angry banging in the paddock. To the side are games for kids, like rock climbing or bungee jumping and all manner of food – corn dogs, fried pickles, popcorn, barbeque and snow cones. You can wander over to see the young steers awaiting the next event, where they will be chased, roped and hog tied. They look lazy and bored, but you know in an hour they will be bleating and running full force, giving the cowboy a run for his money. 

The thing is, you simply can’t get bored at a rodeo. It is loud and stimulating. People shout, stomp and clap to get the animals worked up. Music fills the air, sweaty heroes are on display, junk food, good attitudes and smiling people abound. It isn’t sophisticated, but it is full of life. I just love it.

This year they sponsored a recreational event where local business owners could send a team of three into the ring for a special challenge. Each team was given a shirt, pair of pants and a hat, and they had to catch a young steer, bring it to the ground and dress it. The team that accomplished this first would win a prize. It was funny, because half of them couldn’t even catch the calf, and the ones that did had an awful hard time getting it to the ground, then figuring out how to dress it. All these mature adults were slipping around in the mud, shouting at each other and the cows. Meanwhile, a half dozen calves are darting to and fro as if they didn’t want to get anywhere near these inexperienced clods. Those that had the cow down were dodging its hooves and arguing about how to put a shirt on the dang thing. We had to laugh at the failed attempts of these three stooges groups, each trying vainly to tackle a baby cow and work as a team.

I was like, “LET’S DO THIS NEXT YEAR! We’ll have the coffee shop so we can be the Bean Tree Team. This gives me an excuse to buy a young cow! I’ll tell Mark we NEED a baby cow. . . . we have to practice dressing it.  . . for the sake of the biz, ya know. Yessiree, we could win this competition next year and that will put us on the map.”

“I’d like to see you catch one of those cows, Mom. Besides which, who would wrestle it to the ground? Not like you can talk Dad into doing that! (Denver had a point. It’s pinning the cow to the ground, grabbing it by the horns as it darts by full speed and twisting it to make it fall and roll that obviously takes a great deal of muscle and daring.)

“I’ll find someone with more ranching experience to join our team, just to do the cow tackling part. You can put the pants and shirt on it. I’ll stand by and place the cowboy hat on its head and collect the prize.” I said.

Denver crossed her arms. “You get to do the hat? Why can’t I get the hat?”

“I’m the boss. And I’ll be the one to remember to bring the hat.”

She laughed, knowing I was kidding, but from the look in her eye it was clear she wouldn’t put it past me to sign us up someday. Yes, this subject is not closed.  But then, my family knows you simply can’t take yourself too seriously if you want life to be fun.  Frankly, I’m not afraid to try anything once, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s mandatory to drag your kid into un-chartered waters because it gives you ammunition to tease them for the rest of their life. Priceless stuff, ya know. Anyway, we couldn’t look any more foolish than those mud-plastered, grinning, work buddies we were watching in the ring, if we tried.
 
It was a nice night. If you haven’t seen a rodeo, make it a point to go. Study the cow dressing – then, give me pointers if you can. Better yet, if you beg, I might even let you join my team. But I get to do the hat.
Yee haw.

My kids love that I make alcoholic beverages now.

My twenty one year old, with way too enthusiasm over her newfound freedom to drink, says, “You have GOT to teach me how you make this stuff. If my MOM can do it, so can I.”

My underage son, says, “You have GOT to let me drink this stuff. Can’t be bad for me if my MOM makes it.”

But, it’s the little one who seems to truly marvel at the process. Every time a friend comes to the house, she takes them into the pantry to show off her mother’s big 6 gallon jugs of fermenting wine, then opens the cupboard to show off the jars of aging cordials. She likes to point out how the airlocks bubble, proving something interesting is happening inside, then goes on, professor-like, to explain how sugar and yeast make alcohol.

Her friends say, “Gee, that’s a lot of wine. Your mom must drink ALL THE TIME.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow and says, “With her help, you won’t get a reputation for being a great cook. You’ll be the new town drunk.”

“She doesn’t drink it. She MAKES IT.” Neva points out, with logic that, strangely enough, makes sense to her friends. “Besides which, she can’t drink it ’till later. Next year she’ll drink it all.”

Gee, thanks. It’s better for my reputation to have my drunkenness on temporary hold.

