Category Archives: Special Interests

I’ve wanted to ask a long time. Finally, I got up the nerve.
“Honey, can I have a chainsaw of my own, please?”
“What in the hell for?” Mark says, his eyes leery. I can tell this request threatens him in some way. Not that he worries I’m apt to saw him in two in a fit of rage while he is sleeping or anything. More like I’m telling him he is some kind of chainsaw slacker who isn’t sawing up logs to my satisfaction. Then, there is the point that he doesn’t fancy me going around sawing off branches or downing trees that he feels should be left alone.

I explained that I occasionally wanted debris removed from the horse riding area and I hated to ask him to do it for me. Every time I request he remove a tree trunk or underbrush, he rolls his eyes and acts as if I am loading more work onto his full plate. So, I hate asking. This means I go around hitting my head repeatedly on an overhead branch whenever I ride a certain trail. I also stare, perturbed, at small trees that are inching into my pasture. The fact is, with 50 acres, no one person can keep it all groomed and cleaned up, and Mark has important work to do around our homestead – he can’t be bothered with the little things that I want for personal reasons.  I feel if I can be more independent, and help out more outside, I should.

I told him I didn’t want a huge, power chainsaw like the several he wields. His are heavy machines, one for downing branches and trees, one for debarking logs, and a smaller electric one from Florida which he keeps for small jobs around the house (OUTSIDE the house, obviously.) He said I could have the electric one (it’s lighter) but it will only saw about two branches before needing to be recharged. Um . . . that won’t do.

I said, “Certainly they must make a lighter chainsaw for women. Maybe something that comes in pink.”
He laughed at me. Told me they didn’t make pink chainsaws. And I’d be hard pressed to lift any chainsaw, much less handle it properly. Then, he started listing the things I cannot do with a chainsaw. I can’t saw branches over my head. Can’t saw anything on the ground in a way that will hit dirt. The list went on and on. . . . He advised I get an old fashion saw and cut branches by hand.
 
I reminded him that his mentor, famous wood turner, Lissie Olan, uses a chainsaw and a tractor and she is about 70. She could out-saw him in a heartbeat. Women certainly can handle heavy power tools if they have a desire to do so. I also pointed out that I would want a chainsaw lesson before I’d start using it. I’m not about to be irresponsible with something so dangerous. But I sure would like to spend an hour a day working on cleaning up the perimeters of the pasture. It would be a good workout,( I’d get booya arms) and maintaining the pasture is something that I consider important because I am the one with the thing for horses, but is a low priority in the bigger scheme of work to be done.

He agreed that I could learn to use a chainsaw, and it was true, he didn’t appreciate my piling all kinds of odd jobs on his plate, which were, technically, unnecessary. It might actually be nice if I could do some of the tasks I alone wanted done. And the big stuff, getting firewood or clearing downed trees, would remain his domain. 

Therefore, I guess I’ll be getting a chainsaw this summer. How cool is that! I’m gonna see if I can paint it pink, or at least put pretty flower stickers on it. Just for principal sake. It will give the boys something to make fun of.  I have no problem becoming the butt of jokes, because I know it doesn’t mean you aren’t highly respected at the same time. FLEX taught me that.

I think a lot about becoming more independent here in this new life we are carving out of the wilderness.  Granted, I’m a girl who maintains perfectly manicured nails. A girl who everyday does her hair, puts on makeup and pretty jewelry to go with her jeans and sweatshirt, even when she knows no one but family and a friendly donkey will see her. I cook and swoon over flowers and pick berries and have a dozens of girly interests. But I also don’t mind getting my manicured hands dirty and I’m the person who tracks in half the mud in this house. (My nail technician shakes her head every week and says, “What do you DO to ruin these nails so quickly.”
Ha. What can I say? “I live.”

The fact is, I want to be a girl who doesn’t have to wait for things, or make compromises because she is counting on others to make her aspirations manifest.
And I don’t want to be someone who makes her husband toil as if it is his job to make her personal interests easier to pursue. If I don’t want something enough to do the work required, than I don’t want it enough.

I dream of designing my own peacock pen, and then going out and building it. I want to get into my new barn (when I have one) and maintain it myself. I even mentioned to Mark that they make small tractors for barn and animal maintenance for about ten thousand dollars – you see ads for them in the horse magazines and there is always a well-groomed, relaxed woman at the helm. (It is clear who their target market is.) That’s the same cost of a four-wheeler – We have two of those.  Perhaps, instead of teaching me to drive his super, expensive tractor, we should consider an itty-bitty tractor just for inexperienced me (when the FLEX building sells – everything is on hold till then, but it looks to happen this month. Yehaw!) Mark just sighed, but I think I’ve set the seed for future consideration.

The other day, he bought a heavy-duty spreader for the back of the four-wheeler. This allows us to spread weed and feed and grass seed along our big pastures in a fraction of the time it took last year when Kent and I did it by hand. He also brought me a gift – an attached wheelbarrow dump fixture – something I’ve mentioned wanting many times. Now I can fill up a load of sticks or manure in this bin attached to the four-wheeler, and drive it wherever. This will help me with pasture maintenance, cleaning the chicken coup etc…  I’ve been complaining about the fact that I can’t haul stuff without doing it the old fashion way, with a beat-up wheelbarrow and pure muscle. He has a spiffy tractor to do this kind of work and I’ve been jealous. Anyway, his gift of a cart, in my opinion, is a sign he is in support of my desire to take charge of my own work.  Funny, this may seem like a pretty strange gift for a girl to get excited over, but I was delighted.

I’ve been given gifts of lingerie and jewelry from my husband plenty of times, which is sweet, but it’s been the practical, unexpected things I appreciate most. Muck boots. Bee hives. New rubber mats for my car. These items show the man I live with knows the true me, a girl who values down to earth things and life experience over symbols designed to impress others. A practical gift means he wants to make my world more convenient, which in my opinion shouts, “I care” a lot more than a polished rock. I guess romance wears many faces.  

Anyway, the point is, I want a chainsaw. It is a natural desire considering my new existence. I want to saw things. Here the roar of the engine. Feel the vibration. Be in charge of my environment. Heck, if that isn’t anew experience for a girl like me, what is?
 
A chainsaw fits this new non-dancing me. I love being outdoors and working closely with animals. I love working the land, pausing to listen to birds or catching a glimpse of wildlife. I love that I am getting the hang of the country existence, which is so grounded in spirituality and enriching healthful options. I don’t mind getting sweaty, or dirty, or being physically exhausted. It makes me feel alive. And at the end of the day, I take a shower, sit on the porch with a glass of wine, and listen to the gurgling creek in our backyard with a sense that I am in the right place for this stage of life.  We’ve earned this shot at a new existence. And we are not about to avoid the work necessary to design it to our specification.

We didn’t pick this new world because we no longer wanted to work. We just no longer wanted to work in the dance field.  We picked this world for the adventure of it – because it stretches our horizons and introduces us to facets of life we have long since lost contact with. There is something so intimate and grounding about working in and around nature, getting back to the basics of life and removing yourself from the trappings of our consumer culture (Malls and meals out. I’ve had enough of both to last a lifetime).  Life here is simple. I like it that way.  But still, it is nice to shake things up a bit. And what better way than to hang on to a pink chainsaw and let it rip!

They came! They came, they came, they came!!!!

On my way home from taking the kids to school, I stopped by the post office to see if I had received my eggs. It was only 8am and I know the mail comes around 10, but I couldn’t resist checking.
Vicki, the postmaster said, “I guess you got my call.”
“You called?”
“Of course, we know how much you are looking forward to getting your eggs. They’re here. We wanted to let you know as soon as we could.”
I thought that so sweet. She called.
Then she handed me another package from Amazon and said, “And I suppose this is a book on peacocks, knowing you . . . unless it’s just another college book. How’re your eyes doing with all that reading?”
It happened to be a book on peacocks. But this comment made me smile too. “Knowing you?” Ha. I lived in Sarasota eighteen years, and in all that time, I don’t think the postmaster knew my name, much less knew my interests and passed the time guessing what was in my packages.
This is what I love about living here. Intimacy in everyday exchanges. In a quiet place like this, people not only look into your eyes, they do so with warmth, humor and interest. And they celebrate who you are without critique, jealousy, or boredom. “Nice” is more than a word – it’s a state of being. 

Vicki told me her neighbor has a peacock. They raise turkeys and keep them all in a big cage. One day, a peacock just showed up on the lawn. He had his tail spread wide, a glorious sight. He was trying to get IN the turkey pen, so they opened the door and in he went. Been there ever since. Guess he had wandered off from wherever he was raised, but once he was out on his own, he missed companions. That, or he has low self-esteem and he wanted to hang with some uglies so he could feel better about himself.  Nothing sadder than a peacock with low self-confidence. 

