Category Archives: Special Interests

It is time for your angora bunny lesson.
Isn’t this blog riviting?

This is one of my new bunnies. Cute, isn’t he? Excuse my work clothes. I am wearing my Christmas gift sweatshirt that says “Yes, I was born in a barn.” Perfect attire for the project, I’m thinking.  I’d been out in the rain, setting up cages before Neva was kind enough to take thess pictures.  E-gad. But you are supposed to be looking at the rabbit, not the chick holding her, so as the wizard said, “ignor that man behind the curtain” and stay focused. The second picture is of my rabbit already plucked –  you can just imagine how fluffy he was when we began!
 
Angora bunnies fall into 4 basic types. Mine happen to be French Angoras. They have a face like a regular rabbit, but long, wool-like hair that continues to grow about the body. Silkies have long fine hair that is striking, but not so good for spinning. English Angoras have tuffs about the feet and ears and they are a bit less hardy to raise and handle. Giant Angoras are huge rabbits, as the name suggests. They are primarily for show. There is a huge sub-culture for every kind of special interest, as you know, and tons of people show angora rabbits. I actually joined the Angora Society of America, but only because I want the magazine. Might have some usefully information and I’m interested in breeding and other information regarding angora parafanilia now. Who knows, I may end up writing for the publication later. I am always on the lookout for places to send material in the future.

Angora hair must be removed every 10-12 weeks or it will become all matted and felt (which is the process that takes place when wool gets wet and overworked, creating the thick, course fabric you know as felt). You brush angoras every week to keep the hair fine and whispy. This is rather delightful, because they are sweet, snuggly, and oh so cute to primp over.  When the hair is ready to be removed, it starts brushing off naturally and can be found about the cage, a nice reminder if you are slacking in the bunny fur harvest department. The bunnies tend to scratch and groom themselves to help this happen.  You can remove the overgrown hair by shearing close to the skin, but this results in shorter fibers that make it hard to spin. So, instead, you can just pinch sections in your fingers and pull. The hair comes out naturally, leaving behind the new growth. After spending a half an hour or more de-hairing your angora, it looks much like a normal rabbit – at least for a week or two until it puffs out again.


Angoras should only be fed lightly, or their hair will become course and will cease to grow well. They like carrots as a treat – nothing green, and they need lots of hay fiber to combat fur balls in the intestines (which can kill them). Papaya enzimes also help – and these can be purchased at any health store. Go figure. I can shop for us both at a GNC.

Angora bunnies are loving, docile and very, very snuggly. I adore my two. They look like clouds, so I named the white one (female)Cumulus, and the gray one, (male) Nimbus (which is a storm cloud, in case you didn’t know.) I plan to mate them in March for an April litter. Happy Birthday to me. Angoras sell for 50-150 dollars. Since mine do not have papers (I never plan to show them – they are just for fun) they were only 50$ each. That is high for a bunny, but not for a full bred angora.  I plan to keep the offspring I raise for wool gathering, but if I end up with more bunnies then I can handle, I’ll sell a few. I will be selective of homes, or course. Letting go of loved ones has never come easy to me. 

This week, I de-haired Nimbus for the first time. Not his first time. Mine. Cumulus already had her hair harvested just before I picked her up. That was fine, because it was a bit unnerving tackling this project for the first time. I was so worried about hurting the rabbits as I man-handled them. Concern over two bunnies would have done
 
me in.


Nimbus lay quietly in my lap as I plucked away. I took short breaks to allow Neva to brush out the rabbit’s soft hair with a dog brush. If I would have let her, she would have braided it, I know. Neva thought it was one big hair styling party, rather than a wool collection chore. Ha. We had fun. The bunny was like a little baby, cradled in my arms. The hair just kept coming off. Tons! I filled two big shoe boxes before stopping, and frankly, I think I left quite a bit on. I didn’t want to stress the rabbit too much the first time, and it is cold this time of year. I didn’t want to send him back to his cage naked and shivering.


I felt like quite the rabbit afficiando when finished. I had angora hair, a happy rabbit, and since it was a bunny-bonding experience, it didn’t seem like work. Now, I will brush this angora wool into hanks of raw sheep wool  with carders to prepare it for spinning. All angora is really a mix, because angora is too fine to keep shape alone. This will give me the basis for some very soft, fine homespun yarn that I will knit into a scarf or something. Nothing warmer than wrapping yourself up in someone you love, and if a pair of masculine arms aren’t available to do the job, a nice scarf made from your pet is the next best thing.
Perhaps I should mention here that some angora comes from angora goats, but not much. 90% of it comes from rabbits. Wouldn’t want you to purchase an angora sweater, go to a party, and start conversations about it armed with partial information. I’m a better teacher than that! 

Anyway, I accomplished something new this week and stretched my horizons. I broke in my new sweatshirt, filled a lint brush to capacity cleaning the couch afterwards, and I can boast that I have a big overflowing box of fur in the dining room as inspiration to make something novel (but I am preparing for my residency, so I have no time to actually do anything with it. Sigh.) 

Try something new everyday. This is proof that you can and you won’t get bit.

I’m a cookie slave.

I know, I know. Lots of people bake cookies at Christmas. However, not like me. I really AM a cookie slave – my daughter won’t let me stop! You see, I am helping her to make gifts for the people on her list. Well. . . “people” is not the exact word. I helping her make cookies for the ANIMALS on her list.  

 

We began with birdseed cookies. (Amazing what recipes you can find on the internet.) You make these with stuff like whole-wheat flour, sugar, shortening, baking soda and a cup of wild birdseed. Refrigerate for 4 hours, then you roll out the sticky mess and cut out shapes (we made stars), brush with egg whites and press more seeds to the outer cookie – then bake. You must put a hole in the cookie, of course, to hang the treat from a tree with ribbon. They came out so nice, we actually sent a few to my sister (another bird lover) as Neva’s gift. We looked for a nice Christmassy evergreen to decorate, but alas, they’ve all been cut away from around this house and Neva didn’t want to pick a tree just anywhere on our land. She wanted to watch the birds enjoy the gift from her window, so we ended up decorating a big, dead-looking, stickish tree instead. It isn’t pretty like a normal Christmas tree, but Neva believes the birds won’t mind. I certainly agree.

We garnished our Charlie Brown tree with strings of popcorn and cranberries, and bagels covered in peanut butter and rolled in birdseed (looks like little wreaths. Cute). I threw day old bread at the base of the tree too. The dogs ate the bread and even jumped up to snag a birdseed cookie (jealous fools – not like they can possibly like this stuff, and they had their own treats in the works.)

 

Next, we made dog cookies. Did you know they have about a zillion recipes for dog treats on the internet? I stopped browsing after I downloaded fifteen.  Neva picked the recipe she thought sounded dog-yummy and we began. Dog cookies have whole wheat flour, sugar, shortening and other normal cookie ingredients, (Some have peanut butter or cheese or garlic, which dogs love and, unlike people, it’s good for their breath) but in our recipe, you add meat flavored baby food. I threw in the drippings from last night’s pork roast – just because that sounded mutt-tasty. We rolled out this interesting concoction and Neva cut out shapes. She was making cookies for my sister-in-law’s dogs, two very fat, very spoiled, very obnoxious dashounds that are treated like surrogate children. Neva adores them. I stared at that recipe, wondering if I could possibly make it low-fat (I’m queen of adjusting recipes to cut fat and calories) but alas, it didn’t seem possible. I just don’t have dog-cooking down pat the way I do people-cooking. So, I encouraged her to cut out very small stars and teddy bear shapes for the little fatties. For our huge dogs, we went with large snowmen, Santa and Christmas tree cutters.

 

I never give food to a friend without testing it out first – at least, not when it’s a new recipe, so I snuck outside and gave one to our dogs. They went wild, like it was the best thing they’ve ever tasted. I gave a little treat to my daughter’s new puppy (her Christmas present from her boyfriend – uh oh) and it went crazy too. I am on to something here. For one thing, baking for the dogs is pretty easy and it will save me a fortune in store-bought treats. For another, I know these treats are filled with natural, good things and not preservatives or scary left-over meat products they wouldn’t give a human – eyeballs, or lungs and bones etc.. Yep, I’m a born-again puppy chef now, out to convert others to follow my lead to feed dogs healthfully and humanely.

 

Finally, I turned to Neva and insisted I make some people cookies. Not people shaped cookies for bears or anything. I mean cookies for people to eat. We had arrangements for a cookie decorating party at the house that night. Cookie decorating is a very serious business in this family. People have been known to spend an hour a cookie, hidden behind am arm – a covert operation to maintain design secrets, don’t ya know. Denver and her boyfriend, Dianne, and my mother in law were invited to this highly competitive event. Neva and I made about 5 dozen plain sugar cookies in every shape (I happen to have a laundry basket filled to the top with cookie cutters. I am not exaggerating – another gift item people like to give me. I have cutters for Halloween, Easter, in fact, every holiday, and then all kinds of non-holiday ones too.)  I pulled out my grossly massive collection of Martha Stewart cookie decorating sugars, pearls and eatable do-dads. Then I made a lasagna, nourishment for the troops, you see.

 

I was on keen alert all day, certain that someone would swing by the kitchen (knowing we were making Christmas cookies this day) and see a dog cookie or a birdseed cookie and think, “gee, that looks interesting” and pop one into their mouth. Not that there is anything foul in the animal treats, but I’d hate to ruin my cooking reputation because someone snagged a cookie laden with seeds or meat products. It did happen, but it was only as a joke. I was almost sorry about that. Would have given me a big laugh to see Mark munching on a horse treat, commenting that it had a funky texture for a Christmas cookie.   Ah well.

 

Today, I am scheduled to make horse cookies. I found about ten recipes for these as well. Horse cookies are made in huge batches. Well, that makes sense, since horses are huge. They are filled with things like whole wheat flour, bulgier wheat, bran, molasses, brown sugar, carrot shavings etc… These don’t get made into shapes, just dropped in clumps onto the cookie sheet to be baked. Since horse treats are also expensive and we have so many large animals, I am rather on-board for this project. Today, Neva and I are going riding. I am sure we will begin passing our Christmas horse treats around to our four-legged buddies. I bet the llama will like them too, he is getting so tame he trusts most of what I offer. The donkey will eat anything, although he is partial to M&M’s.

 

I am about to wrap up the Christmas cooking, other than five or six desserts to go with my pastry wrapped beef tenderloin and fixings I’m making for Christmas dinner. 