I seem to have a big bucket of something brewing by the door of the kitchen all the time now. Every time I pass that way, I pause to stir it a bit. This is tomato wine in the first stages – it is not as gross as the picture makes it look. When I am done clarifying it, it will look like a zinfindal and taste not unlike it too.


After a week or so, when the major fermenting is well on the way and I no longer need a wide air release to handle the gurgling, foaming liquid, I’ll transfer it to a carboy where it will continue to ferment for a month or so with a bacteria killing agent. Here’s my blackberry, strawberry and Pino Noir doing just that.


I feel empty myself when the primary fermenter is empty, so I start thinking “Hummm…… What’s next?” and I browse the recipe books to consider what is in season and appealing to my taste buds. Meanwhile, I re-rack the wine again to get rid of sediment that will make it bitter, readying it to wait a few months before finding a home in 30 traditional wine bottles. Because the wine is always dry at this point, I sweeten it (or not)  I am actually ready to bottle my first batch now. I bought a nifty floor model corker and collected bottles – even got a fancy bottle tree to hold the bottles bacteria free once they are sterilized. I bought a fancy computer program for making labels and picked a few styles of labels that seemed a good representation for the wines I am making. Yep, I’m ready to begin my Hendry Home Winery collection, only …..   I forgot to order corks. Duh. It’s always something, ya know. Anyway, when my rush order corks arrive in a few days, I’ll be ready to go. 

I am also having fun with cordials. I am focused on fruit cordials now, because I want to make everything in season (none of that cordial flavoring liquid for me – I like the old fashion real fruit and seasoning left to ooze flavors for a few weeks myself.) I’ve made Strawberry, Cherry, Peach, Prunelle (Plums), Blackberry, Pineapple, and Hypocras (a strawberry based cordial with orange rind made with a wine base).




I am making a mint cordial today. (Grasshoppers, here I come!) I am ready to move on to nuts, coco and coffee cordials too. Seems like fall-ish flavors to me. (Oh, and for your information, there are no recipes for pumpkin cordials – drat.) Some of these concoctions will be used as an after dinner parfait, some will be combined later with other ingredients to be turned into cream based cordials for gifts or holiday celebrations. Some will probably just be used to give a flavorful kick to my cooking, and some will be poured over homemade ice-cream as an adult dessert when friends come to dinner. I don’t know if I really have a use for them all. It’s the making, not the consuming, that I enjoy most. And displaying, of course. Half the fun is the bright, colorful array of pretty bottles filled with something yummy.

With all these flavorful, pretty liquids brewing, I had to consider what I wanted to put them in. I wanted my cordials to be as pretty bottled as they are in the jars, with the deep colors sparkling and advertising their rich flavor, so I went on E-bay and began collecting antique bottles. Some are cut in interesting, historic design. Some are colored, some clear. They went for only a few dollars, but with shipping, I had to watch what I bought. The bottles ended up 5 – 7 dollars a piece, which can add up and negate the thrill of making the brew for almost nothing.  Then, with bottles on the brain, I went to the flea market, and low and behold, I noticed old bottles everywhere. When you aren’t looking, you don’t notice something like dusty old bottles. But I did now. Suddenly, I was in old bottle heaven. I picked up the very same kind of bottles I was buying on E-bay, only this time I got them for only 50 cents or a buck! Heck, if I was smart, I’d buy them all and sell them on e-bay. That is probably what the other people are doing, and there is always a ding-bat like me willing to buy them. 

I now have a healthy collection of antique bottles. I don’t plan to stop making cordials until every one is filled. I always fill the little ones with left over cordial, so Denver has a little collection of her own. Denver is young enough that she still thinks drinking means snapping the top off a beer can – she doesn’t really understand the concept of cordials, so for her, it is all about the bottle. For me, the ex-bartender, a cordial means a world of designer drink possibilities.

My next problem is obviously going to be “where the heck will I put this stuff to age?”  Not like we have a wine cellar. We do have a small room in the basement with the water tank in it that I’ve used for hatching eggs. Since I now have a barn for my animal interests, I’m thinking of cleaning the room out good and setting up storage shelves. Bottles of wine must be stored on their sides, and since I will have about 120 of them in the next two months, a simple wine rack won’t suffice.  I’ll need Mark to help me design something. He will sigh when I ask. (Always a project to put him out, ya know.) But in this confined room, if my corks start exploding (beginner’s luck – it means the wine started refermenting in the bottle), nothing important will be ruined. And I’m extra careful, so hopefully, my wine will not start attacking anyone.