I took the eggs home and immediately took a picture for the blog. (Like my little display? Obviously, I’m excited to show off my new hobbies. How queer am I?) It was so interesting unwrapping the eggs. The white peacocks came in brown eggs and the blue peacocks are nestled in the lighter colored beige eggs. Who knew? They are bigger than any jumbo chicken egg you’ve ever seen, and weighty. Substantial. Yet fragile. The package contained my two white peafowl eggs and two blue peafowl peacocks. Then I see that the sender threw in a bonus egg for fun. A black shouldered peacock egg. I was so thrilled at this special gift, I can’t tell you.

I took the eggs downstairs and decided to give them a few hours rest to settle before putting them into the incubator. I drew happy faces on one side – the other has the color description written lightly in pencil.

I went to clean my daughter’s room. I was planning to take her rug outside to shake it before vacuuming. The door must have been open for three minutes at most. I walk back in and there is my dog with this totally guilty look on her face. I immediately know she is up to something.
In my most ominous voice (the one I once used only for dancers that don’t pointe their feet) I say, “Maxine, what do you have?”
The dog lowers her head and drops a peacock egg at my feet, ever so gingerly. I yell big time and the dog slinks outside. She knows she has done wrong (not that that ever stops her from mischief). I crouch down to see she had carried off one of the coveted white eggs. Damn dog. But it doesn’t seem to be damaged in any way. Not cracked to my knowledge. I’m pretty amazed, (lucky) so I take the egg back to rest with the others.

I decide to finish putting the rug back in Neva’s room, and there in the middle of the floor is another peacock egg. Apparently, my dog was planning to carry them into the room where her bed is, to store for later use or something. Maybe she wanted to hatch them herself.
I swear like a truck driver, then bend down to inspect this egg. This one has a small crack in the bottom. It’s my special black shoulder egg. Granted, I didn’t even know I was getting this egg a half hour earlier, it was a bonus, but still, I’m devastated by the loss. For a moment, I wonder if I can put tape on the crack or something, but I know that once a bacterium invades it won’t survive. Dammit.

I put the intact eggs in the incubator, feeling sorry for myself. I am now mumbling angrily, thinking negative thoughts that I suspect are inspired by a lot more going on than this egg project. I’m thinking, “It is always the innocent that ruin something special, they act out of sheer enthusiasm – but that doesn’t mean they aren’t’ guilty when they do things on impulse and destroy the promise of a bright future!”

Then I catch myself having this bad attitude and I do a readjustment (this all happens in about ten minutes.) I think about how, if two years ago, someone had told me that on this very day I would be in a beautiful cabin in the mountains (always wanted to live this way in nature) yelling at a big dog (always wanted a big dog) for stealing one of my peacock eggs (never wanted a peacock back then, but I would have thought the idea grand if I’d given it a thought), well, I would have laughed. I would have found the idea of a beloved dog carefully walking around with a peacock egg in his mouth and dropping it at my feet with such a look of profound guilt and remorse, rather entertaining. And that got me smiling again.

It put things in perspective. Really, what did I have to be so mad about? I had a free egg for a half hour. Oh well. It could have been worse. I could have walked into the room and seen my dog smacking her lips having consumed the lot. I decided to be thankful for what I do have rather than mourn what I almost had. Gotta trust that what is meant to be is meant to be.

This morning, I went to the post office again to find the other two peacock eggs arrived as well as my duck eggs. E-gad, I didn’t think I’d get them all at once. So, I put them all in the incubator for now. I will probably have to get a second incubator for the duck eggs considering they will hatch on a different day (9 days sooner). Otherwise, bacteria from the new ducklings can spoil the peacock eggs still developing. But I will take a day or two to think about it first. Might have a more creative solution.

The duck eggs are white (I expected blue) and the size of jumbo chicken eggs. I unwrapped them carefully, putting a smiley face on one side and the word “duck” on the other. Not like I’m going to forget what I’m hatching – but I have a system now. As I unwrapped the last three, I noticed a slimy surface. I kept checking to see if the eggs were cracked, but they seemed intact. The last egg turned out to have a hole in the bottom. Poor devil. I guess this one eeked onto the others. Now, I didn’t know whether or not to clean the eggs or leave them slimy. I don’t want to invite bacteria into the incubator with spoiled egg slime, and yet I know eggs are laid with a film that protects them so I don’t’ know if I should clean them. I decided to wipe them off with a soft, dry towel. I put a frowny face on these eggs so if they don’t hatch, I’ll remember why. It is all a part of experimentation, you see.

Speaking of which, Neva and I decided to allow the chickens to keep some eggs to see if the hens will brood and raise some offspring on their own. This would give us the full spectrum of scientific study and more springtime fun. We see six eggs gathered in a nest so far, but neither of our brood hens seems ready to take responsibility to start sitting. Lazy girls. Neva lectured them sternly about their role on this earth, but I don’t think they paid much attention.  

And while I’m on the subject of birds (I swear I will talk about something else soon.) I will tell you that yesterday whatever it was that ate a chicken the night before had returned, burrowed into the coup and eaten another chicken. This time poor Jasmine (this was from Neva’s Disney named crop of chicks) became some animal’s dinner. I was faced with another carcass in the pen and boy, was I pissed. I put on my army fatigues, my Karate Kid headband and a pair of dark sunglasses and tromped off to Home Depot to look for chicken defense apparatus. This was war! (Not really, I kept on my running clothes, but the other image was a better description of my mood. Dramatic effect, don’t ya know.)

I ended up buying some fencing meant to stick into the ground to edge gardens. But when I put this around the pen, it looked stupid and inadequate. A mouse could burrow under that flimsy stuff. So I recruited Kent and Neva’s help and we gathered rocks – big, heavy rocks. We stacked them all around the coup where we believe the creature got in.  Today, no dead chickens. Just goes to show, you don’t want to mess with me. I rarely take an attack laying down.

The chicken fatalities are not a bad thing to deal with, however, because it reminds me there are dangers to consider when raising birds. Now, when I go to build a peacock pen (assuming I will successfully rear a bird or two or six), I will be wise enough to dig it 2 feet into the ground for extra security. Having disappointments in life is no big deal if you LEARN from them. At least, that is how I come to terms with my tiny hardships.

Enough about birds. I just thought you might like to know I’m cooking up some future fun right now. Six peacocks, eleven welsh ducks, and one little bannie chicken. All I need now is a partridge in a pear tree!

Happy Birthday to Me!

You want to buy me a present. Come on, you know you do. I know just what I want and I’m not afraid to ask. Sheepish, maybe, but not afraid to brazening solicit gifts this year.

Go to this website – www.the3day.org/atlanta07/ginnyhendry – and sponsor me for my new project, the 60-mile breast cancer walk next October. Do it for cancer. Do it to protect someone you love from having to deal with the disease someday. Do it because I only have so many friends and I seriously worry that I won’t be able to dredge up enough fundraising.

Heck, I’ve been feeling so blue all week, do it just because there isn’t anything else that will make me feel better and no one deserves to be depressed on their birthday. Or do it because my snotty kid opened her website page at the same time I did today (same address only with Denverclark in place of my name for those of you who rather forsake me to sponsor her or who want to divvy up your support fairly) and within an hour she had donations already. Of course, she called me to brag obnoxiously and hint that I should be deeply embarrassed by my fundraising thermometer because it’s already been an hour and mine is still on the big fat zero. What can I say? Is that because she is nicer than me? Naw, it’s more like her friends are nicer than mine. Humm……. You gonna take that lying down?

Of course, some of the people out there who tune in to this blog are not exactly friends. They are checking in like moles to dig up FLEX dirt because they are excited by the turmoil going on. Ha. Well, my dear frienimies, you can sponsor me too. Do it because once I get donations I’ll have to do the dang walk, and that will cause me miles of suffering and muscular anguish. Certainly, that will bring a smile to your face. I might trip and twist an ankle even. Perhaps a deadly scorpion will crawl into my sleeping bag at night. There will be thousands of walkers – I might even be trampled moments before I limp over the finish line. See – there are lots of exciting possibilities if you maneuver me into walking.

The point is (Oh my God, everyone is right. I do say that all the time…) this is my official plea for your support.  Well – this is my FIRST official plea for support. I’ll have to be a total annoyance if no one responds and then I’ll start mentioning it on a regular basis, and that will get really boring. Let’s just get this out of the way right now.

It’s my birthday. This year I want presents.
Send them boldly in your name.
Or send them anonymously if you don’t want me to know you read this blog and I can pretend I have a secret admirer.
Send them with your name all in caps because I’m cornering you with this blatant request and you now feel obligated – might as well get credit for doing your duty as a friend, not unlike when you bought Girl Scout cookies because I was a troop leader and you made a show of stuffing them down your face everytime I walked by to remind me you got at least six boxes, despite the fact that you were on a diet. Now, that’s what I call a BFF!

A birthday is a perfect excuse to hit up friends, don’t ya think? And I am not one to let an opportunity like this one slip away. Today is the day. B-day. I’m asking.

Give me something real to celebrate.
Oh yea, I need to add one thing. . . .  Please.