I’ve already completed several batches of my famous, incredible fudge. It has a hard texture, but melts in your mouth in this amazing way. Takes about three hours to make a small batch, and you must be on your toes, because one wrong move and it doesn’t set right, but it’s worth the effort. None of that gooey, easy, marshmallow cream sort of slacker-fudge for me. I got yelled at for making it (as always). It’s addictive. But when people are admonishing me for ruining their diet, I don’t listen – especially since they are nagging with their mouth full.

 

Now, I just have to make some snowballs, a delicate cookie covered in powered sugar that is filled with butter and pecans. Georgia is the pecan state, so I have the ingredients for this one covered. It is my favorite, so I make it last. Less time for me to ruin my own diet that way.

 

Perhaps I’ll make these cookies today. Then I can retire my role as cookie slave and just watch my loved ones partake. The only work left will be sweeping crumbs. That isn’t as crummy a job as it sounds. With a bit of Christmas music in the background, the most mundane tasks seem festive.

 

And as I write this, my cat just crawled into my lap… Cat? Oh yea. I have two. Damn. Can you make cookies with fish?

I have been out of town on an impromptu business trip. A flood of scandalous news was sent our way regarding our old business. In a nutshell, the employee we left in charge as director has left the school and opened a competing business down the street (despite a legal non-compete contract which was a condition for her taking the position.)

 

Now, as in a divorce, no one party is responsible for the dissolution of a marriage. Nevertheless, people take sides -usually they rally behind whoever is their closest friend or can do the most for them.
The women say, “Hey it’s all his fault because she did the best she could and he is an insensitive lout that doesn’t appreciate her.”
The men say, “He did the best he could under immense stress and pressure, and she made things worse instead of being supportive and caring.”
But the truth is somewhere in between, and honestly no one on the outside knows what really went on, because the problems go much deeper – down to emotional levels of self-worth and conflicting personal desires.

 

Anyway, I understand that the truth is very complex and the surface information people hear (and judge by) is missing some very key elements. VERY key.  So, I won’t presume to discuss whether or not this split is justified on a certain level, other than point out that it is illegal. A legal contract is a promise of good faith. I guess you can find loopholes if you have a good enough lawyer – and you are very careful with what you say (which our former employee is doing with all the practiced perfection of a miss dance interview – sorry, that is a comparison only my old students will appreciate.) Some people operate under a moral principal that “if you can get away with it, then it must be OK.” Not my cup of tea.

 

The problem I have with this entire thing isn’t what is happening (since I know it is very complex) as much as how it is happening. The truth is, this plan has been in the works for some time, and it has affected the previous employee’s performance, causing dissatisfaction in the school to set the stage for this dilemma. I know her choice was preplanned because I knew about it some time before the announcement – and if I know about it living 500 miles away, well, then lots of people knew about it. (Not, unfortunately, the new owners of the school.) In fact, at Mark’s recommendation, they confronted this employee directly and asked about the rumors point blank, and she assured them she was not going to open a studio. Two days later, her announcement blazed across the newspaper and the next day at the staff meeting, there was a full-fledged walkout at the mother ship. No notice. Teachers justified their decision to go to the other school and simply walked. It is common knowledge that students will go where there teachers go. So while you can claim no one is being solicited technically, the fact is that when teachers are invited to go with you, students are expected to follow (that is why the teachers are invited after all, since the new school has no enrollment defining need to begin hiring for. They anticipate “need” on the assumption that stealing teachers will equate to enrollment.), and the fact is, other personel and contributing members of the old school have been asked to support this new endeavor – she even asked for our support! Talk about gall!

 

The upheaval was staged perfectly. It is scandalous enough that there would be a split, but if customers walk into the school and no one is there to teach the kids, they would lose faith in the management’s ability to control the situation. The new owners of FLEX were left with no teachers and no dance director to help them solve the dilemma. They were, so to speak, sitting ducks, and everyone knew it and delighted in the fact. Obviously, resentment runs deep. They were not only sideswiped, but also hit with a vengeance on multi levels. I felt badly for them. The least I could do was get them some staff and give them some advice.

 

All issues of legality aside, I was shocked and appalled by the unprofessional behavior of the teachers involved. I don’t care how angry you are, it is only responsible to give notice and not work to purposely bring your previous employer down in so ugly a way. This was a mutiny, orchestrated to do the utmost damage. I am shocked to see so many individuals follow along without conscience. As far as I am concerned, everyone can leave if they want – the new owners are responsible for their employee’s dissatisfaction and that is another issue altogether– but have some class people and give fair notice. If what you are doing is truly good, right, and justified, than it will succeed without the forced damage done to your previous employer. I won’t go into the falsehoods being spread to influence others – but I promise you that the new owners of the school are not the only ones being duped. By the time that reality is revealed, the damage will have been done.

 

Anyway, I really had a hard time accepting what I was hearing.  As is always the case, when we hear things that seem out of character to us, we go to the source to see what is true firsthand. I received all this disturbing information at 3:00 and decided I had better make the trip to Florida. I scurried to put life in order and was in the car driving by 9 Pm. Mark was unavailable, so he opted to stay home and hold down the fort.

By 6 AM, I am cruising into Sarasota. Tired, agitated and disgusted by what I do know to be true, despite any justification others may use to support the decisions they have made.
 
Mark calls. He says, “I am holding out the phone from my ear. Do you hear what I hear?     
In the background, Joe is crowing loud and clear.
I squeal with delight. “Isn’t that a beautiful sound? I wish I was there with you to hear it in person.”
He says (drolly) . . . I am at the house.” Meaning, he is pretty far from the chicken coup, and the rooster is still ringing out loud and clear.” . . . And you can hear a rooster.” 
“It’s not enough to wake you up. Just enough to celebrate where we live. Admit it.”
He does. (He says I make him out to be a killjoy in my blogs, but I don’t intend to. Usually, it is just our humor and he plays the straight man’s roll so willingly. Honestly, he is a good sport and ultimately supportive of all my adventures, as I am of his.)
Hearing that bird makes me wonder why I am here, having driven all night. with my eyeballs scrunched in frustration. 

He then says, “I think you should turn the car around and come home. Let everybody back there kill themselves, cause they are “doing it for the kids” (justification de jour- cracks me up, for what they mean is the selective kids – theirs). Really, Ginny, we know better. Come home.”

I know he is probably right, but I insist I have to learn more. I was convinced that I could make sense of this puzzle that has been plaguing me so long. We were turned into the enemy within two months of leaving – a choice that began many of the school’s problems. We left our business in good hands, or so we thought, but we made it clear to both sides that our ongoing involvement would be very important to the transition. It is frustrating watching your life’s work be unmanned (internally) – especially when it just doesn’t make sense for any of the parties involved. In retrospect, if you consider who has the least to lose and the most to gain by leading the school down a spiraling path, the writing is on the wall. It is just writing I have a hard time accepting, on an emotional level.   

Therefore, I began my fact-finding mission. First, I headed off a few of the “walk-outs” at the staff meeting, primarily because they respect me and wouldn’t do anything improper while I was witnessing it.  I helped staff the school for the short term with teachers who left some time ago. This foiled some hopeful plans for chaos, I suspect. Then, I talked to parents, students, teachers, and managers. I looked at the sequence of events which brought our school to this awkward impasse, trying to fill the holes in the big picture. Meanwhile, every hour, I call my husband and fill him in on all I am unraveling. He sighs and says, “Come home, Honey. Your rooster misses you.” (Sure, it’s the rooster that misses me.)

I kept hearing more and more depressing facts. Fabrications. An alarming amount of twisted logic. Everyone is being misguided in a huge manipulation orchestrated under the veil of innocence. Fires are everywhere and instead of putting things into logical perspective, everyone is fanning them. Our job was always to diffuse problems, but it seems no one has been doing that. Sad. The few people who refused to be a pat of this madness have long since left. Smart cookies. Those left behind had an alternative agenda. All along, people could have worked together for the best interest of everyone. But in a struggle of wills, they didn’t. And the gossip is so outrageous it would make me laugh if it wasn’t so sad.

 

Finally, I learned one thing too many, one thing that so disturbed my husband when I shared it, he said, “Against my better judgment, I’m coming down. I’ll be there in eight hours.” And he was.

Now, I have plenty to say about our experience in Sarasota this week – plenty to say about art and integrity and responsibility and character and mistakes and people who say and do things to promote their own interests, and inadequacy and ego and fear and arrogance. I have words of sanity to offer to people who have been lead so far from the path we originally designed that it could fill this blog and jam up the internet airways till kingdom come. Again, I must say, people do not have all the facts. Not by a long shot.

And dance people who read my blog are expecting just that. But I’m going to disappoint them.  I’ve known for some time that all kinds of people from our old business my blog. It happens to get lots of Sarasota traffic. Go figure. But these people don’t join me here with earnest or kind intentions. They aren’t friends or they would be bold enough to walk into FLEX when I am in town to say “hello”. They’d step forward out of respect and/or friendship. (And for the one parent who did just this on Thursday, with such grace and kindness, making lovely comments on our new home and our life, and making it a point to see Mark and I both before going, I must say we were sincerely touched. That parent has so much class.  I couldn’t help but be very happy for her child. The apple will fall close to a very good tree in this case. )  Anyway, other blog readers are tuning in with resentment, or curiosity – looking for things to criticize. One parent even had the gall to pull up pictures of our house and say to others, “Isn’t it nice to see what OUR money bought.”

Which is so sad. First of all, it isn’t true. As long as we ran FLEX we had very little to show for our hard work other than ulcers and heartache. The money we used to build our house came from walking away and turning our talents to other areas – areas where there is actually a monetary payoff for hard work and commitment. FLEX was like some great insurance policy. We were better off (monetarily) dead. Sad, but true.  Then again, even if this was not the case and this person’s tuition did indeed buy us a log or a brick, it is sad to think that those we devoted so much heart and effort to, now begrudge our having something to show for it. They certainly have a child with training to show for their investment. I guess everyone would be a lot happier if our eighteen years of hard work resulted in us having to work at Wal-Mart. We were suppose to be “doing it for the kids” I guess. Interesting. 

 

Anyway, I’ve decided to devote one rock on the fireplace to the parent who thinks I have the house I have today because of her tuitions. (Guess she forgets the scholarship she received when her family fell on hard times. Nevertheless, a rock is symbolic of her wisdom and sensitivity, so this I’ll make a nice dull one her namesake). I sure believe I DESERVE that house because of her now.