Anyway, today I am mulling over a name for my wine so I can begin making labels. I’m thinking the brand can be called HENDRY HOUSE (private reserve). Sounds lovely. Better sounding (though probably not as appropriate) as “Ginny’s  Rot Gut.” 

A rose by any name is still a rose, and while I doubt a pretty name will make my wine any more drinkable, the power of suggestion is something to consider. I am convinced friends will be more delighted to recieve a bottle of something that at least LOOKS fancy and professional.

Speaking of which, I haven’t made rose pedal wine yet…… and since my tomato wine is about ready to rack – that means an empty bucket. Can’t have that! Do you think Mark will notice if he comes home tomorrow and his 10 prize rose bushes in the front of the house are picked empty? I’ll blame it on the deer. That seems to be my best overall excuse for most of what goes wrong around here.

Cheers!

P.S.  A few updates:

* Something ate 3 of my five ducks. I’m left with the white one and one Appleate (the pretty spotted one which now has a green head.  Pissed me off good. I also have one brown duck.  I bought another batch of duck eggs just so this winter my ducks will have a flock – safety in numbers don’t ya know. These will be my first barn raised critters.

* Yesterday, my peacock eggs were due to hatch. I stare at them twenty times a day. Nothing! I’ve got a bad feeling about this potential hatching. Drat. I might have to change Early’s name to “Only”.

*Barn is coming along nicely. I’m so excited. Here is the picture at this point. Actually, this is a few days old. They’ve finished the roof and are now on the doors. My farrier made fun of me because it is such a nice barn. He said, “I suppose it does have air conditioning…. where you putting the couch?” These good ole boys sure like making fun of me. Ha, well, I give as good as I get.

Last but not least, Mark just took a week long broom making class at the Campbell Folk School. At first I thought “Brooms?” but when I saw his work, I understood the appeal. He puts an artistic twist into everything he touches, and his work is, as always, magnificent. The teacher told him he should sell them – they are of a quality you see in art galleries – his brooms certainly surpass what most students do at the start. No surprise to those of us who know him.

Handmade brooms go for 80-600 dollars, and Mark’s are on the upscale end. These one of a kind brooms are particularly lovely as wedding gifts and home warming gifts (real estate agents give them to people buying expensive, fancy cabins) because the history of the broom and the symbolism is very interesting. Mark will include brooms in our artwork in the new shop and he is doing research to include a descriptive folklore explaination of the meaning of each broom. Here are a few of his creations – the first is on a naturally shed deer antler-  the other handles he gathered in the woods and finished from odd bits of stick and limb.\





He made more, but these are the ones I have pictures of. He gave me the big one above left for sweeping the kitchen floor. Like I’m gonna use it to sweep! Get real. I happen to know how difficult these are to make and how special such a broom is. He is particularly good with devising interesting handles, don’t you think? But then, he is good with wood. He has been trying to come up with a name for his hand turned bowls, brooms and baskets. He was toying with “Dancingwood”, which I thought was appropriate, but I think he is leaning towards “Woodweaver”. Soon he will settle on some artesian title or another, and he’ll build a website on this division of craftsman products that will be featured in our gallery. I’ll keep you posted.

*Last, but not least, yesterday, our offer on a plot of land directly across from the Blue Ridge Scenic Train station, was accepted. We will close shortly – as soon as the FLEX is finally closed (keeps getting postponed). We are now beginning the process of planning and preparing to build the afore mentioned business. Gosh, it is exciting to break new ground and venture places you’ve never been. Scary, but exciting. I loved our many years in dance, but I don’t miss it. Especially in light of society changes and some of the people now involved in the business  – I keep hearing disgusting news about one former employee particularily, but that is another issue and not one I wish to address. Ick’s me out and makes me ashamed of her.) I’ll share our exciting gallery vision eventually, but that is subject for a blog all its own. It’s a BIG idea – different in the best of ways.

Now – I must go attend my bees. I’m overdue.