The other day, I was standing in my closet naked, except I was wearing one of my handmade, clay and glass bead necklaces.
Mark walks by the door, pauses and says, “That’s a good look for you.”
Very funny.
I said, “This is where I start nowadays. I begin with the jewelry and pick clothes that match.”
He said, “You’re odd. But I’ll keep ya.”
Later, he made fun of me for this system of dressing. He said some people put their socks on one at a time, and others put both socks on before their shoes.  Most people put their pants on before their shirts. He doesn’t know many women who begin with jewelry and move on to the outfit as an afterthought.
What does he know? He’s a man.
(Perhaps I should mention here that you know you’ve been married a long time when your husband walks by you naked, in nothing more than a glistening necklace, and his reaction is to make fun of you. Sigh.)

The thing is, I have about forty, original handmade necklaces made with these fabulous intricate clay beads (example above) that we design as a family on “craft nights” for fun. You begin with lumps of solid colored clay, then layer rolls of it, cutting and relayering it to make the tiny designs in canes that you next cut and reessemble to make a more detailed design. Finally you shape different beads. Remarkably facinating how each design turns out. It’s something we can all do (even Neva) that keeps us away from the television, and the beads look dynamite on Mark’s baskets or in my jewelry, so it is practical too.  These beads involve a variety of contrasting colors, which I match with crystal or glass beads for varied texture, to make all kinds of different pieces. With this jewelry as inspiration, I can always pull shirts and pants or skirts together to make it look as if I have a perfectly coordinated, “artistic” outfit. It would be impossible to achieve this effect if you started with an outfit and tried to find jewelry with the exact colors. It also allows me to put together clothing in ways I might not otherwise choose. I find my wardrobe has infinite possibilities now. Dang frustrating that I never go anywhere now that I’m looking so smart. However, the donkey thinks I’m stylish as all get-out.

Denver and Dianne keep making fun of me because I have made so many necklaces. It is some kind of sickness. I have necklace-itis or something. I make matching watchbands and earrings too, or course. I have a full wall of this pretty jewelry hanging on display in my closet. When I wear them (which is often), people always stop me to comment and ask where I get such remarkable pieces. Women find the jewelry different.
I always say, “I make them, it is sort of a fun project I do with my girls. Like playdough, only different.”
They say, “Professionally? Do you sell them?”
“No.”
“You should. I’ll buy one.”
Well, then I wouldn’t be original now, would I.
However, I’ve agreed to make them as gifts for friends who really gush. For example, my hairdresser goes crazy every time she sees me in a new necklace, so I agreed to make her one. It will be my special tip next time I visit her. Others will ask her where she got it, and might want one too. This is how it begins…should you allow the ball to roll.
 
Denver insists that I will have to start selling my jewelry soon, because no one woman can wear this many necklaces. They would sell for 50 or so bucks at the craft fairs – maybe more with earrings.  But, I’m not inspired. Once I start making things to sell, creating jewelry will become a job. Yuck.
 
Dianne has been making earrings, which she sells at the flea market. She is always trying to find the right thing to sell at a booth she runs on weekends. (she is currently selling handbags). I kept telling her beaded earrings would be a hit, but she wasn’t convinced. Then, one day I showed her how to make simple earrings, and she made about a dozen pair with me in an hour. She sold half of them at 5-6 dollars a piece the next day at her booth. She was hooked. She doesn’t want to bother with the intricate designs of necklaces though, because it takes so much time. Personally, that is what I like, because each necklace is different and the uniqueness makes it more fun. And I know I wouldn’t have occasion to wear two thousand earrings, which is how many I would have if I only made them.

Anyway, Dianne finds the earrings with the original clay beads most popular, because they are artsy. So, last night we scheduled another family craft night to make beads so she could stock up. Mark is always the teacher, and he guides us through the layering and design process to make intricate canes, then he demonstrated how to get different shapes. He always gives me his beads after the evening, which is the best part, because his are so much better than mine are. I tend to like making necklaces out of his beads, or Neva’s or Kent’s, the best anyway – I guess it makes me feel as if the piece has meaning that is more personal.

For fun, I made a few simpler (and shorter) necklaces for a few of our former dance students this Christmas. I thought they would appreciate something to remember us by, so I specifically made the necklaces out of Mark’s beads with my design. That way they could wear a bit of us both. I don’t know if those necklaces are anything they will really want to wear (kids have style issues I could never presume to guess), but it was a token sent with love. I miss those kids. Worry about them. And I hate leaving and their not having something concrete to remind them we cared. I still plan to make a few more gifts for several other dancers. I just have to wait until I turn in my thesis, because time is heavily prioritized right now.  
 
Anyway, Denver has been making jewelry, has created her own logo, and is setting up a small business on the side. She is more into detailed bead weaving, which takes time and patience. She’s made some gorgeous stuff. She recently made a wristband that is the face of the Mona Lisa. I kid you not. It is in sepia tones – remarkable. She took it into a local jewelry store and said, “What could I sell this for?” She’d like to get 50 bucks because it took her a long time. The woman at the store said, “You should take this to an art gallery. They could sell it for 300 dollars! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Denver was all jazzed about that, but she only has one piece, and this pattern is not original, (she got it out of a book) so she felt she needed more original pieces to make a name in the jewelry art biz. So she is making original patterns of famous paintings. She is working on “Starry night” now. I think it’s amazing, and I’m impressed. I keep trying to talk her into going to a craftsman school for jewelry design – they have these six-month schools that teach metal design, welding, stone setting etc. that would really suit her, I think. And I could help her turn her talent into a strong business. That is my specialty.  I don’t know why she is dragging her feet. She left school, and hasn’t picked a profession or direction for her life. At an impasse like this, when you are young and unencumbered by a spouse or mortgage or career, you should throw practical caution to the winds and follow your heart. Maybe she still will. Time will tell.

Anyway, with this entire jewelry making going on, we girls decided we would have to do a booth at one of the big craft festivals this fall. That is when the tourists are visiting the mountains and the festivals are booming. Denver and Dianne want (and need) to do this for income. I will participate to be sure they have a wealth of stuff on display and to participate in what will be a novel experience for me. At last, they have cornered me into selling some of my work. I’m thinking it will be fun to sit around in a booth behind our work and take turns selling or walking around the festival to scope out the other art. We can eat caramel apples and talk about people as they walk by. We will (good-naturedly) have a silent competition to see whose stuff sells best. Don’t need it to be mine.

One day, when talking to Denver about her Mona Lisa, I said, “I can’t imagine your being able to give up something so wonderful. How can you stand putting all that effort into creating something and then allow it to be worn by a stranger who simply writes a check.”

She said, “When I put so much time into something, I can’t justify keeping it for me. I have to sell it. My time is too valuable to waste on myself.” (She doesn’t have a single piece she has kept for herself).

I said, “When I put so much time into something, I can’t justify selling it. My time is worth more than what anyone would pay for jewelry. It has to be for me, or a gift.”

That is the difference in attitude when you are at different stages of life. When you are young and broke, you know you can always create more later for yourself, but what you need now is income. When you are old, you see the significance in original creation, the meaning behind it, and you know that real income is easier had from other sources. And you long to preserve what you love, which demands not putting a price tag on it.

But I hope she sells her original masterpiece art-bracelets for a fortune and has a ball making them. Mostly, I hope I get one eventually. For my birthday or Christmas. Heck, I offered to buy the Mona Lisa, but she wants to keep it as a sample for dealers. Bummer. I suppose if I made a play for it, she’d relent and give it to me for my birthday, but I don’t want to take her most remarkable piece (yet.) There will be time later for me to get one of these coveted bracelets so I can carry a piece of my daughter with me throughout the day.

So, the Hendry girls are going to begin a jewelry empire. Well, it will be more like a little hot dog stand than an empire. But we are going to have fun doing it. It’s gonna kill me to have to give up any of my fun pieces. I guess I’m selfish.

In the meantime, I will continue dressing from the necklace down, barely acknowledged by my husband when I am in my skivvies. Ah well, at least I am well coordinated and have a style all my own. That counts for something.
 
 We made these beads last night. I just threw them on a towel, so they don’t show so well. And my camera flash kills the vibrant colors and detail, but it gives you the general idea. You have to imagine them with accompaning earrings, and assorted bangles and extra’s to bring out the colors. But trust me, they look might good on a naked middle-aged gal, if I say so myself. Alas, I can’t show you proof in a picture because this is a PG rated blog. Pity.



A few simple necklace designs. I make some more intricate, but they get heavy and too much “stuff” takes away from the beads. I’ve discovered the more “wearable” jewlery is on the simple side. But occationaly, I overdo just because I like to mess with possibilty.



 

I was raised in a boating family, taught to love the water at a young age.When I was small, our family had various small speedboats, the kind designed for young families and outdoor play. I remember well our metal canoe, painted a distressed white to look like Birchwood. My dad loved that thing. One summer, they sent me to a camp that featured archery, sailing, horseback riding and other outdoor adventures. I really took to the sailing.  I have memories of dozens of canoe trips with my dad, riding the rapids, being reprimanded for splashing when I got lazy with the paddle, learning about birds and fish as he pointed out the splendor around us. My dad loved playing tricks on us when we were out on the water, giving us a fright by pretending a log was an alligator, forcing our boat into a rocky area to see how we would handle the dilemma, tipping us over when we were smart alecky, or hanging a coke on an overhead branch because we were trailing ten minutes behind and he wanted to tease us about it.  