The fact is, the house we are building is all about who I married, not what we did for a living previously. Rustic Architectural Design is my husband’s new business – as you will see when his project is featured in log home magazine and our business grows (we have a second structure already in the works and plans for a third).  As much as people may think we are nothing beyond dance mongers, well, that shows greatly you underestimate our gifts. For the record, you can train people to spit out technical information about dance, but artistry cannot be taught. Without it, dance is a superficial, empty exercise and those involved have a limited capacity to do anything of value with it. In retrospect, I believe everyone got the bargain of a lifetime working with artists such as we were, for basic tuitions.

      
Anyway, because these negative and confused individuals are visiting my blog for reasons I will never understand, I have been avoiding the dance subject for many months. When Mark came to FLEX to try to help (knowing things were not on track), he was forcibly kicked of the building. I didn’t write about that, or the other hurtful things that have transpired over the last year, because I just didn’t have the heart to go there. And we decided to throw up our hands and give up on that fight long ago. When you are sad, you lack the fight required to face these kinds of things. And I had witnessed firsthand how my blogs were twisted and used as proof of my evil. Ha. I wrote something because a heart to heart talk and sincere guidance wasn’t working. Instead of my blog being the wake-up call needed, it was taken as an offense and used as an excuse to explain the overexagerated reaction of hatred– which obviously began long before that blog. So much for trying to put perspective (and offering some important withheld information) on a situation. I gave up on counseling those that needed it long ago after that ridiculous escapade. I knew then my honesty was a threat, and people who feel threatened will do whatever is necessary to protect themselves. 

But I was sorry to leave the FLEX issue out of my blog entirely, because the fact is, I have friends who have nothing at all to do with dance – writing friends who celebrate my leaving dance and they want to know how it is going, or ex-students who are sincerely happy for me and curious about how I am adapting to life without a dance empire. I have hated censoring such a huge part of my retirement (an emotional stuggle) because of those dance people spoiling for a fight.

 

It is also too bad, because I have dance friends who are very interested in my take on the dance world, and they could learn so much about dance if I addressed the issue – at least philosophically. I have new perspectives on dance education now, thanks to distance, maturity, and all the research I am doing for my thesis (a book on dance of all things).  Want some logic on the true state of dance education – read Grace under Pressure by Barbara Newman. In her forward, she states: “This book is about the craft of passing dance through time, about the transfer of experience and knowledge from one generation of artists to another. I wrote it as a tribute to the hidden artisans who choose that craft and in an attempt to document their work before they, and the standards they value, are gone for good. You have to remember that what we see on stage is merely the visible tip of a process we never see, which takes place in classrooms and studios, in rehearsal and creation, in the bank, the boardroom and the mind. The process reaches back into history and forward to a world no one can imagine, and the authorities who guide it fasten the past to the future every day.”

 

This is how true artisans think. It is not “business is business” or “I can do anything I want if I can get away with it”, or “it is for the kids and the parents like it” mentality. It is committing your efforts to something bigger than the coordination of rhinestone costumes and pop music and affected movement that does nothing but satisfy uneducated people on a commercial level.

 

I have friends and students from the past and present who visit this blog with the best of intentions and they would enjoy exploring a subject we all care about on a deeper level.  But, I’ve respectively decided to keep my feelings about dance to myself. If there is one thing I know more than anything, it is that people believe what they want to believe. And if they want to believe negative things about us or our motives or what has happened in the wake of our retirement, so be it. They get something from that, but don’t ask me what. And the repercussions of everything happening now stretches far beyond the individual students that everyone is scrambling over today, like the plastic platinum trophies at competition that are so ridiculous. Actions going on now will set off a string of repercussions that include legal, financial, and emotional fallout, not to mention a long-term impact on the dance community at large. It sure as hell isn’t about dance (or the kids) friends. Trust me. Besides which, anything I write about dance will be taken as a message about my dance school or students, past and present, because no one can see that my commitment to the art is so much bigger than FLEX. Sad, but true.

 

Someone turned to my father this week and with a big smile, made a comment about our facility. They said, “Business is business.” I think he enjoyed my horrified reaction to that comment when he related it, because since the beginning, he has said “Business is business” and I have argued that the arts require special consideration. I believe decisions cannot be made in dance with a “business is business” mentality or the magic is lost. But maybe the magic was always my own illusion. Perhaps I was too idealistic for this entire dance school thing all along. Perhaps it IS about tuitions and plastic trophies and whoever has the most students in the end really does win. The powers that be are just dead set on winning something I personally wouldn’t want. I shouldn’t care. But it sends a chill down my spine .

Wisdom as it pertains to art is something gained over many many years, and it’s the result of many many experiences that stretch far beyond the comprehension of the local dance studio mentality. But with a sigh, I understand some people must learn these truths themselves. Or not. I don’t hold out much hope for certain individuals anymore.
This is the hardest thing for me to accept of all.

Anyway, my blog was silent because I was out of town for a week. A friend ran into me in Sarasota, laughed, and said, “NO WONDER you haven’t been writing. You are here. I’ve been so disappointed everyday when I check in and there are no pearls of wisdom on your blog to make me laugh or think. Go home so I have something to read, will ya!”

That was sweet. So, I’m home, planning to do just that. To write about everything except my old business and dance. But that doesn’t mean we are not concerned or involved or thinking about the state of dance in Sarasota every minute.

I learned everything I needed to know when I went home. Much of it will leave a sour taste in my mouth for many days (or years) but much of it was wonderful too. People accused me of rushing in like the Calvary to try to save things. They said I had no right to be involved. Interesting. But that is because they had no understanding of what I came for.  

 

I came to witness what we left behind and to see what those we entrusted with the thing we loved did with that responsibility. And as a bonus, I saw kids I adore and miss. I spent time with teachers who still had a sense of humor, who can laugh with me about everything in a bittersweet way. I had dinner with parents I enjoy and we laughed about things from the past and things happening in our lives now, about my husband the “ballerina on a tractor” and other non-dance related things.  And I realized that finally, after many years of our wanting it, some of these dance people are our friends. Real friends, not people wanting a part for their kid in the next dance, or wanting positions of power or a chance to earn more money from us. Not people who put us on some kind of dance pedestal in an unnatural way and suddenly resent us for not giving more either, or people who discard us because we are no longer useful to them as they continue in a frenzy to validate their talent in the most unsophisticated ways. I’ve discovered good people who enjoy our company – enough to hang out and laugh for the purpose of talking and visiting. It was a nice time and I wish Mark had been there sooner to experience that portion of the trip.

 

When Mark arrived, we talked a bit, spent some time with teachers and friends, and then we went into a store to get away from it all. And someone who hasn’t been in our school for over twelve years came up to us and said, “I’m so sorry for you.”

 

We thought perhaps this parent didn’t know we had sold FLEX and moved. Obviously, she didn’t know we were so happy now. It has been such a long time since this parent had any reason to be involved in FLEX gossip, considering her daughter is married and she is toting around the ex-dancer’s kids now.  So we asked what she was talking about.

 

She said, “I just feel so badly that your name has been trashed around this town. And the person doing it is such a surprise. We were under the impression you left certain individuals involved in your school because you shared a good relationship with them.”

 

What can you say to that? “Um. Um. . .” Then, smack yourself on the forehead like a sudden revelation took place?

 

That was when I turned to Mark and said, “OK. Let’s go home.” I was so icked out, I can’t describe it. There are some truths you just don’t want to discover. It is great understanding the big picture, but when the big picture leaves a lasting image that you can’t get out of your head, you rather close your eyes. Unfortunately, we had promised to teach that night, so we felt honor bound to stay.  “For the kids” (shoot me).   

Mark was scheduled to teach. I had told the kids that we didn’t care what decision they made and it didn’t matter where they planned to dance, but they should come to show their respect – even if it was just to say good-bye to a teacher who truly made a difference in their lives. I told them to come for “dance” – for the last class of all time between them and the past- that their presence wasn’t a statement, other than the statement of fond appreciation for Mark’s role in bringing dance into their lives.

 

They chose to have a pizza party to celebrate the boycott of his class instead. 

They certainly showed us.

Mark was disappointed. He said, “They are trying to hurt me, and/or make a statement about their future choice. But what hurts is knowing the kind of leadership they are getting which condones this behavior. They are just kids, carried away with this feeling of self-importance and swept up in the drama of the fight. Their bad attitudes have been left unchecked and now they are raging out of control. Can you imagine you or I ever allowing a student to act disrespectful, to dishonor their mentors or teachers in this way? We’d drag them by the bun and toss them into the classroom despite their whining. And any parent that didn’t like it would be put in their place too. Some dance principals are not debatable.”

 

Our number one lesson was to teach students to live with gratitude for all they’ve been given – I even dragged my students to visit my teacher in New York 30 years after he was actively my teacher. And trust me, they would rather have been at the <st1laceName w:st=”on”>Broadway</st1laceName> <st1laceName w:st=”on”>Dance</st1laceName> <st1laceType w:st=”on”>Center</st1laceType> taking dance classes with “cool” teachers. It was an ongoing argument as parents and kids fought to get what they wanted rather than what they needed. We held firm.  It wasn’t because my teacher could do something for me (or them) now – it was an act of respect – and it was to teach the new generation something about what makes a great artist – something that stems on artistic integrity, and an appreciation for those that lay a foundation for the gifts you get today . When you are involved in the cycle of dance for enough years, you understand that what is “in the moment” is not nearly as important as the values you instill and the attitudes you support – because these elements come into play later. Artistic karma, ya know.

 

I guess it is a different world, and the values we tried to instill with dance are inconvenient  and therefore disposable today. As Rodney Dangerfield would say, “I can’t get no respect.” But that isn’t sad for us. It is sad for those who miss the point – generosity of the spirit.  Without it, a dancer is just a floating through the craft as an exercise, peeking at a physical level but never grasping the wealth of spiritual and soulful joy that drives an artist’s work to be authentic. Considering our ex-students are still dancers in training, their choice was a sign of misguidance, more than a sign of character weakness. Not easy to watch for us old timers.   Especially when you consider that a few years from now, this generation of dancers will be gone – they will have turned into accountants and marketing executives, wives and mothers – and they won’t look back, other than to tell their kids fun stories about their dance days. These dancers will have had a taste of dance, but it is being served without  enough seasoning to keep them at the buffet. The cooks, later, will have to wonder about their menu.  In other words, the struggle over the few dancers that appears important today is irrelevant in the long term. Newman also states, “Most dance students, even those who reach a relatively advanced level, disappear without a trace. Don’t forget, it’s murder out there without means, motive and opportunity.”

