Category Archives: Special Interests

 

Here is a picture of my basket made from nature. (Two angles). I picked a base twig with a cool, natural loop in it, thinking I could hang this basket from that end. Eventually, when I put it in my writing room I’ll do just that, but for picture sake, it is resting now on a sheet. I was sort of annoyed that Mark took the picture before I had a chance to “clean up” the basket. That is when you tuck in and tie off little ends of material in the weave. You wait for the project to dry a bit before doing this step. So if any basket connoisseurs are out there thinking I am a sloppy basket maker – well, it is only because you are peeking before I had a chance to tidy up. If you look carefully, in this basket you’ll see sea grass, corn husks, palm tree fluorescents, and big dried flower leaves (the things that look like ribbon.) The end product is very stiff and solid, as dried material from nature gets in time. Anyway, it may not be perfect, but you can be sure no one else in the world has one since it is free form and original. I think originality counts for something. I had plans to give this one away to a teacher of mine who has a deep love of nature, but now I’m thinking I could do better.. My firsts always are a learning thing.  Maybe next time, I’ll stick with items I find on my own land – blackberry vines, string from around the horses hay, etc. That would make the making of it more fun, and it would come with a secret story. I like a little hidden history in my gifts. Even if I am the only one who knows what makes it uniquely mine.
 

I’ve just returned from a semi-victorious walk around the mountain. I did indeed gather ¾ a bowl of sweet, succulent blackberries. I also return with 45 scratches, hands full of embedded prickles, a bee-sting, and a semi-twisted ankle. Not my fault, of course.

 

I believe any effort is a success if you learn something in the process. This is what I’ve learned today.

1. Bee’s like me. Or maybe it is fairer to say they like the vanilla lotion I slather on myself each morning after the shower. I bought this from a lovely woman at the farmer’s market. She makes all these wonderful natural products from scratch and when you buy some, she pauses to tell you stories about her family and where she got the ingredients and how she made the products. Love that. But facts are fact. The best scent for me now a days is “deep woods off”. I know this, but I am stubborn. I may have no sense of smell, but the men I encounter do, and I want to smell pretty. As such, I must live with the fact that I have great bee-appeal. I truly doubt any of those men that I make the effort to smell nice for, take notice of me at all, but the bees find me very desirable. What ya gonna do?
   
2. It is wise to just skip reaching beyond the cliff to get that great clump of berries, no mater how agile you like to pretend you are. Because you might slip and slide 5 feet down the mountain. This kind of thing has the potential to give you 45 scratches and a semi-sprained ankle. Yes, it is better if you pull on the vine and bring the berries to you. Duh.
   
3. If you say you are going to do something, you should do it. Especially if what you say you are going to do is wear jeans and a long sleeve shirt (and maybe gloves). It isn’t a good idea to just go out in capri’s and a tank top thinking you’ll just pause to gather the easy to reach berries on the side of the road this time . . . There are no easy to reach berries on the side of the road. Others have beat you to them. All the really good, juicy berries are in the thicket, calling to you like a siren with talons at the ready. And come on, it is not as if you don’t know your own weaknesses.
   
4. If you want to gather wild flowers on your walk, it is best to do this after you pick berries, or on another walk altogether. An armful of yellow daisies is rather cumbersome when you are fighting thorns, and if you keep putting them down, they get dirty and start losing their pedals and you end up coming home with a wad of sad looking, broken stemmed, wilted, yellow daisies – though I must say they are a very appropriate compliment to 45 scratches, a bee sting and a semi-sprained ankle. I guess Mother Nature does not reward greedy guests.   

 

I am hoping I’ll have more luck later in the berry quest.  I actually went on line and downloaded an article about growing blackberries in North Carolina. There are 11 species and they fall into three cultivar types. I hope I will be able to recognize what I’m picking soon. I already can see differences. Once I read this article I will learn what makes the berries sweet and lots of other juicy details, like how to prune and train blackberry plants(to avoid the warrior method I’m employing now) Fertility management (sounds fancy, huh) and harvesting and nutritional composition.
I will be a true blackberry aficionado.

But right now – I have to do some homework. So much for a relaxing walk to prime the artistic pump. Sigh.

Who’d a thunk it? I’m a bad coffee shop customer. Me. The gal that doesn’t go a full day without a visit to the local java store! I’ve always considered myself a poster child candidate for most the devoted coffee patron poster. But, as it turns out, I don’t quality.

 

I’ve been scouting around researching the biz, and apparently, a successful coffee shop sells 74% espresso drinks and 26% plain cups of coffee. The normal coffee is offered just to assure the store is a full-service coffee stop. Most all of the coveted profit comes from those frappes, lattes, steamed and iced drinks. The people ordering them babies are the golden customers. I’m just taking up space.