I’ve logged countless hours with a fishing pole. One of our best family trips was to a fishing camp in Canada. You could only get there by seaplane. It was freezing in the morning, but everyday we battled sunburn and chapped lips from the blazing northern sun after spending the entire day out on a boat with the Indian guides.  At night, we played cards, drank, gambled, and told fish stories (literally).    

When my father was older and more established, he bought big cruisers, 35-foot powerboats. By then, I had left home and was living in New York, but whenever I visited Sarasota, we took daylong trips out on the water. He would anchor in a bay to barbeque off the side with a nifty boat barbeque, while we swam in the saltwater. Afterwards, he always offered me a chance to drive, but I preferred sitting up front with the wind in my hair, watching him drive in his white captain’s hat, a beer in one hand and a cigar hanging out of his mouth. This was his typical “I’m relaxed and feeling fine” sportsman persona. I always marveled at the space on his bigger boats with their small cabins and stately captain’s chairs.  I liked how the gear tucked neatly into special compartments and the way each end of the boat offered a different motion experience. I was good at hoping onto docks to tie up lines, but lord, don’t ask me to steer an expensive vehicle like that. I was always intimidated – I couldn’t second-guess how the movement of the tide affected aim.  I’m the sort to feel most at home in the smaller, self-propelled (quiet) boats. Those I could maneuver with some semblance of skill. Perhaps if the boat was mine, I wouldn’t feel so nervous.

Like my dad, I love a simple float down a quiet river. In Florida, we occasionally rented canoes and I would join him in overnight journeys down the river, where crocodiles and herrings filed the landscape. We’d camp overnight and recount memories of being outdoors together in younger days. Each time, Mark would stay home. He had to. Someone needed to “hold down the FLEX fort” if one of us wanted to take a day.

When my Mom and Dad had property up here in Georgia, they bought a used pontoon, a perfect boat for a retired couple who likes to float when entertaining family and friends. We enjoyed that a few times when we were visiting too. Pontoons are like floating docks. Mellow.

I was always disappointed that Mark and I never spent time on the water in Florida (unless it was the rare occasion when we went out with my dad). My sister had a terrific 23-foot speedboat (a party boat) with a small cabin. She graciously extended a “use it any time you want” offer. Did we use it? Not once. We were simply too busy running the dance empire to ever take any time for leisure. Even our vacations were built around dance events.

I was forever trying to carve out a small niche in our life where we could fit non-dance related living in. I craved nature. Quiet.  I bought a used two man kayak, thinking it would be wonderful if some afternoon, Mark and I could sneak away to explore any of the huge bodies of water around our home. We had oceans, rivers and inland waterways in every direction, a mere fifteen minutes away. I imagined going kayaking with my teenage daughter or my sporty son, teaching them to love the outdoors the way my dad taught me. However, our family only took the kayak out once on a camping trip. Had a ball, but that didn’t inspire us to start using it. The fact is, when you work weekends, nights and a part of every holiday, and you find yourself packing costume-ordering catalogues in your suitcase when you go on a family trip, there simply isn’t room for boating pleasure in your life. When you do get a day for family, you find yourself working on the house or doing practical chores, or you plan something mundane like going to the movies because you are just too tired to play strenuously.  

I suppose we could have just thought “heck with FLEX” and gone kayaking on occasion, but we didn’t. That mindset was difficult to embrace, because we had such a strong commitment to building that business that once it was established keeping it fiscally stable (and appeasing the insatiable demands of dance parents) required endless attention. And money was always tight. Our school was successful, but we always channeled the profits back into the business. We never paid ourselves enough to maintain even a small boat – or to take a vacation for that matter. I don’t think we would have ever had anything in our life had we not sold the school. We’d die channeling everything we had back into better programs and bigger facilities. We had so many things we wanted for the dancers and the school that it was so easy to justify our family sacrifices for “the greater good”. We could never justify a boat just for us. We always had a someday we’ll have “time”, or “money”, or “privacy” attitude. “Someday” never came, and we eventually recognized that it never would . . . until we left that world to create a new one.

When we sold the school, one of my “demands” was that we use some of our money for family toys. I was insistent that our life not be revised to be all about working on our home and (God forbid) building a new business. These are admirable things and I certainly am willing to make sacrifices to live in a beautiful home, but I didn’t want that to be all we have to show for a lifetime of effort. Experiences are so much more valuable than things. At least that is how I feel at my current stage in life.

Which is why, long before we moved to the land or were ready, I went out and bought horses. I had this uncomfortable feeling that if I waited, all our disposable money would be channeled into the new house and we would be right back in the drudgery cycle of sustaining a lovely lifestyle (without “fun” as a priority) again. Like marrying a second abusive spouse after you finally get brave enough to escape the first one.  I pushed for the four wheelers for the same reason. We also looked at a pontoon boat last season and came close to purchasing it. But with our energies so wrapped up in building the house, and with funds reliant on things out of our control (Flex’s adjustment period was nerve-wracking on that level) we decided to wait. Instead, we rented kayaks last season and explored the Ocoee River a few times. And we spent a few afternoons doing the inner tube float trip thing. Fun.

Now, our house is finished. We are settling into routine at long last. It’s spring. I’ve begun thinking about how much I long for leisure to be a part of our world again. I am thinking of boats.

We live five minutes from the <ST1Ocoee River, where they had the whitewater Olympics a few years ago. We live ten minutes from <ST1Blue Ridge Lake, a huge sprawling lake that winds through the mountains and is the attraction for so much tourism in the area. There are dozens of other rivers a short drive in our state parks, and other lakes as well. We could spend years going out every weekend and hardly make a dent in exploring these areas.

We have the double kayak and I am cleaning it up, getting it ready. It is time we finally use this poor thing, dragged along for years like some kind of albatross symbol of the kind of living we didn’t have time for. The problem is, a single boat limits us, because we are a family of four. Five when you are counting Denver. Six when you count Dianne (and we usually do). So, for my upcoming birthday I made a request. While I would love a female llama. Or a pig. Or a trip somewhere (anywhere) I think what I really want this year is two single man, easily transportable kayaks, the light kind you see on the roof of cars all summer around here. I am always jealous when I see them speed by and I never fail to make a comment.   I figure with two singles and a double kayak, we have many options. Kent and a friend can take out the singles alone, or we can all go and Neva can sit in the middle of the double kayak, and we can take turns in the different boats. We can even pull one of our huge inner tubes along and take turns with who is paddling and who is floating. Or maybe if we actually use the damn things, we’ll later buy another canoe to go with it so everyone fits in one big expedition. With different size boats you have the mix and match option to fit all kinds of groups.

I’ve wanted these easy to manage kayaks for years, so I think Mark will comply.
I even said, “If we can’t afford them now, I’ll take an IOU. I just want to know we will get them eventually when we can swing it.”

He said, “We’ll see what we can do”.
Like I said yesterday, I don’t have to have everything I want. I just like knowing I can have it, without guilt, when and if circumstances make it feasible.

But it looks as if Kayaks are not going to be the highlight of our future boating journeys. Because I think we’ve just bought a big boat! My sister called to tell me she is selling her 23 foot party boat. Do I want it? She will find out what it is worth, and sell it to us for half. This way, the family can use it when they visit us up here. It is a few years old, but in perfect condition. She has no kids and only uses it occasionally for casual boating with Dad. She keeps it in a covered lift at the marina. She had the benches recovered last year. The motor is older but is working perfectly. This boat is perfect for cruising, skiing, fishing, and it will pull an inner tube at death-defying speeds. It would be just the thing for our family on the <ST1Blue Ridge Lake.

It didn’t take two seconds to consider the offer.

Yes, we want it, but can you wait for us to sell the cabin before we pay? Yes? Yipee!

Unfortunately, the dang thing has no trailer, so we will have to buy one. But in a few weeks, we will go to Florida to visit family, handle some business, and we will pick up the boat. I wish I could keep it in the water in the marina here, because that makes using it so easy. It is easy to make excuses not to spend your weekends boating if you see setting up and returning home as some huge chore. But they have a huge waiting list for slips here, so we will probably have to store it at home and put it in and out of the water ourselves. Nevertheless, we’ll do what we must, until a slip opens up. Or maybe we’ll discover we don’t really need that kind of luxery. Just having the boat represents something very special – it’s proof that life is no longer on hold – That it can be filled with rich, inspirational moments today.