 

Your legacy begins not with who you teach, but what you teach and how.

Shortcuts are the path to becoming lost in the woods, and a house built on deception and an absence of integrity is a very weak structure. Not one I would ever send my kid into.

Mark and I have always known that when you teach on a level that attempts to set a strong sense of principals in place, you win some and you lose some. We can focus on those who never really “got it”, or celebrate those who we’ve influenced in ways we can be proud of. We are so thrilled to see how the values embedded in our teaching stuck with so many individuals, even some of those who’re in the middle of this awful turmoil. Teachers with a great grasp of dance have come forward with the best of intentions. Students who obviously love the art have stepped forward with admirable independence.

 

Even management apologized and said, “We are guilty. It was just easier to jump on the Hendry Hate train then deal with your shadow.” Hendry hate train? Wow. Counting the passengers on that train is depressing. Imagining who the conductor was is devastating.

 

But we know it is hard when you are being pulled apart or facing peer pressure, being fed misinformation designed to rile you up emotionally, etc- to do what is right despite the pressure or influence to act otherwise. And we know good and special people can get lost and confused, especially if they are naive, or they put money in a higher priority than other, less tangible, valuables. Nevertheless, we are humbled by students from our past that came forward with a genuine smile and a heartfelt hug, making it clear they missed us and valued their time with us in this great journey of dance. And we are touched by the letters of thanks we’ve received from dancers of the past too- letters inspired by things transpiring today. 

 

I received this e-mail today:

 

Hey Ginny,

I got to say most of this to Mark when I spoke to him, but I wanted you to share this with you too -I couldn’t help to remind you guys how special you are to me during this icky time.

 

You poured over a decade of your heart and soul into FLEX and it showed. Don’t let ‘them’ tarnish your memory or the legacy that you left behind. For every one of your critics, there are two more dancers that recognize that their time at FLEX created a magical impact on their lives. You both deserve to enjoy every bit of your new lives without the drama that is surrounding this current situation.

 

Be proud of what you created, you produced generations of kids who will always hold a special place in their hearts for you, Mark and FLEX. I just feel sorry for those who have seem to forgotten all that they were given, and trust that as always happens in life, the pendulum always swings back and evens things out.

 

I read this and was reminded that it wasn’t just about dance, ya know. And it sure as hell wasn’t “business is business”.  People can (and will) back peddle and start saying they respect and appreciate us now, (denial with a smile seems to work so conveniently for some) but we witnessed firsthand what truly has happened. Announcements claiming innocence and best intentions, excuses made now to develop a facade of superficial earnsty, really is an insult.

So, what will happen next? Well, Mark and I probably have a better idea than anyone involved. We see things very clearly, thanks to distance and experience, and we also happen to have a say in certain elements of the equation. But speculation is not something I will share publicly. The funny thing is, we believe we know more about what this will mean to everyone in ten years than what it means now. Nevertheless, we do not intend to influence the outcome of fate (though we’ve considered trying), because we believe everyone must lie in the beds they have made – and are currently making. But that doesn’t mean we will turn our back on our beliefs either – even though it would be easy to do so considering we keep getting so “icked out” when we get more evidence of how people really have felt about us and see how dance education is being approached today.

Honestly, we plan to use our time now to enjoy those people who have made us proud. We plan to go back to our old dance school, if and when and for as long as we can, to dance with students that come to the floor with positive attitudes, excited to explore movement and new choreography. We would have been there sooner if we hadn’t been forbidden to make our presence known. Fact.

 

We plan to encourage those that need encouragement and remind everyone what counts is artistry and honoring their gift.  We look forward to sidestepping the raging egos and political struggle that has been a part of this, and every, dance studio since the beginning of time, to just enjoy our limited role as friends and teachers. If things work out for our old school, we will be happy for everyone. If they don’t, we will know we did our part and lived according to what we believe. We wish to remain removed from all the business and legal elements now on the line.  All along, what we wanted was to shed the business of dance and embrace the artistic joy again. It is like becoming a grandparent – we wanted to enjoy the kids and then give them back for someone else to raise. Ha. Pipe dreams on our part.  

In the end, I look at the difficult transition of our school and the sad way people have dealt with it, as a growth opportunity. You learn so much through adversity. I am grateful that events have revealed what portions of our life were authentic and what was simply an illusion. That is important to know.

 

We have lost a great deal as good memories have been soured and undeniable truths regarding deeply seeded resentment has surfaced.  But what we have gained is good too. I didn’t leave dance, remember. I evolved. I am now writing about it, trying to channel all I believe to be true in a fictional accounting that will reach many more individuals than I could reach in the local dance class. That is an element of my life’s work too, and my dance school experiences, while bittersweet, gives me a lot to think about for that project.

 

While Mark and I were driving home from Sarasota, he commented that everything going on back home is like the Starwars Saga. He feels compelled to grab a dear friend or two and shout, “Luke, come back from the dark side!” He thinks Darth Vader, (once a Jedi knight too) has built the death star and is excited to try it out regardless of the innocent that thrive on the planet. (Mark does a great Darth Vader in the dance classroom impression.)

 

I asked if that means I get to be Princess Leigh – (and if he was gonna be Jabba the hut because he makes Jabba jokes often about himself. hee hee.)  I fancy myself in that Princess Leigh costume, ya know.

 

But Mark said, “No, you are Obi Wan and I am Yoda. Then he proceeded to make me laugh with some great pearls of dance school wisdom in Yoda’s affected dialect. I thought about that later, and I believe he is right on the money. Obi Wan left the struggle, just lifted his light saber and allowed himself to be plowed down. Because he was better involved as a voice in the head of those that continued on. He was sort of a sprit that encouraged people to trust the force. I’m not implying that the dilemma going on in the dance school is a struggle between good and evil, by any means. That wouldn’t be fair at all, because I understand there are two sides to every story and I really am struggling to understand both. I just mean that this is no longer our war, and we can’t be involved, other than our hoping what is decent and lovely will prevail.  But I honestly have concerns about that. I fear nothing good (and I mean good for dance, not for individuals) will be left at all.       

 

Now, I have had my say. I have homework to attend to, and Halloween is tomorrow! Tonight, my evil family members have conspired to drag me to the haunted corn maze. Eek. I have pumpkin soup to make. I must keep my feet grounded in what is real, and in this case, it is liquid pumpkin and whether or not I can outrun the guy in the corn with the chainsaw!

Gee, I hope we carve a happy pumpkin this year. I saw enough scowling faces in that last staff meeting and the dance class to last me a lifetime. Ick.

 

I am sorry for all that has happened. Mostly, I am sorry for the kids who think the pied piper is their friend . . . and the parents who, with good intentions, hand him his pipe.

 

   

This Saturday, I earned the distinguished title of second place runner in the women’s 40-50 year old division of the Blue Ridge 5K. I have a certificate to prove it. I hope you are amply impressed, because it won’t last long. Now, I have to tell you that there were only two women in this age category, so I won by default. But as I told Neva, the way I look at it, I actually beat lots and lots of people. I came in before all the hundreds of women age 40-50 who stayed in bed while I was out plugging along my 3-mile plus route. Thus, I’ll take my certificate. I’ll hang in on my wall above the computer in a place of honor, reveling in my accomplishment. Yep. I’m a winner. I showed up.

 

The night before, it was storming violently. I told Mark I was hoping it would still be raining in the morning so I would have an excuse not to run. I hadn’t told him about the 5K I’d signed up for yet. He sort of lifted his eyebrows and said, “You are going to participate in a race? Good luck with that one.” It wasn’t exactly warm, enthusiastic encouragement, but I understood his surprise. Frankly, he was right to wonder why I’d bother. I’m not, and never will be, a good runner and with all we have on our plate this month, squeezing in a race seems a bit self-defeating.

 

But I wanted to run, nevertheless, just to remind myself of what I should be doing as someone who professes to be committed to health and wellness and all that rot.

 

I woke at 6:30, sighed when I saw it was only overcast and a bit of drizzle (actually, I like running in the rain, so this qualified as perfect weather for me) and got ready. Neva stirred and asked where I was going. I told her I was off to a race. As expected, she begged me to let her come. I told her that if she promised to wait while I ran, she could run along the last ½ mile and cheer me on. She dressed in her soccer outfit and put her hair up. It was obvious she was dying to run. The entire drive to the race, she worked on convincing me that she could make it three plus miles. I thought, considering the shape I am in, it isn’t as if she could possibly slow me up, so why not let her try? And when I saw how small the race was, I signed her up. It’s a fundraiser. They could use the extra 20 dollars.

 

This was the first time this group has sponsored a race in Blue Ridge. There were only 21 people registered. Eleven of these runners were young, fit members of the high school track team determined to outdo each other. Six runners were middle-aged men with long, lean legs who run together everyday at the high school track and do periodic marathons as a team. Professional amateurs, I would call them. There was a couple in their early 40’s, all decked out in spandex and visors, who run every race they come across. (The wife was my division competition – and must I point out that we don’t like this sporty yuppie gal with designer running apparel and scads of experience. Fate sent her just to make me look like a slacker, I think). Then there was Neva and I, and finally, a 65-year-old woman named Phyllis, who likes to run races just to see if she can make it.

 

I looked around at all these serious runners wondering, “Who will be in the rear with me? There are usually a bunch of second-string runners in a 5 K, new runners and old people and fat people and people with handicaps– something that reveals they are there not to work on speed but just to see if they can finish 3.2 miles. The lack of “back of the packers” did not bode well for out of shape Ginny and the 9-year-old new runner Neva. Yikes.

 

We saw another nine-year-old girl there with her father. She was wearing a number. Great! We asked if she was running, but she had signed up for the one-mile fun run. She was the only contestant for the shorter route. I asked Neva if she wanted to run with this girl instead, but she insisted she wanted to run with me. She thought a “real runner” would go the 3.2 miles, and she wanted to be a real runner. OK. Can’t hurt to try.

 

The race began– in two minutes everyone had shot on ahead (all those 6 minute milers) leaving me, Neva and Phyllis to plod along at a normal, human 12 minute pace. They told everyone to follow the orange cones, but at about the ½-mile mark, we came upon construction and there were orange cones everywhere.  The three of us stopped. I saw an old man sitting on a porch with a cup of coffee and I asked him if runners had passed this way. He said, “Half went strait, half went up the hill.” The hill seemed shorter, but steeper. I had somehow been appointed leader of our small group, so I chose shorter. So, up we went on this huge incline (and do I need to remind you that the hills kill me?)