Slowly but surely, I feel like we are living again. It’s a bit like when your foot falls asleep. You know that numb feeling? We had that all over – and leaving FLEX was like standing up. Sitting so long in one position, you don’t realize what’s happening. Only when you move do you notice you lost all sensation in your leg. At first, you almost fall over, because you can’t even support yourself with this numb limb where once you had a foot. Then, you experience pain, a tingling sensation that seems weird and unnatural. Scary. Just when you are wondering if you are paralyzed for life, slowly, the blood returns, and normalcy eases back, and you can walk. Then run. And the awkward, unnatural sensation of being numb all over fades away as you think, “Gee, I hope I don’t sit that way again so my foot falls asleep anytime soon. That sucked.”

It is good to be awake.

It will be even better to be awake and floating.

I often serve eggs in the morning and when I do, someone inevitably asks, “This one of your eggs?”

You see, I’ve been getting a few random, small brown eggs from one very dear chicken. I usually cook them the day they are laid. They are organic, fresh, and cook up fluffy and perfect. I’ve been finding about three a week. With spring here, it looks as if more eggs will be coming (in a more steady way) soon. That and the fact that I am feeding my chickens special “crumble” that forces egg laying means it’s only a matter of time until no one will have to ask if they are eating one of “my” eggs. It will be a given.

Each time I find an egg in the nest, I squeal with delight and pick it up. Then I have to carefully carry it around with me for a half hour as I finish taking care of the animals. I show it off to anyone who comes by, as if I found a nugget of gold or something. No one ever reacts with the excitement or wonder that I expect. Obviously, people take small miracles for granted.

I have four almost-fully-grown Rhode Island Reds that will be laying soon. They are in a new pen Neva and I made this weekend out of a big iron frame that was protecting our monster chandelier when it came packaged a few months ago. When I saw that big, indestructible rectangle, I said to Mark, “Don’t you dare throw this away – I can use this.”

“He said, “What on earth do you want that rusty thing for?”

“A cage.”

“A cage for what?”

I didn’t know at the time, but I knew I would always need another cage, considering my animal husbandry explorations. When it was time to move my bigger chicks into a “holding area” near the pen, I knew the iron frame would be just the thing. Mark dragged it from the workshop to the chicken area and bought me some supplies. Neva and I wrapped chicken wire all about the thing and wired it together. No door – that would have been too complicated. We just tilt the contraption and shove the birds in.  Now I have a spiffy new chicken run.

 I’ve always admired people with the “use it up and wear it out” mentality. It takes innovation to use resources wisely, which is good for the planet, good for the mind, and involves creativity and skill. It may be easier to write a check for something you need. Nice new, sparkly things do look nice, new and sparkly. However, I am rather turned off by the glut of consumerism and waste in our world, so I associate good feelings to making a cage out of a packing crate. People who do not see the value (and accomplishment) in reusing resources are missing something wonderful. Anyway, more and more, I’m trying to be someone who lives in more environmentally responsible ways. Gotta do my part to save the world (global warming is real, friends). Saves money too, and there are things I want far more than shiny new (unnecessary) everyday stuff – like a trip to Egypt to see the sphinx.(But first, we are discussing going to hike Glacier Park, because in twelve years, all glaciers will be gone. You haven’t seen “An Inconvenient Truth” yet if you don’t understand that decision.)

Where was I? – Oh, I was bragging about my up and coming chickens. I also have five Americanas (blue eggs). These birds are young teenagers (4 weeks old) but they will be laying in three months. I have seven baby chicks of assorted breeds peeping in my basement too, which will start laying some time in June. I am totally egg-a-fide now. It is just a matter of time until the windfall begins.

I am going to buy myself three tiny turkey chicks next week. I’m shooting for a boy and two girls, although they are not pre-sexed so you have to guess. Linda (the feed storeowner) taught me how to best determine what these babies are by their behavior. I’m told turkeys get as big as Neva (bigger! 80 pounds), and that if you handle them a lot, they are terrific pets. They will run around with the chickens, gobble and add ambiance and flavor to my ever-growing poultry collection. I even have the names picked out for my turkeys, but I won’t share them. Certain people would be offended – though anyone who knows me well also knows my humor and understands how I like to amuse myself in stupid ways, so perhaps you can guess.

I also plan to buy some game hens later that I intend to let run wild in my chicken area. Why not? They lay eggs you can eat, and they make some funky raw sounds that are fun too.

When I bring new animals into our world, Mark just takes a nonchalant look and makes a few comments about whatever seems interesting to him about them. He never discourages me or seems put out. In fact, he is rather supportive of my interests. I guess he thinks it could be worse. Not like I’m interested in buying a racecar or having surgery done to change my body or anything else that might contradict our concept of the perfect life. His generous attitude is partially because it doesn’t really cost anything to add a few bird mouths to feed and it keeps me happy. Most importantly, I do all the drudgery pet care. He also finds the animals interesting, educational, good for a laugh, and he is very into eating organic. Nevertheless, he has put his foot down about a pig. You see, I want a mini pot bellied pig. I think they are too cute. He thinks pigs are dirty and nasty. He says I can only get a pig if I will eat it, and since I won’t, we are at a pig-stalemate. He is determined to be the only pig in my world. I’m not ready to give up my pig fantasy however. It is just a matter of finding the right negotiation tool. The question is, what’s the ticket to get a guy to give in to a girl’s pig desires? Hummm….. I’ll have to ponder that one.

I bought about six grape plants last week. Every time I see one I’m like “gotta have one of those.”  I have muscadine, concord, suffolk and lakemont varieties. As it turns out I won’t be using any of them for making wine. No-siree. I did my homework and learned I will need a vineyard with specific breeds of grape for that. So today, I’ll stick these grape plants along the fence somewhere and hope they will grow and bear fruit. These particular grapes will be for eating or making jelly.

I said, “Honey, will you let me have a vineyard, please?”

Mark sighs. “A whole vineyard? Can’t you just work with a nice arbor filled with grape vines? How much wine can one girl make and drink?”

(The man obviously underestimates my potential for wine consumption now that I don’t need to be a constant “good example” for dancing children).

“I need a vineyard. I read a book.”    

“A book. Of course. Aren’t you supposed to be so busy with your MFA that you have no time (thank god) to read books? Why do you need a vineyard to make wine? I doubt every person who makes wine has an entire vineyard.”

“According to my book, lots of people do. Tending to a vineyard gives you the whole experience.”

“You need the whole experience? You haven’t made a single bottle of wine yet. We can buy grapes, ya know. We don’t know if we even like homemade wine.”

“If I buy the grapes it won’t be the same.”

“How do you know?”

Since I had no answer for that, I told him all about the information I’m learning about making wine. Each plant yields 8-11 pounds of fruit. You need 10 pounds to make a gallon of wine, which is five bottles. Each vine must be 6 feet from another, staked with wire to make rows of fruit bearing vines. I want to make 40 gallons a year. That takes one tenth of an acre, hardly a drop in the bucket of our 50 acres . Grapes like acidic, sandy, rocky soil. We can add sand to our clay to get good results. Grapes like being near water, which is why commercial vineyards are on coastal areas, like California, Italy or the other end of our state. They don’t like being near forests, because they need to stay dry and you don’t want deer eating them – but I will work around that. My wine will be for home consumption (or gifts) so it is not like everything has to be perfect. Grapes grow best on hillsides. We have hillsides! I figure we can clear a section of our land and plant a vineyard (you till the soil in fall and leave it unbothered, don’t even walk on it, then in spring plant about 40 vines and tend to them for three years.) Voila, we have a vineyard. It’s that easy.

Mark sighs. He is thinking about the eight apple trees still in the back of the trailer that he has yet to plant. (He got too tired to finish all our planting after putting in our pear and peach trees this weekend). In three years I’ll have apples. Will I have time for grapes too? He is probably wondering if it would be easier to say “You want a vineyard? Sure. Whatever,” because it is possible I will give up the idea by fall. But then again, I’ll have taken my wine making course by then, and I might be hotter for a vineyard than ever, so he dare not make promises he may not want to be bother with later. He has his own passions you know. He has benches to make. Tables and turned bowls.

But then again, he is also probably thinking a vineyard would be kind of fun – another new experience that might lead us into new territory. He loves gardening. Loves eating healthy, natural, homegrown things. Loves my cooking. Loves giving me busy work that keeps me out of trouble. If a vineyard isn’t too much trouble, it might be cool . . . .

I tell him that people with vineyards also plant roses, as if this might influence him somehow.

He says that is because of the pollination issues. Roses attract bees, which will cross-pollinate, which results in more fruit. He points out that he has never really been into roses.

Bees? You need those? I’ll have bees by then. Plenty!
He groans. He still hasn’t warmed up to the bee issue.
“Moreover, even if you can live without them, I love roses. Gee wiz, I am so meant to have a vineyard.” 

He is smart. He says, “We’ll discuss it later, in the fall. Let’s see where we stand with work and money and our time then.”

That is fair. That isn’t a “no”. It isn’t a “yes”. It is one of those famous “we’ll see”‘s that kids hate so much. In the end, I figure having a thing isn’t always necessary anyway. The fact that you can have it if you want it badly enough is what counts, and he has given me that.

I’m appeased. I’ll keep reading about wine and vineyards and put the idea of my own vineyard on the backburner of my mind. If I don’t plant a vineyard of my own, I’ll write a book about a heroine who makes wine and has a backyard vineyard. Yea, there is no such thing as information that goes to waste.

In the meantime, I think I will drag Mark to the other coast next month for a weekend getaway. There is a Georgia vineyard route there with small commercial growers that welcome tourist. We can do the wine country drive, learn what varieties work in our region of the country. We can sip samples, buy some bottles for home – maybe even see how much work it all is and find out if they sell plants for when (if) the time comes.

Anyway, That is my farm report for today.  I’d love to write more, but I gotta go. I have homework. Bear with me. I may be MIA for a few weeks as I finish this MFA. I have to turn in my thesis April 9^th and I’m ready to knock it out and put it to bed.  My best birthday present ever will be tying a bow around that puppy and not bothering with it for a while.

Sigh. To work.

This weekend, Mark and I planted 500 daffodil bulbs around our house. I’m told these may or may not bloom this year. Next year we will get a hearty bunch of flowers for sure. The year after that, there will be an explosion of color that will curl my toes. Can’t wait. I’m not exactly patient. I got annoyed an hour later when I looked out my window and saw nothing in the spot where I’d spent hours bent over and burying those little bulbs.

I said, “This is boring. When will they arrive?”

Mark said, “You just planted them. It takes time.”

Harrumph.

This weekend began my gardening education. I am an enthusiastic student, regardless of the fat that Mark keeps rolling his eyes as if I am a total lost cause. Can I help it if I don’t have his keen understanding of all things plant-like (yet)?

He says, “Stomp on the dirt to pack it down. Any air that gets into the root will make it rot.”

So, I stomp on the dirt.

He says, “You don’t have to do a daffodil dance on every one. Just stomp on it.”

I was stomping. Who said that gardening can’t be done with finesse? I prefer doing a little cha cha cha on top of each potential flower. I think the flower gods will like that, sort of like a rain dance, only it is good luck for the bulb.

Mark makes fun of me, says I am a gardening queer-bo. What can I say? You can take the girl out of dance, but you can’t take the dance out of the girl.

Of our 500 bulbs, Mark purchased about 450 of them. I happened to buy some on-line a few months back because they were on sale at the place where last year I bought wildflower seeds. (Seeds that never grew, by the way) I was inspired by the pictures – and the sale. This is not my role in the marriage – being the plant purchaser. Let’s just say I was stretching my horizons.

After we finish planting his load, Mark says, “Whatcha got?” He looks at my purchases and wrinkles his nose. “Mixed bulbs? We don’t want mixed bulbs. We hate mixed bulbs.”

“We do? I didn’t know that. They give diverse color. See, it says so right on the package. Besides which, I think they are pretty.” I say.

They aren’t naturalized,” he says, as if I should know what the heck he is talking about.

“It’s not like they are made of plastic. They are natural, ” I point out.

He explains that in the wild, flowers grow and multiply on there own, so to grasp a look that is natural, you must only use one color in an area. Slowly you blend to a different color. It’s gotta be a gradual thing. Apparently, mixed flower colors are corny.

My opinion is that mixed colors are pretty, and who are we kidding, we are planting the damn things for color, so the naturalization of this planting is just a fallacy anyway. As long as we are in control of what goes where, why not mix it up for fun? Why paint a picture with only a few primary colors when you can mix it up to get a variety?”

He shakes his head as if I just suggested we cover the sofa in the living room with plastic.

I also bought Hyacinths, which I was told are too small for our big expanse of land. And . . . um. . . I bought them mixed. Foolish me.

Mark kept looking around as if he couldn’t figure out where to put these bulbs, like I had bought a mermaid lamp with a clock in its stomach and wanted it in a place of prominence in the house. He wouldn’t dare suggest we not plant my bulbs, because that would be insulting my taste, and he is not one to purposely hurt my feelings or want to dampen my enthusiasm for planting. He is glad I’m interested in joining him outdoors, though I am sure he would rather me be slave labor than someone with an opinion. Anyway, it was clear to me he did not want my corny flower choices around his classy, perfect house.  He is a master gardener, after all, and I have amateur tastes. But he recognizes that it is our house and he wants to be fair, so he would have planted them wherever I wanted if I had made a case of it.

I suggested we plant my bulbs near the chicken house, because I would love to see color there when I am working with the animals.

Boy oh boy, did he jump at that suggestion. He was like, “Great idea! They will look fantastic there!” Ha. He didn’t really think I’d mess with his garden vision did he? I just bought some bulbs for fun – not like I cared where they went. I am aware that he is the one who knows what is what outdoors and I wouldn’t presume to question his concepts.

So, we planted my mixed bulbs on the hill by the chickens. I guess they are corny. Big whoop. I think they will be beautiful. They are flowers for God’s sake, and all flowers are beautiful. Besides which, I tend to pick blooms whenever I see them (can’t resist), and in a vase, no one will care if they are naturalized or not. In fact, I’ll get double the pleasure when I see those mixed flowers now, because I bought them myself and they landed in my domain. Makes them uniquely mine.

Next, we went shopping for trees. Mark said we were going to buy 40. Cool.

I saw the apple trees and said, “How about we get twenty of those?”

His eyes popped out of his head. “You only need one of each apple tree for a grove. You can’t handle any more. Trust me.”

“I want lots of apples.” I insisted. “Enough for loads of cooking and for my horses too.”

“You’ll have enough. Pick four.”

So, I got one gala, two granny smith (because they are small and I slipped another one in when he wasn’t looking), one golden delicious, and one other one that I can’t’ remember now.  We are buying peach trees today. And a plum and pear tree. I may have queer tastes when it comes to gardening, but apparently, I am a big fruit too.

I saw fig trees. I got so excited. I said, “Hey, let’s grow figs. What can I make out of figs?”

Mark thinks a minute and says, “Um…. Figgy pudding?”

“Yea, figgy pudding. “

“I’ll sing, “Bring us a figgy pudding” every Christmas,” he says.

“Good idea! What else can I make out of figs?”

He thinks some more. “Fig newtons.”
O.K. So there are not a lot of fig recipes that immediately come to mind. But I’m thinking homemade fig newtons sound good. I get my heart set on a fig tree. I point out that if we ever want to run around naked playing Adam and Eve, the leaves will come in handy too. But the garden lady blows that dream out of the water when she tells us that in Georgia the fig trees don’t ever really bear fruit. There goes my figgy pudding. There goes my Adam and Eve costume for next Halloween. Drat.

We bought pink flowering Chinese weeping willow trees, and flowering dogwoods and flowering pear trees and other things that will bring color around the house. These, I’m told, are the skeleton to our landscaping, and we will add bushes and annuals later. Fascinating.

I plunked a bag of lime on the counter to amend the soil around my beloved blueberry bush. I thought the blueberries were a bit sour and the bush is getting old. I think it needs some attention. Lime is what our pasture needed, I was told by the County <ST1Extension service. They explained that our soil was lime depraved, a very important nutrient, so I’ve been on a quest to rectify that. As an afterthought, I mentioned what I was doing to the garden lady. Her eyes grew round and said, “You know that lime will kill a blueberry bush, don’t you. Blueberries are an acidic plant (or maybe she said the opposite, I don’t remember). You absolutely do not want lime anywhere near it. Fruit bushes and pastures are very different and have different needs.”

Are you kidding me! I almost killed my most favorite thing in the world. This reminds me of why I don’t garden. When I left home and had my first apartment in New York, I kept buying plants, but they always died. Gave me a complex. I decided I didn’t have a green thumb. It was more a black thumb. So once I moved and got a house with a real yard, I had to be content with just grass. Then, when I got married, I left the gardening to Mark. He had the gift. Seemed the practical choice.

Wiping sweat from my worried brow, I bought the correct plant food to give my beloved blueberry bush a boost and decided that I wouldn’t do anything from now on without talking to the experts. Man, this is going to be a long perilous road, this learning all about how to grow things. It is far more complex than plunking seeds in the ground and watering them a few times a week. I am reading every article I come across about gardening in Georgia and about vegetable gardens etc. It is always fun to learn something new, but this is one big subject and if you screw up, you kill things. You might say, “Hey, it’s only plants”, but still, I think we must each take responsibility for our impact on all things living and I don’t want to be responsible for turning healthy plants into withering crusts.

I tried to get Mark to buy some grape plants (only five bucks a nice size plant) but he asked me to wait. He needs to build an arbor first for them to grow on. But who knows when he will get around to that? So, I’m thinking I might sneak out and buy six or 8 plants later this week and start them on a fence somewhere in the meantime. Without lime. Or with. I’ll ask.  I am also planting some raspberry bushes near my blueberry bush. I want to make that area my berry haven. We took a drive around the land on the four-wheeler yesterday and we spotted all the dormant blackberry bushes. I asked Mark if I should feed them to assure sweeter berries this July but he said some plants grow best in harsh conditions and wild plants often happen to fall into this category. Feeding them might help them produce better. But it might hurt them too. Wholey moley, I’m paralyzed with the uncertainty. I’ve decided to let them be. If it ain’t broke . . ..