 

As it turns out, all 21 of us were wrong. We were supposed to turn a few streets earlier, but those in charge didn’t mark the course correctly. So everyone in the race ran an extra ½-mile or more. This explains my embarrassing time of 43.10. (Neva ran 43.01 and Phyllis at 43.18)Take off 5 or 6 minutes for the extra distance and I ran my normal 38, which transfers to 11 to12-minute mile. As I’ve told you, I’m a lousy runner. Actually, I think I did well considering the entire course was hills. I complained to one fellow about all this running uphill, and he grinned and said, “No matter how you look at it, half the course is downhill too,” Well, obviously he has a better attitude than I.

 

This tiny race wasn’t organized as races in more established areas are. They didn’t have water along the route, and no one was placed at mile markers to give encouragement. I passed one guy  at an orange cone at a corner, whose job it was to make sure we knew where to go, and asked how far we had come. He shrugged and said, “Beats me, maybe a mile.” We were at 22 minutes so I was certain he was wrong. Phyllis was discouraged, but I assured her we had gone farther. We were just jogging all alone, an occasional orange cone to give us direction with no one around to encourage you or check to make sure you didn’t collapse with a heart attack or anything. It sure didn’t feel like a race, more like an afternoon run on your own. It was comical.

 

Neva ran the entire way, even though she got a stitch in her side and a blister on one toe. I plodded along, enjoying the blustery wind, the wet drizzle, loving that I could watch my daughter’s ponytail swing back and forth, as she demonstrated her unfailing energy and her desire to try things she never did before. I admire that.  I also enjoyed the fact that Phyllis was at my side. Without her, I’m sure Neva would have blamed me for our being last. She has no way of knowing that, at most races, quite a few people run at a leisurely pace, participating just for fun, because it gives them an incentive to meet a personal goal.

 

At the end, we celebrated with bottled water and a banana and I received my award. They only had awards established for ages 10 and up, which I think was a drag. Neva deserved something for being the youngest person to complete the course, but she was happy enough with her adult large T-shirt. We celebrated in our own way, just the two of us, with a nice breakfast out.

 

Sunday, I was so sore I couldn’t walk. I was shocked. It’s not as if I don’t still run occasionally, though I’ve been doing two miles instead of three and walking the mountain. Why did I hurt so much? I figure it was the added distance and the hills, which I pushed to keep running. At home, I just walk them. Neva, of course, didn’t feel anything. Man, I hate getting old.    

 

Perhaps my running days are coming to a close. Perhaps it is time I become a walker – or I resign myself to the treadmill or something. But honestly, without the fresh air and the birds to lure me along the trail, I can’t see myself enjoying running much. Then again, perhaps the problem is just that I attended a race. Not everything in life has to be a race. Sometimes, the leisurely, easy pace we set is what is right and true for us, the path that allows us to enjoy the benefits without forcing comparison with others, an unnecessary pressure that may end up discouraging us.  Yes, maybe it is time I return to being a closet runner (only outside in the sun, not inside, on a treadmill in a closet) where I run for the joy of feeling the sweat against my skin.

 

The point is, I ran a race this weekend. It gave me a fond memory to share with my daughter and it was a reminder that I better crank up the workout element if I want to stay in shape. It gave me further evidence that I live in a small, quiet place where all the trappings of suburban life don’t spill over to complicate what is actually simple – living well. This was a better race (maybe “better” is an unfair word – maybe it is more accurate to say it was “different in a good way”) for me than those I attended in Sarasota with all those bodies participating and the packet stuffed with promotional material and the excitement that comes with all the hoopla. I ran quietly, sharing an adventure with my child. I met a friend. I ran further than I planned – even uphill. These are things that make a Saturday special.

 

We should all race for things like that.  But the certificate is nice to have too. If I ever feel inclined to tell a “big fish” story about my running expertise, this will serves as a supporting document. . .  Ah, who am I kidding. Neva will let me get away with that.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and since I have an essay to write today for my non fiction professor, I have no time to amuse you with flippant descriptions of my life altering week. So, assuming my readership misses me (allow me my delusions), I thought I might just leave a “picture essay” to wet your appetite. Actually, I’m writing a piece about my spinning class today, so I will post it later to offer a more lyrical and detailed accounting of this endevor. It was such fun. I’ll never look at the world the same again. Really.

Take my hand, and let me show you a small sampling of what my eyes (and hands) feasted upon all week.



These are my new friends Lucy and Norman (in that order). I know they are true friends, because they were willing to get naked for me. (Only a friend that has true trust in you would do something like that.)  They have body oder, I’m told, but since I can’t smell, it doesnt interfer with our friendship. They are not very bright. They are timid and can’t protect themselves from any kind of preditor. They die easily and require a great deal of maintence. They have no personality like goats, dogs, horses, donkeys or llama, making them almost monotone creatures. They travel as a click like girls in high school incapable of thinking independantly.  I now understand why sheep are used to describe people who follow the crowd. But they are cute in a fuzzy, dumbish way. Lucy is a Coridale, and Norman is a shetland blend. Norman is what they call a “black sheep” even though he is brown. I figure, since my parents always told me I was the black sheep of the family, that he and I would hit it off, and we did. These sheep have deep, odd voices, not like the cute bleeting sheep on cartoons, but more like sheep with a cold – I would have named one”Froggy” (from little rascles) had they been mine. As a whole, they cured me of ever wanting sheep. Mark loves Lucy and Norman for that. 





This is how sheep wool begins. It is cut from the animal in a huge rug, then you cut off the flanks, tummy, and neck area to discard the rough matted wool (of store it for other uses, like felting). The square wooden thing-a-ma-bobbers are wool cards. They are like huge brushes that you use to brush out and prepare the wool. You can do fiber or color blends this way too. You must wash the wool first in huge tubs with shampoo or detergent, careful not to adgitate it or it will mat and turn into felt. Use warm water. Then you hang it out to dry, or place it on a screen so the air can circulate around it. You should pick out debris and sticks first, of course.



If you want your wool to be colored, you must dye it. We used all natural dyes. Rit is for sissys. This is a “rainbow” pot. After conditioning the wool with a solution of alum and creme of tarter to make it colorfast, we layer it (wet) in a pot using cheesecloth to keep the dye materials from getting caught in the just cleaned wool.  You can add any ingrediants you wish. We used marigolds, madder root, walnuts (still green) and cochnile (which is a bug). We made several layers. After sitting a few hours, it came out in the multicolors you see here. Beautiful! Nature has such a wealth of amazing surprises if you get intimate with her.




This is how many marigolds you need to make the nice warm yellow orange you see here. The duller gold is from lichen, which is moss growing on trees. You’d think that would turn things brown or green, but it comes out yellow. As you can imagine, a gardener would have a fit if you decided to visit his bounty on dye day. I will tell Mark to plant marigolds, but I will leave out the details about why. On the day they dissapear, I’ll blame it on a goat or something. Ha. I am already plotting…. 



This is how we crushed the bugs we used to make red. No fancy bowls for us – we used a rock. This is the cochnile bug from Mexico. Only the girl bugs make red. Funny, that is the opposite of nature – having the girl be the one with the color pigment. I couldn’t help but wonder how they seperated the males and females. To turn them over to look at their privates wouldn’t be time efficient, if you ask me. I also worked with Indigo – the most facinating stuff of all. To make this natural plant work, someone must pee in the pot. No kidding. We used a different acidic agent for the class (too bad – would have given me a colorful story to tell) but still, the process of dying with indigo is remarkable. Next to this picture is my carded wool (washed, dyed and brushed) which I prepared for spinning. This is more work than it looks. If I made pink, I could have used it to play tricks on friends by telling them it was cotton candy. We also had a hand-crank machine carder, which I used as well, but this apparatus is rather expensive, so I wanted to be proficient with the hand cards before I left the class, to assure I could do some of this stuff at home.  

  

This is the wheel I learned to spin on. As you can see, I like spinning because you can actually do it with nails.

This is a picture of me spinning, (just to allieviate your fears that I might be turning into a menonite or something). I look much the same, although viewing these pictures now, I’m thinking I need to spend less time developing my mind and more time developing my arms. Yuck. Ah well, what good is a pretty package if inside you are nothing but an empty box! I will wear long sleeves for awhile – heck it’s winter. This huge wheel was just as easy to spin on as the smaller wheels. The size means nothing but a different ratio of rotations to the bobin. They fool you by making it look big and important. Spinning wheels look complicated, but they are the simplist machine ever. I was amazed at how simple spinning is (not to do it uniformaly and well, but just how making yarn or thread is accomplished.) I can now spin now on a hand spindle or even with my hand against my leg. I am sure you will be impressed to learn I am multi-talented in the yarn developement catagory. I tried all kinds of wheels to find out what kind I am most comfortable with. I felt I had to if I wanted to buy one (which I do). It was great fun adventuring with all different styles and brands. I tend to like big, textured yarns, so I need a wheel with a big bobbin capacity. I also like Scottish tension. I like the Ashfords, but mostly I fell in love with the Luet. (This means nothing to you, but it makes me sound proficient, so I wanted to throw it in.)


This is my teacher, Martha, who also taught us about fiber blending. She showed us how to use angora, and even demonstrated this cool “parlor trick” of spinning right off the rabbit. Do I need to mention how much that delighted me. I can’t wait for my next party, cause I have every intention of making my friends smile with this nifty trick. I know how to use Dahli’s fur now, and I can spin with yak or camel too. As far as I’m concerned, the weirder the wool source the better. Why not experiment. The lord wouldn’t have made the world so interesting if he wanted us to live in a box. 


This is a picture of the yarns I made this week all from raw wool. All of them are made with natural dyes – lichen, marigold, walnut, cochnile, madder, and natural wool colors. You can also see the sample book I made to keep track of it all. I have pages of wool samples (every breed of sheep is different, ya know and there are thousands of breeds.) And I have angora, goat and other wool samples too. I also have all the dye swatches so I can reproduce them someday. I love my wool notebook, because it is filled with information and small observances I had during the experience. I love these first skeins of wool, because they are made of earthly things, so natural and simple, yet so beautiful too. I now have an understanding of what people did in the past to make all kinds of textiles  – felt, yarn, fabric and thread. I understand how early cloth was put together and colored. I will never go into a museum and see a rug or costume and not have a greater understanding and appreciation for the talent and work that went into making it.  I see the world in color now – not just the surface color, but all the colors that lie hidden in nature (for example indigo is just a green plant and when you dye with it, the fabric and the water is a dull yellow. Only when you lift the item inside and the air meets it, will it oxidize and turn blue like magic before your eyes. – Now, I ask you, how did they invent that !?!)