Anyway, so goes my venture into the world of gardening. I wish I could flash forward to reap the bounty now, but I know it will take a few years untill these plants are up and producing. At least we have begun. And I’m liking it. Lots. Mark better watch out cause once I learn what I am doing, he will be tripping over all kinds of things growing here and there and he’ll be thinking, “How did that get there?” Ha. He will be inundated with corny flowers and things bearing fruit everywhere- and he’ll be married to a woman cha cha cha-ing all over the place.

Because, I think I’m going to learn enough to be proficient at this. Like the bulbs, I just have to be patient . Seeds have been planted (in my head) and now, time and attention will help them take root. You see, in this chapter of my life, I’m gonna be a bloom’in gardener. It fits.

And for the record, no more eggs yet.

I got an egg!

It broke.

Life’s a bitch.

Yesterday, I dragged Mark out for a walk to visit my chickens. I wanted to open the pen so they could enjoy the beautiful day (it was about 65 degrees out). When we got there, I noticed only two of my new hens were out scratching in the dirt.

I said, “Gee, maybe the other one is in the henhouse, laying an egg.” However, I seriously didn’t expect that was the case. I’ve concluded that I’m one of those rare, sad breed of farmer wannabes – an egg-challenged individual. Just yesterday, Eric C, the fellow who puts up our farm fencing (and who sold us the pregnant horse and donkey, gave us our favorite puppy, and took our goat when we wanted to find a good home for it) came by to move a gate. He stood with us, staring at our chickens. I proudly pointed out my new hens. He shook his head and said, “Those aren’t good laying hens, ya know. They are good sitters, but don’t count on them giving you eggs.”

I said, “Are you shitting me? (Forever a classy broad) What good is a sitter if the chicken isn’t laying eggs to sit on?”

Eric said, “You can place eggs from other chickens under them and they will hatch them out for you. These birds are good brooders for chicks.”

“I don’t want chicks. I want eggs,” I pointed out.

Eric then proceeded to go to his truck and get me a poultry catalogue. (How many of your friends can do that?) He pointed out that I can get chickens for only two bucks if I buy 25 at a time and have them mailed to me. (Now, I ask you, who wants 25 birds that are all the same color and kind? Not me. I prefer to buy them at four dollars a pop and pick them out individually. I am frivolous that way.) But we had a nice time perusing the catalogue. Man, there are lots of different chickens out there in the world.

Anyway, I asked Eric if he wanted a rooster. He said, “Sure”

I said, “You’re not going to eat him are you? Never mind. Don’t tell me.”

Eric laughed and said, “They aren’t big enough to eat. But I have some chickens that wouldn’t mind some male company.” And he picked up the white silkie and put her in the back of his truck.

Back to my tale of chicken woe.  As I was saying, yesterday, I wondered where my third hen was. I went into the chicken house and Voila! She was sitting in a corner all fat and proud, and when she got up, there was an egg underneath her. Considering Eric had me convinced my hens wouldn’t lay, I was surprised. Delighted. Heck, I was ecstatic. I squealed and yelled, “I got an egg.”

Mark says, “That’s nice, dear,” in his droll way.

I said, “Come see! Come see!”

He said, “I get it. You have an egg.”  

“You have to come see it.”

He pokes his head into the shed. “Yep, that’s and egg all right.”

I was seriously confused at how he could remain so calm. I said, “Do you not understand the significance of this egg?”

He said, “You have chickens. Eventually, you were going to get an egg. A few months from now, you will be laughing at yourself for getting excited by this, because you will think nothing of eggs. It’s not that big a deal.”

Baloney. I will always see the miracle.

I did the “I got an egg” happy dance.

Mark said, “If I knew you’d get this turned on by an egg, I would have snuck out here with a dozen and shoved them under your chickens months ago.”

He really is missing the point.

Anyway, after I marveled at the egg I decided to leave it where it was so Neva could see it and collect it herself. We went to pick up the kids from school, and I talked about the egg the entire way. I told everyone I encountered about the egg – like the girl behind the counter at the coffee shop. I even stopped by the feed store to tell the owner I finally got an egg. She smiled in this funny patronizing way, as if I was seven and telling her I lost my first tooth. Then, I called Denver and Dianne to tell them about my egg. I invited them all to breakfast.

Denver said, “You want us all to come to breakfast to share this one egg? How big is this egg, anyway?”

It just so happens it is a rather small egg. That isn’t’ the point. I explained that it would be a ceremonial breakfast and we would share. Amazingly, she said was . . . um . . . busy.

Anyway, after picking up the kids and sharing the big news, I drove everyone back to the henhouse. I had my camera in my pocket to take picture of my special egg too. Knew you’d want to see it. Kent and Neva go inside – I am outside checking my angora bunnies (who are together doing the nasty this week (every five minutes in fact) to make baby angoras).   

Kent calls out, “What egg? There is no egg in here.”

“Of course there is. Right on the ground.” I yell back.

“There is no egg in here. There is, however, a part of an egg shell,” he says, chuckling. Obviously, boys are very heartless when it comes to egg-appreciation. Must be a hormonal thing.

What! I rush in. Sure as shit, my egg is gone. Somebody broke it. There were no birds in the vicinity to take the blame. I wonder if it was due to my hen sitting on it overzealously, or maybe the other hens were jealous and didn’t want me playing favorites. Maybe a rooster thought it was too soon to be a father. Whatever – someone dared break my egg.

I was devastated. There goes my ceremonial breakfast.  There goes my picture.

Mark says, “Well, you will probably have another egg tomorrow. Once they start laying, they keep at it.”

Yea, but I wanted THAT egg. My first. It was special.

Anyway, today I will see if I have any other eggs – if there is one there, you can bet I’ll collect it right away. I am also going to the feed store to buy oyster shell to put in my scratch, because that makes the shells harder and more resistant to cracking. I will combat the obstacles standing in my way of egg success, whatever the cost.

My friend Patti says chicken eggs taste like whatever you feed the chickens. Her sister fed her chickens veggies and her eggs tasted like veggies. This means, my eggs will taste like powdered donuts. Interesting.

But that theory can’t be true, can it? That would mean you’d have to feed your chickens eggs to get eggs that taste like eggs. And that would be cannibalism (shudder). But, just in case, you can bet I’ll be doing some scientific testing on the matter. Gee, maybe my chickens would enjoy a glass of wine – I can get eggs that taste like Chardonnay. Cool.

Anyway – this concludes the joy and pain of my first egg experience. It’s just like life, a dream is just within reach, and something comes along to smash it. You can then choose to give up, or put forth a bit more effort so the next time you see your heart’s desire within reach, you might be able to get a hold of it.  

Today is Saturday. We have big plans. We are going to buy a tiller and plan our spring garden. I read all about asparagus last night. Takes three years to get a crop going, but then it produces for 20 years. Patience is not my forte, but I still want to try. I am hot for tomatoes, carrots, onions, peppers, and more – they will provide more instant gratification. Have big cooking plans, ya know. I have to wait three years for apple and pear trees to begin producing, but I figure time flies when you are growing a new life, so we might as well get started. I sure as shoot don’t want to wake up three years from now and think “I wish way back when, I had . . . .” You only reap what you sow, and now that the sentence applies literally, I’m all for rolling up my sleeves and digging in today for tomorrow’s rewards.   

I am also going to plant a bunch of grape vines next week. This is a part of my new ultimate passion. I am going to make my own wine. I’ve bought books about home wine making and subscribed to Winemaker magazine. I’ve signed up for a weekend course. I figure this is perfect for me. I love to cook. I love to drink wine. I love especially to make things out of stuff I grow on my own land. But wine also is a subject that requires patience. It must ferment for a year or so before you can even sample it. Imagine! You have to wait a full season to find out what you don’t like about what you did with a batch, and as such, it will take years to develop the skill and develope a great wine touch. Ah well, I’m only 47. I have time. I think it would be wonderful to have a dinner party and serve my own wine. I will need a label of course, and a perfect name for my wine creations. (The dancing grape? Naw. Too queer.) Lots to think about. I read that you usually make 30 bottles at a time – And I’m bound to want to try different recipes. Gee, I’ll need to find some serious drinking friends soon.

I told Mark that maybe I’ll get good at the wine making thing, and we can move to Italy and purchase a winery in the next chapter of our life. He said, “Perhaps you should make one bottle first, before mapping out our future or writing up a business plan or anything.”

I guess that isn’t a bad idea, but I did point out that he has been talking about opening a furniture company, and he has yet to make a table. Touché. Guess we think on grand scales – for fun if nothing else. The endless possibilities in life are half the fun of living, you must agree.

Today is about planting. I want tons of sunflowers and other pretty things to attract humingbirds and butterflys. I need things bees will pollunate. (Remember, I am taking a bee-keeping class in 6 weeks. Fun!)We are also going to dig up dirt samples today and label them so Monday we can take them to the Extension office for testing. We need to find out the PH of the soil and know what it needs to get the best results. (It’s kind of like going to school to get a MFA if you want to write. I’m all for doing the preliminary work to increase your chances of success if you want to accomplish something special.) We’re having our earth tested to learn what it needs to make a better pasture, garden, and/or orchard. Can’t wait to learn the gritty details about our dirt. I want to buy worms too. And I think I should make a scarecrow – for ambiance if not for any real purpose. Gee, I have a lot to do. Where is my straw hat?

Anyway, it is going to that kind of day. I need to don my jeans, work boots and a sweatshirt. Funny, I will be wearing my FLEX sweatshirt – my favorite. Talk about evidence of getting hit with a life curveball. Wow. L:ife is wonderfully unpredictable if you’ve the nerve to let it unfold without ironclad control.

Yesterday, my old student and dear friend, Jessica Smith, looked me right in the eyes and told me I am strong. I am  also”excellent.” I’m  “looking good”. Why, Thank you, Jessica.
 
Of course, she hasn’t seen me in about a year. She was there with me, however, in a role reversal that had me grinning from ear to ear. Jessica has produced a workout tape on sale through Woman’s Health mag., and yesterday, I was one of her customers.

I work out every day. Sometimes I do my dance warmup. Somedays, Mark gives us both a pump class with weights. That is sort of funny, because he puts on his teaching persona and barks orders at me. One day I answered the phone in the middle of our session and he was so peeved. I was told to “pay attention” in his class. Your class? Um, it’s just you and me dear. Ah well, he gives a good class, so I’m game to any rules that apply.  

On nice days, I run (huff, puff and hobble). But more often than not, I workout to a variety of tapes in my workout room. The closest health club is a 40 minute drive from here, and while I attended for several months when we first moved, I finally gave up. It simply ate up too much of my precious day. That’s when I began walking the mountain, but I found bad weather interviened more often than not and I missed a full body workout. So, I am now a stay at home workout person, which I like. I The social aspect of working out in a health club doesn’t appeal to me, I like the privacy and the freedom of working out alone – it is when I do my best thinking.

I am a fan of DVD’s produced by the Firm for cardio, but I also tend to finish with a Yoga tape. (I swear, I don’t know how anyone without years of dance training can do yoga. It challenges my balance and my flexibility, and I am fairly adapt in both areas. But the meditation is amazing. I always turn off the lights and work in the dark to the yoga tapes.)  I have pilates tapes and exercise ball tapes and you name it.

I find most home tapes are designed for people who are out of shape and lack much self disclipline, because they segment exercises in short sessions that never push the limit. So, I end up doing more than one tape to get a full hour workout.  The day Jessica told me she had a new tape soon to be on the market, I went on line and ordered it right away. Heck, even if I didn’t use workout tapes, I’d have done that.

I got a call from a writer from the Sarasota Herald Tribune interviewing me about Jessica too. Her article came out just yesterday. Here is the site for those of you who are interested. Really, you should read it. Ever seen a writer act more enthralled with a subject? Jessica has a way of gripping people.

I haven’t talked about Kathy for a while, so I thought I’d post a quick update.

We took almost a month off over the Christmas holidays, due to the fact that the college was closed and I left for Boston the very week we were supposed to get back to our regime. I was anxious to see her, because I knew she had gotten teeth.

I expected her to look prettier, but I wasn’t prepared for how a set of false teeth would drastically change her appearance. Her smile is perfect now. Very natural. Her teeth are straight and white, her expression filled with feminine charm. The new teeth fill out her face, making her chiseled features look distinct. She also looks more intelligent. That sounds cruel, but it’s true. When she only had three rotting teeth, she looked like the stereotypical illiterate country gal you might picture right off if I was telling you about her. Now, she is far removed from the “hick” persona people find it so easy to poke fun at.  She looks not unlike the upper middle class mothers who used enroll their children in our dance school.  I imagine this slight change in her image will alter how others treat her is dozens of ways. Sad, but true.

I was thrilled for her. She said it took her a day or two to re-learn how to speak, but that was exciting too. Now I can work with her pronunciation, which is vital to grasping how to spell.  

She had brought me a few peanut butter cookies she had made from scratch. I sent her a Christmas subscription to a cooking magazine, hoping it would inspire her to attempt a few recipes. She said it was a complete surprise. To thank me, she made a batch of cookies from the first issue. The cookies were good, but I don’t think Kathy really knew how sweet they tasted to me. I munched slowly, staring at her (probably inappropriately, but I couldn’t help it) and we had our lesson. I had expected her to slip backwards a bit, considering we’d taken such a long break, but she did very well.

I asked her if she’d been practicing, and sheepishly, she admitted she hadn’t. That’s O.K. It was Christmas. We all relax and let things go at Christmas.

Then, she pointed out a word in a sentence we were reading, and said, “I should know this one. I see it a lot in the Bible.”

“You’re reading the bible?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, kinda. It’s pretty hard, so I just read the words I can. I have to skip a lot.”

I told her not to feel bad. The bible is a hard read. Heck, the few times I’ve tried, I’ve given up. I explained that it is written in old English, which means the sentence structure is unnatural to our ears today. And many of the words used are not common today either, making the meaning (if you can read them) a struggle. Then, there are the names. The names in the bible are long, not to mention difficult to pronounce!

She shrugged and said, “But I only read a children’s bible. It’s easier.”

“Still, it has to be hard. It’s not like they use nicknames,” I said.

I was delighted, because for all that Kathy thinks she doesn’t “practice” our work as much as she is supposed to (homework-wise)  she is obviously practicing. She is reading on her own, and no matter how simple the material is, this counts. She is attempting recipes. She is recognizing words on signs and on everyday objects she encounters. There was a time when she blocked out the written word.  Anyway, I think it is all very encouraging. I swear, after each lesson, I grin for hours.

Every week, she tells me all about the AA meetings and the drug court sessions etc, which she must attend. I listen, trying to absorb it all. Apparently, she’s told the judge and her parole officer about me. They said they hoped to meet me. I told her I’d go with her to one of her group therapy sessions one day. I’m interested to see what it’s really like. And I want to be there when she “graduates”, a ceremony they hold for those that succeed in this rehabilitation program. I am also going with Kathy the next time she speaks at the school. I guess you could say I am storing away information. I am planning to write an article about her for our local paper when the time is right (which means, when I have enough really positive material to make the piece resonate.) I want to do this, not because I write, but for her. I think it will be very special for her to have public acknowledgement for her hard work and her success. She keeps everything, every little certificate of achievement they give her as she moves through the program. I imagine an article would be a huge element in solidifying her new self-confidence.

Anyway, Kathy and I are plugging away. I am watching her evolve before my very eyes. It is remarkable.

And it is inspiring too. I hope to write about her one day. Perhaps I’ll write a memoir about teaching someone to read, but I’m thinking more of using what I’ve learned from her (and about her) to write a fictional story. I even have a concept. What if, while teaching a woman to read, an assignment is given for her to fill out as many forms as she can – for practice. And she fills out a card to win a free trip to Europe and wins a trip for two! Since she is single, and nervous about going, she thinks she should skip it, but her tutor encourages her to be brave and have this wonderful, once in a lifetime experience. The woman says she’ll only go if her tutor goes with her. Together they make the trip. In a different country, the tutor is suddenly at the same disadvantage as the illiterate student. Now, neither can read street signs or menus. But they can learn the new language together, and the strengths of the illiterate American woman suddenly shine through, because the playing field has been equaled. She is treated equal to her tutor, for here they are just American tourists. And they finds that in many ways, the student is more resourceful than her teacher, thanks to years of maneuvering without being able to read and communicate easily with others. This would have a huge impact on the woman’s self-esteem – and teach her that she is more capable than she ever knew, when years of being disadvantaged had taught her not to aspire too much of anything. I don’t know. I think a story like this would give room for great character growth for both of these characters, and a story like this would offer insight about people – how we perceive ourselves and others. And I could lace this tale with humor so easily. It would be romantic, fun. I could fill it with great scenes with beautiful men, the awe of travel, and what have you  Heck, I have a model for the entire thing sitting across from me every week, a friend fueling the idea.

Mark said, “Humm… interesting. But I guess you would need to travel to Europe first to make this story realistic. You’d need experiences to draw upon to make this story right.”

“Gee, ya think so?” I say, batting my eyelashes innocently. I’m no fool.

“But let’s make it perfectly clear – you wouldn’t be going with Kathy…” he says, obviously planning to be by my side when I do my research.
“No shit,” I say, laughing. 
 

Man –o-man, I can’t wait to finish my thesis and move on to the books raging inside.  This is just one of the ideas busting to take shape.  It needs some work, but it is just an raw idea. Writing is such an adventure. It allows you to live the life you imagine on paper.   And if you play your cards right, it can take you places you have a hanker’ in to see too.