I confess, I do not want sheep anymore. I do want a spinning wheel, and loads of fiber, and yesterday, Neva and I took a walk through the forest and gathered a huge gallon ziplock of lichen. I plan to color our easter eggs with natural substances this year. What a fun project! I am now facinated with natural dying, and I am taking a weekend class on dying with mushrooms (they give you yellow and green and blue and red – amazing) next month. 

I’ve expanded my world in the simplist way. Feels good. Now – what shall I do with this wool? Hummm…. I’m thinking I need to learn something about knitting next.
No animals involved. Mark will be relieved.


This was written on the board in the class, and I understand it now in a way I don’t think I would have a year ago:

“Our Ability to hold and to live in the memory of the primal creative source is an essential thread that binds together the fabric of all existence.”
 – J. Lambert –

I feel grounded – as if I understand the world better now, thanks to my slowing down and taking the time and trouble to convene with nature in a way that is more poignant than just taking hikes and gardening. It is good to wake up after years of groggy napping in a convienience world.
 
I’ve never been one too keen on church. But now, I think, in nature, I’ve found my church. Hendry David Thoreau would be proud of me, I think.

  

I’ve found a new passion!

I love spinning.

Actually, I haven’t done any spinning yet, but I’ve had the first night’s meeting that gives us a class overview, met the 11 women in the course, and gotten to know the instructor (her name is Martha.) She is down to earth, has a great sense of humor and a twinkle in her eye. “Martha’s” have it all together.

 

Tonight I learned loads about fiber. Most exciting of all was learning that one can spin just about any kind of animal fur into yarn. My llama fur will come in use and you can bet I’m taking it to the class tomorrow. The angora rabbits they had for sale at the feed store a few months ago are perfect for this kind of thing too. If only I had known! (I asked Neva if she wanted one of these huge fluffy beasts when we saw them, but she said they were too big. Like monster rabbits. Well, next time I’ll buy them, but for me.) I even learned that most spinners prefer a certain sort of dog (forget the name right now) because their fur is a great additive to wool. Would that I had known that before adopting our two big lazy, mischievous canines.  I learned about all sorts of sheep too, of course.  

 

Tonight, I fingered finished yarn samples of all sorts of combinations, and inspected raw wool. I learned about all kinds of methods of dying, with natural elements, like roots, grasses, lichen, and indigo. I even learned that ammonia and a copper pipe make a dye that turns yarn green. We will explore natural dying on Wednesday. Cool.

 

Unbelievably, every woman in the class has a spinning wheel except me. They were family heirlooms or, in several cases, their husbands gave them a wheel for Christmas – out of the blue. Now, I ask you, would you ever consider buying your spouse a spinning wheel if they never mentioned it? Some people consider them pretty furniture accents. And once it has been sitting in the living room for a year or two, the woman starts thinking that maybe she should learn how to use it. Amazing.

 

This week, I will learn all about the many different types of wheels, and I can try them all out so that, should I want to purchase one, I’ll have a good idea of what kind suits me best. The teacher asked me if I’d brought any kind of “equipment.”

I said, “Does a crochet hook count?”

The whole class laughed at me, and said, “You don’t know what you are getting into. You’re going to want a wheel before the week is out.”

They are probably right.

I just was grateful I own a llama because it means I am not a total outcast. Dahli is my loose connection to proclaiming myself a fiber arts enthusiast.

 

I must say, I am delighted with the class. The women are all brimming with enthusiasm and humor and the wealth of information we are covering is exciting. It is Scottish heritage week at the Campbell school, so there are many special events going on. Since they have classes offered in weaving, knitting, and spinning, they have several functions just for those interested in fiber arts, including a tea party at the local yarn circle and a special event called a weaving walk. You don’t actually walk anywhere – you gather in a circle and pound finished woven material and pass it on to the rhythm of a song. This blocks the fabric and tightens the weave. They say it is an old world art that you rarely see, much less participate in. Ha. I picked a good week for this particular adventure. They also have a special Scottish heritage slide presentation and a guest speaker.

 

Tomorrow begins the real work. We start by cleaning wool – there are buckets and buckets of it around the room in all shades and textures. We will not be sheering a sheep because it is the wrong season (they need their coats for winter,) but we will visit a sheep farm on Friday to learn some basics. Mark commented that perhaps he should tag along, “just in case” (chuckle). I’m told there are local sheep sheering seminars, short half day events, which people can attend to learn the basics. Neat. I’m there. I also found out that in Asheville there is a huge fiber arts festival at the agricultural center in late October. (www.saffsite.org) You can see all kinds of equipment, find out about llama, alpaca, sheep and other animal organizations, and all things related to this heritage art form. I asked Mark if he was interested in going. We had such a nice time when we went to Asheville last month (the Victorian Bed and Breakfast) that he said “it’s a go.” Gee – from the seed of an idea, a passion is born so readily. He is certainly making it easy for me to embrace this new “hobby.” I’ll have to make the man a scarf or something.

 

Anyway, I will keep you posted on the daily events. Too bad I can’t write with a Scottish brogue, just to amuse.  

 

I must admit, this morning I was kicking myself for enrolling in this seminar. I’ve been feeling melancholy the last few days and I wasn’t much in the mood to be jovial. However, tonight, I am thinking this was the medicine I needed to force myself out of my funk. Sometimes, you have to take steps to think beyond yourself – to crowbar yourself out of too much inward, (self-imposed) conflict.Controling your attitude and mood, being positive, is an art, I think.

Well , I can’t talk now. I have some reading to do about sheep. You can bet I’ll be counting them as I fall asleep tonight! One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, a llama – hey, how did you get in there, Dahli?

 

      

There is a wonderful gourmet food and wine store in downtown Blue Ridge called Out of the Blue. (http://outofzbleu.com). They’ve hosted cooking classes, but each time they’ve arranged a class, it’s happened on a day when I’ve been in Boston. Today, I checked the store’s website and see they are planning two classes in September on a Sunday morning. I happen to be available for both. They are minimal commitment sorts of classes, (one 4 hour session) just what I’m looking for. It will be fun to go in one morning to spend a few hours with people I’ve just met, who also share a love of cooking. Hopefully, I’ll learn something new.

One class is called “From farm to table” and involves meeting at 8am, driving to a farm and picking the food that we will cook later that morning in the store’s kitchen. Sounds fun. For one thing, I will enjoy beginning my day outdoors. For another, I intend to plant a garden next spring, and this class will serve as inspiration for that future endeavor.

The second class is a bread baking class. I’m told the teacher is very popular, and since I adore making bread, I will enjoy seeing what tips she has to offer. Though I’ve considered enrolling in gourmet cooking classes a few times I don’t have time for an intensive weeklong cooking class, nor do I believe I want to devote that much time to enhancing my cooking right now. Well, maybe, if it was a totally new subject for me, such as outdoor cooking on an open fire or learning how to tuck food under hot coals or something. I’d love to learn about barbequing. I’ve always considered grilling the man’s territory, but honestly, since I am the one in charge of meals in this home, and Mark is too distracted with his building project to take time to grill, I should learn about that method of cooking too. I so love grilled food and, it is good for you.

Other than that, I think the best way to learn to cook in a kitchen is by experimenting at home. I’ve no doubt there are many, many things I could learn from professional cooks, but I like my meandering pace as a cooking aficionado.  I like reading about cooking and pulling new recipes out of my five monthly cooking magazines (yes, I’m guilty of subscribing to more cooking magazines than is needed) and trying something new when the spirit moves me. I don’t claim to be a gourmet cook, because I know enough about cooking to know that such a title only is earned by years of professional study – but I am a good cook . . . Certainly an enthusiastic one.

My mother-in-law claims I am the reason my husband is overweight. He has reached an all time high this year, and since the woman is to blame for everything regarding her family, apparently, this is my fault. I am supposed to stop cooking all together and nag him more, she says. (Ummm…. No. That is not now, nor will it ever be, my role.)  I keep insisting that it isn’t my cooking that is the problem. It is my not cooking that creates the issue. Home cooking is healthy, and I happened to have a thousand tricks on how to cut calories and fat from fantastic meals. The problem is, my husband eats out when he is on the run. And when he is stressed, he reaches for a milkshake. A perfect example of this – when we were in the throws of recital, our closest friends would show up with a peanut butter pie for him, knowing he needed the sugar fix to fulfill his endless duties as stage manager, director and problem diffuser. They brought me a cup of coffee with equal. (We all have our crutch.) Truth is, I could turn my husband back into a GQ model if I could only lock him up for a month with nothing but my cooking to nourish him (and two long walks a day.)

Anyway, my point is, I refuse to allow my cooking to be the whipping boy of the issue. Last night, I was looking through Cooking Light magazine (my favorite) and pulling out recipes that cut fat from delicious dishes. I will slip these into my neat, organized page protectors and into my cooking notebooks. Soon, I will get around to making these main dishes and desserts, and if they are terrific, they find a permanent home in my collection. If not, they hit the trash with the daily newspaper. I am forever trying new recipes, especially if they are healthy.

I’ve gotten off the point. The point is, I’ve just signed up to take a few cooking classes for fun this month. I don’t feel guilty about it. I love to cook. Love to cook for others. Love to watch people eat. Love the look of food and finding ways to serve it that make it look as good as it tastes. Love planning thematic menus. Love the challenge of making something delectable and yet healthy too. Sure wish I could smell food. Can’t have everything.

I will make bread with new friends this month. I’ll sit there at the counter, asking questions, watching the teacher’s hands knead dough, excited to have a taste of our creation when it is complete. And while waiting, I’ll wonder about the ingredients, where they came from – not just from the flour sack, but also the origin . . . on the farm. I’ll consider the route that handful of grain traveled to arrive in this particular store, on this particular day, in this particular batch of dough, and finally, in my particular savory bite. When you think of it that way, taking a class on making bread suddenly has so much more meaning. In fact, it ceases to be about cooking at all –it’s about celebrating what you chose to honor, the independent path, the course of life selected, the journey taken, by something you love.

Last week, my daughter had to go to the mall to purchase some heavy draperies for her new dance room (to keep light out so the black lights will work). This is about an 80-minute drive, so I offered to go with her.

 

We got lost. (I was driving – what do you think?). I had to stop to get directions. The man in the Dairy Queen window told us to drive left, down US 41 until we saw the chicken. I knew exactly what to do from there. You see, there is a huge 20 ft. chicken on the corner, some kind of fiberglass promotional bird built in the 50’s. It has a beak that opens and closes and eyes that roll around. You cannot miss the KFC chicken.

 

As we were driving that way I said, “I sure wish I owned that chicken. If I had a business, I wouldn’t care what it was, I’d name it after that chicken. Everyone knows that chicken. I live 1 ½ hour away, and even I know that chicken.”

 

My daughter said, “What if your business was a dance school?”

I said, “I’d call it Big Chicken Dance, I swear to God.”

We laughed about that, and other businesses that I would open if I had that chicken, like the Big Chicken art gallery. I said that even if I didn’t own the chicken, if I lived in that town, I’d open right next door to make use of the fabulous landmark. Heck, it should be a  cherished historic landmark for all that it demands such attention.

 

As we drove by, don’t ya know but we see that next door is a pawnshop named Big Chicken Pawn. I kid you not! We laughed about that, and my daughter pointed out that I am not all that original.

 

This led us into a discussion about pawnshops. I admitted I’ve never gone into one, although I have friends who do visit them and have picked up some great jewelry and tools that way.

 

Sure enough, we couldn’t resist the lure. We decided to stop in on our way back. Can’t resist a store called Big Chicken Pawn. I made jokes about how I’d love to go in there with my chickens, Pot Pie and Drumstick, and act like I needed to pawn them.

 

Anyway, inside we browsed the goodies, everything from jewelry to musical instruments. It was unique. I noticed a bunch of DVD’s on a table – 5$ each or five for 20 bucks so I went browsing. I stumbled upon a series of videos called The Firm workout DVD’s. I thought, Hey, I could use these.

 

The fact is, I’ve stopped going to my health club because it is a 40-minute drive and I just don’t have the time. I can spare an hour for a class, but adding the 1 ½ drive eats too much of my day. And I’ve missed it. So, I’ve been running, but for all that running is great for cardio, I miss my pump classes. Can’t have my arms going all jelly-ish on me, and my body craves the muscular high of working out.   

I know that once we get into our house, this won’t be a problem because we’ve built a huge workout room that will sport an elliptical machine and weights. We are putting in a TV and DVD player so I can use my yoga and Pilates exercise DVD’s. I figure that when I am home, I can just scoot downstairs everyday for a workout as a physical break from writing. Can’t wait. A few of these firm tapes might round out my library, so I decided to buy them.

 

I took them to the counter. An old man was working. He looked at the tapes and narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you going to actually use these,” he said skeptically.

I assured him I was.

He looked at the pictures on the covers. “Are you sure?”

I wondered if he was thinking I was too old or too lazy looking or too something or other. I laughed and pointed to the 20 something hard bodies on the cover and said, “That will be me. I’m gonna look just like them, wait and see.” (Can’t resist a chance to flirt with an ancient man – it’s my favorite hobby)

The man kept browsing through the videos. “Will you promise to come back and show me if you do?”

I said sure. Why not?

He kept looking at the videos with a funny look, pausing, ruffling through them all. I thought it weird behavior (Denver later said she thought it was creepy.) I figured he was going to say I needed to pay more for them or something, that they didn’t belong on that 5-dollar table. His behavior was strange, as if he didn’t want me to have these tapes. I made a few more jokes about my working out and told him I lived in the mountains in an isolated area and that I was a workout demon who no longer has an outlet for her devotion. I needed those tapes.  I was hoping to get some pity here.

 

He said, “Did you take all the videos?”

I said I had left two on the table because they used equipment I didn’t have (a special Firm bar). He told me to get them. I didn’t really want more then ten videos but I figured he didn’t want me to leave a part of the set, so I thought OK, I’ll take them all.

 

He said, “Don’t go anywhere. I have something for you. I mean it. Don’t move.” Then, he left.

Denver leaned over nervously and said, “What is he doing?”

I said he was probably going to get me a rowing machine or something to try to sell me  more stuff. But I was wondering too. And I was wondering if this whole DVD purchasing idea was a mistake now.

 

Out came the old man with a step and a firm bar. He said, “I want you to have these. I’m giving them to you. I had to search my memory to recall where I put them, and I doubt anyone but me in this place even knows we had them in the back, but I knew they were here somewhere. If you are really going to work out, you need the stuff to do the job right.”

Apparently, he was browsing those videos searching the files in his brain to remember.

I was thrilled. Really. I wanted a step and a bar. Ha. Lucky me.

I asked what I owed him, I had 13 videos and a bar and a step now. He thought about it and said, “How about 45 dollars – and don’t forget to visit me.”

Wow! I was getting about 300 dollars in workout stuff and this was more than a fair break even in a pawnshop. I agreed and loaded it all into my car.

 

Denver  laughed at my full-blown excitement. She said, “Well, you are going to be a pawn shop diva now.”

She’s right. Just goes to show that happiness lives where chickens dwell.

 

Today, it is raining. I actually worked out at home with my bar to a fitness tape. I’m sore from last night’s run so it was a welcomed change of pace. Nothing like convenience. I could even do it barefoot. Yehaw.

I felt sort of stupid all alone at home working out to a video, but it beats feeling like mush.

 

 

I told Denver later that I felt badly shopping in a pawnshop because my luck might be from the misfortune of others. She disagreed. She said, “Mom, whoever had that expensive Firm series bought them and didn’t use them. And keeping them around made them feel guilty. No doubt, it was easier dropping them off here than having a yard sell. Nothing to feel guilty about. You can bet those diamond rings come from women who broke up with their boyfriends and needed some cash. Most of that stuff was probably stuff the original owner didn’t want anymore. You do them a favor by supporting the store so they have a place  to get ready cash when they need it.”

 

Well, now, there is a positive slant on the entire thing. So, thanks to her, I won’t feel guilty about my big chicken purchase. I will maintain my sleek, muscular middle-aged bod (that is a stretch, I guess, but let a girl exaggerate for ego’s sake) and celebrate my shopping savvy each day when I do my 50 minute firm workout.

 

I guess you can find a solution for anything you are missing in your life if you’ve a mind to be creative about it.

While at the Campbell school with Mark, I spent time looking through the brochure again. The atmosphere is serene, the people wonderful and the environment artistically enriching. You can’t help but get jazzed to take another class when on the grounds. I’ve been wanting to take a spinning class and saw that it is only offered twice a year. They do offer other spinning, such as spinning flax and silk, etc. but there are only two classes in the material I am interested in – wool.  I’ve talked to people in this class in the past during lunch, and I’m told it is a very “labor intensive” class. Translated, that means, “You never stop, you have to get up close to yucky animals, get all sweaty, and work like a dog for the week to accomplish the deed. Not as fun as we thought it would be.” I guess, many people who come to the Campbell school for a relaxing creative break from the drudgery of life. Spinning wool tends to be contradictory to that goal. But I am dying to learn how to do it and I like getting messy. And I guess I don’t need to remind you that the same process used for sheep’s wool is used for llama wool. I do have a long-term plan for this skill if I can master it.

 

The five-day class is very productive and each day covers a different element of the process. The first day, you go out and sheer a sheep. Considering my recent experience with the llama, I assume I’ll be a natural. I like sheep. Well, actually, I’ve never been within a dozen yards of a sheep, but I think I will like them. I’ll learn how to get the wool, then pull the burs from the raw material and wash it, and comb it into fluff. Then, I’ll spend a day learning to use natural dyes to color it, then spin it into wool and last, spin several thin strands into interesting yarns with texture. The results are amazing. Naturally, spun yarns cost about 60 dollars a skein, so I’ve never bought any. Frankly, wool can be scratchy and it is a bit too exorbitantly priced for me – I’d rather go for chashmere when it comes to actually purchasing some upscale fiber. But I will get a kick out of knitting something with yarn I’ve made from start to finish all by myself – I wouldn’t mind doing this at home in front of a TV just so I can say I did. And like I said, I think I will like the sheep part.

 

Mark saw me reading about the class and rolled his eyes and said, “I am NOT buying you a sheep for Christmas. Let’s make that perfectly clear.” Hum. Never say never, dear.

 

Mostly, I think learning an old world skill such as this will be vitally helpful when I return to writing historical novels. I will graduate from Lesley in June (The heavens open up with a mighty crescendo) and then I can’t wait to get back to writing the kinds of stories I love. (With, hopefully, more skill than before.) I will be creating characters that spin, weave, make clay pots and who knows what else with total authenticity by the time I am done with all these classes.

 

Anyway, I found a “Sheep to Wool” spinning class offered in Feb., a very good month for me, so I went into the office to put myself on the “list.” As a local resident, I can take these classes for half price, when and if space is available after full paid registrations are in, so I just put myself on a list of any class I am interested in and let fate determine whether or not I’ll take it. I figure if I don’t get in, I can always try again later and so far, I’ve always gotten in.

 

The office knows me. The receptionist said, “If you really want this class, we are offering it in two weeks on Scottish Heritage Week and there are two spaces in the class. I’ll put you in for half price today if you want.”

The spinning class is usually full and I know getting in as a local for half price will be difficult, so I was pleasantly  surprised. She pointed out that the session starts Labor Day weekend, so some people don’t want to commit. This meant my snatching up the class now would be a lucky break and it guarantees I get to participate. But honestly, I am drowning in school work this term, so I shouldn’t commit to anything. I told her I’d think about it, and I signed up for a soap making weekend class in March – another class that is always full and is only offered twice a year. I decided to pay full price for this one since I’ve not gotten in the three times I’ve tried –It’s only a weekend course and March is a good month for me regarding my masters. I’ll be almost done.

 

So, I went back into the demonstrations to sit with Mark, thinking all the while about that darn spinning class. And don’t ya know that a half hour later, I went in and registered. I just couldn’t resist. Then, as I was leaving the office, the receptionist said, “And in case you forgot, you also are on the list for the wooden book class in late Sept. and it looks like you’ll get in. We’ll be seeing a lot of you.”

 

Hell! I’d forgotten I put myself on that list over six months ago. I’d never have pursued the spinning class this season if I remembered that. But, I am dying to take this class too. It’s a class that makes books from scratch. You use wood covers and leather, with naturally made fiber paper and hinges and such to make incredible turn of the century books. They are beautiful, for journals or to write poetry in. I visited the class last year, and talked to the teacher and students. It is a tedious and difficult skill to master, but the product is so original and personal, I have to learn. I figure a beautiful, empty book like this would make a very special gift for a teacher or someone who writes. I’ve signed up before, but the class occurred when Mark’s dad first got sick, so I had to decline attending. I can’t bail again.

 

So, it looks as if I am going to be very busy (artistically) in September. Eek. I will have two classes at the Campbell school, which at least will give me good fodder for writing assignments for my non-fiction professor (he enjoys my craft escapades and my animal/wilderness stories and is encouraging me to write a memoir about this mid-life adventure I’m undertaking.  I write two essays a month for him and it is always fun to have an inspirational new subject about which to write.) I guess this means In Sept. I’ll be missing sleep to keep up on my homework. This is my hardest term, with the hardest professor. I am supposed to write another 100 pages of my book this month, and I can barely eek out ten a week as it is. Sigh.

 

To top it off, my parents are coming up to visit Sept. 27 for a week. Actually, I’m thrilled they are coming. After all that we have experienced with Mark’s dad, I have a compelling urge to spend time with my own parents. But it does mean I have to get on the homework bandwagon now. Woe is me.

 

Anyway, I guess Sept. will be an eclectic blog month. I will take you with me on this journey into the past to lean about where wool comes from and how it feels between your fingers in raw form. I will share the sound of a sheep when you are robbing him of his fur, and take lots of pictures! I will then complain mightily about how sore my fingers are when I make a book and do the meticulous binding by hand.

 

Sometimes I think I approach life as if it’s an all you can eat banquet. I’m the person that heaps way more on her plate than her stomach can handle, just because it all looks so appetizing. Bad habit, ’cause in the end you always end up too full, feeling groggy with a food-hangover, burping and sighing– all of which doesn’t bode well for a gal’s sophisticated image.

Ah well. Beats starving.   

My husband took a class on Rustic Furniture Making at the Campbell school this week. He’s wanted to take it for some time. A year ago May, when we realized we were selling our school and would have time to pursue personal interests, he tried to sign up for last August’s class, but it was filled. The school only offers this course once a year and they only take seven students because of space constraints. Therefore, with my encouragement, he signed up one year in advance and paid full price to be sure he would get a space in the class. The long awaited class began last Sunday and ran until today, Friday.

 

I worried that he wouldn’t be able to go, even after his long wait, because life tends to thwart the best of plans. When his dad passed away on the Friday eve before the class, it was as if fate was waving Mark towards his new destiny. He needed the distraction, and deserved a chance to be immersed in something he loves, but he wouldn’t have gone if his dad was still sick. Despite what I feared would be an impossibility, it turned out Mark could go  – and  just when he really needed something to aid his emotional recovery. Perfect.

 

Today, I went to the closing ceremony to see all the incredible crafts people made this session at the school. This week they offered blacksmithing, chair caning, jewelry design, lathe made stools, a cold foods cooking class, banjo, glass bead making, embroidery and appliqué design, watercolors, writing, and carving.  The showcase is always impressive and inspiring . I was shocked by how terrific everyone’s rustic chairs turned out, because I consider furniture making a hard subject, but honestly, I wasn’t surprised by my husband’s chairs. I expected his to stand out (and they did). Everyone in the class made one chair, finishing by the skin of their teeth at week’s end. Mark made two and had free time on the last day. Ha, that’s my boy. High achiever and artistic wonder. The teacher said he never had anyone finish two chairs in a week. Mark later confessed that he could have made three, or at least a matching footstool, but he didn’t want to appear greedy, use up the last of the materials, and no one in the class wanted to stay after hours to put in extra time the way he would have liked. Ha. You’re spots are showing, o’ leopard mine.

 

He made one big chair for himself and a slightly smaller, matching chair for me. (Makes me wonder if Goldilocks is planning to visit our cabin one day) He plans to put them in our bedroom by the window with a table that he claims he will make later. The chairs are made of tree saplings with the bark on, but he shaved away areas in the backrest and armrests to make them more comfortable. This also adds interesting texture and design to what is actually a “stick” chair.  Mark’s chairs are somewhat more interesting than every else’s in the class because he added some double rungs and forked pieces.

When I commented on it, he shrugged and said, “I didn’t have much room for creativity, because the teacher discouraged us using twisted or curved wood. He thought it would be too hard for beginners. But, wait until you see what I can do now in my workshop. All I needed was the basics. My mind is now spinning with ideas.”

Big surprise.

That is how Mark operates. The man gets a small bit of information and he runs wild with it. Amazing how his creative mind works. He has an artistic eye that is unparalleled. He sees things no one else sees when he looks at bits and pieces of whatever. Always fascinates me. I’ve learned to just trust his vision even if I can’t see it early on. It was hard to do when it was dance we were talking, but with wood and other things I do not feel I have any expertise in, I just sit back an enjoy the show. Our going in different directions (artistically) is actually very good for us in some ways.

 

It was very important to me that Mark finally took this furniture making class, because if he didn’t:

1.)    We would have a huge, beautiful, rustic log home, but it would be empty because we’ve spent every cent we have on the structure and land. We got rid of all the Florida furniture that doesn’t fit this new lifestyle, so filling this new house is going to take some creative thinking.

2.)    I would have to jump off a cliff if I heard him talk about how much he wishes he could make this stuff  . . . if only . . . . . All right already, stop whining and take a class somewhere. Gee wiz. I bought you some books, can’t you just read them, fake it, and make us a bench or something?

3.)    I began to think I would never own a single rustic thing, because each and every item I’ve seen in a store over the last year, makes me say, “Gee, wouldn’t this be nice in our house,”  But I get a response of, “Yea, but we would never buy it, because I could just make it for you.” Considering I’ve been told this about beds, dining room tables, end tables and coffee tables, chairs, cabinets, desks, lamps, and even knick-knacks like toilet paper holders and coat hangers, I’ve begun to worry. I say, “Dear, you will have to make things 24/7 to put a dent in my needs list, and there are only so many hours in a day. Are you sure we can’t buy this toilet paper holder?” and he would scowl and say, “For twenty bucks? No way, I can make it for two.”  And I think, But will you? Now, for the first time, I’m beginning to think he will.

4.)    I think it is important that all people embrace the things they love, and I believe happiness lies in soulful work that makes you feel you are living the authentic “you.” I know my husband no longer belongs in tights. I think sawdust suits him better than sequins, and I can’t bare the fact that building a house, handling our complex finances and the lingering duties regarding the sale of our school is standing in the way of him doing what he wants with his life. I have my MFA. I want him to have his wood.

 

So, he made some chairs and he is all perky and happy now. Therefore, so am I.

 

Driving home from the school with Mark’s two chairs in the back of the truck, the funniest thing happened. We were talking about the class and how much Mark enjoyed it and how badly he wants to get into this for a living once the house is finished, when a man in a sports car speeding along besides us on the two-lane highway, started honking. We thought we might have a flat tire or something, so I rolled down my window.

 

The man yelled, “Hey, where did you get those great chairs in the back of your truck?”

I chuckled and said, “He made them,” pointing to Mark in the driver’s seat.

The man said, “Do you have a card? I want to buy some.”

Mark said, “Wish I did, but I’m out of cards right now. Sorry.” He gives me the “can you believe he thinks I’m a real furniture maker” look. 

The man said, “Where do you live?”

I shout, “Mineral Bluff.”

Mind you, we are still sailing along at 45 miles an hour.

The man yells, “What’s your name?”

I yell, “Mark Hendry.”

The man then smiles and shouts, “I’ll remember that and call you. I love those chairs.”

And off he sails.

 

Mark and I look at each other and crack up. It was like a corny movie or some kind of candid camera set up. Too perfect a coincidence to believe it happened naturally.

 

I said, “You get your ass in that workshop and don’t come out until you make a dozen of these chairs!” (which sell for 600 bucks and up, mind you, and you get the materials in your backyard for free). I’m thinking, not only will he be able to make me furniture, but I can buy some furniture too– those things not made of wood, of course- once he is up and rolling as a furniture-making entrepreneur. They say money doesn’t grow on trees, but it just might roll in the wake of them.

 

This is cause for celebration. My house will not be a hollow shell after all, because I’m all for a girl locking her man up in a sweatshop to produce, especially if he thinks it’s his idea of fun.

 

Anyway, that potential customer in the sports car was like a sign from heaven that Mark is following the right path. Mark will no doubt do something wonderful in this world of wood. The house will be finished in eight weeks, and then his workshop will be built and outfitted with his bazillion tools and . . . let the games begin. Can’t wait to see where it all takes him. My mind is already spinning with the possibilities. I will write articles about the new wood artist in Georgia that will put him on the map. He has the talent. I have the tenacious marketing savvy and no shame.

 

Mark tells me that he loves making the chairs and wants to make dozens for one of the upcoming art festivals. He figures he can sell twenty or more in a weekend – we’ve seen people do that without trying.  Then he tells me he intends to have me cane them all.

I was like, “Say what?”

Caning is the hard part! But I wasn’t going to bust his bubble on the very day he blew it. I figure, when the time comes, I’ll offer to help him – if and only if, we make it a chair caning mini-party. We can sit outside together and talk and make it a marital social event. I never see him anymore – he is buried under logs and a fog of sawdust. I figure forcing him to work with me always worked in the past. I’m no fool – after 19 years, a girl figures out just how to maneuver a difficult fellow.

 

I did take the chair caning class because I thought one day it would allow me to participate in this furniture making thing – but I was thinking about my dining room chairs, not outfitting cabins nation wide with Mark-chairs. Bet I end up sorry I opened that can of worms. Eesh.

 

Anyway, I am definately going to share pictures of the chairs even though pictures don’t do them justice and he still has to oil the seats to give it a rich sheen. But not now. I have to wait for Mark to down load them, because I have fiddled with thei camera for an hour now and I can’t figure it out. I’m technology challenged. But when you see them tomorrow you will see they are neat. Guess you have to like woodsy sorts of things.  I sure do.  They are substantial, solid, natural and lack pretense– qualities I like not only in furniture, but in people.  And let me just say that I think he did some pretty good seats – in fact, they are so good I couldn’t possibly match their exquisiteness. In fact, I might ruin any chair he made if my sloppy caning dared interfere with their artistic genius . . . . it would ruin the artistic integrity of the seat . . .  yep . . . I shouldn’t touch them . . . 

Um . . . think that will fly?

I’ll post pictures later.