 

Because, you see, I’m one of those people who always orders plain coffee. That happens to be what I like. I don’t even try the other offerings, because (God forbid) what if I like them? They are loaded with calories I don’t need, and they cost more than I want to invest for a casual snack umpteen times a week. Coffee, with a touch of cream to make it the color of my hair, topped off with an equal, does me fine. It’s not really the drink I’m going for anyway. It’s the concept of stopping motion for a brief moment in the day – to relax and breathe. In Florida, I’d drive through the local Starbucks for a quick coffee fix (and a little flirting with the coffee boys at the drive through) because just holding that steaming cup made me feel as if I was taking time for me. Here, I actually get out of my car and go into a place called LL Beanery and sit by the fireplace on a huge leather couch. I sip slowly, marveling at this gift I’ve stumbled upon, to live in the moment and appreciate the beauty of living true to oneself, for the first time in years. It’s not the taste of coffee that makes a cup of that mud so attractive. It is what is associated to it. Leisure, solitude, warmth, a mental vacation.

 

That is off the point. I’m supposed to be talking about the coffee biz.

Unsuccessful java stores are filled with customers like me. People who dare to order coffee at the coffee shop. The goal is to turn people like me into customers who order the hard stuff…. those coffee servers are nothing but bean pushers, trying to make us Frappichino addicts. Well, good luck with that, King Starbucks. I’m no java pushover, you know. 

 

Lately, I’ve been going into coffee shops to sit, sipping my plain coffee, and I’ve begun counting customers and eyeing what they order. I’m this shadow, studying the characteristics of the coffee buying public and the houses that cater to them. It is fascinating.  I also study the layout and merchandise offered at these coffeehouse/knick knack stores. Interesting. I’m doing all this math, mental acrobatics to break down the business – taking into consideration the space each division of the business consumes, cost of sales and investment required. And then I consider the opportunity costs – all the other things you could do with the same resources if you applied them to something other than a coffee shop/art gallery. Goodness, I think I actually learned something when I went to college. Who knew?

 

Remember, man cannot live on coffee sales alone (unless you are Starbucks man.) so I am researching art galleries too. Today, I went into a favored glass art gallery in town, which happens to be expanding to add other mediums. I asked the owner about his background. I have a way of starting conversations with people that opens them up. I found out lots of good stuff. This fellow was an art history major in college 30 years ago. Later, he worked doing window displays for a department store and he arranged house wares for best showcasing. When he retired from that, he went back to school and, for fun, took a gallery management class at a college in Atlanta (not far from here – hummmm). All told, these endeavors obviously combine to make him a perfect candidate for owning and operating an art gallery. I was envious of his experience – but mostly, I respect the path he’s taken to get where he is. I’m smart enough to know that success in any business demands an in-depth understanding of the business. Obviously, for all that I worship and adore art, I will need to learn a great deal more about the “business of art” before I am in charge of the kind of decisions art gallery management will produce. This does not mean I’m giving up – only buckling down.

 

I’ve talked at length with an owner of a <ST1Wood Art Gallery too. She is a snob, but a lovely snob. Art people are about the only people more uppity than dance people. Ha – not like anyone in art can intimidate me after all these years. She got into this business because her husband is a wood turner. I can give her a run for her money in that category. Anyway, I keep browsing Appalachian art exhibits and nature craft shows. All kinds of leads swirl around me, like the tentacles of a huge monster I want to tame.

 

The point is (and really, there is no point to this blog except that I’m really lonely today so I felt like writing something – its my manner of keeping company with invisible friends) I’m having fun speculating on a future business that is as far removed from my experience and knowledge as could be. I could hang up a shingle and just learn as I go, but I’m too wise to waste time and money like that at my ripe old age. An ounce of preparation can save a pound of headaches. Or is that pounding headaches…  I’ve had a business before. I know.

 

Perhaps my research is going to begin and end as just that. Research without action following. I may learn enough to turn away from the entire idea. Or I will gain confidence and enthusiasm as I recognize the true potential of the project. Time will tell. I will follow instinct and my heart. It never steers me wrong. For all I know, fate is pushing me in this direction simply to distract me from dance. It kills me not to open a dance school here. Not that I want one, but this area NEEDS one. And I don’t need to do any research to get that. Shoot me.

 

In the meantime, my daily cups of coffee have taken on new meaning. Just goes to show, even stopping for a cup of coffee can be an inspirational event if you find a way to make it so.

     The other day, I was taking a walk around the mountain with my husband and he pointed out some blackberry (or raspberry) bushes, with little buds of fruit just emerging. I was thrilled.

   I said, “Lets steal them.”

    He looked at me aghast and said, “We’ll do no such thing.”

    I pointed out that the bushes were not on anyone’s land. They are growing wild on the outskirts of the road by a cliff drop off, so they are not, nor will they ever be, on a lot or near anyone’s cabin. As such, they are just random wild bushes, free for the taking.  I’ve been lusting for blackberry bushes for months. In fact, I’ve been so obnoxious about it that my sister in law gave me a blackberry bush for my birthday, and finding just the right place to plant it was a paramount, all consuming decision for an entire week.

     I suggested we bring the truck over and fill it with the wild berry bushes to transfer to our land. It would make me VERY HAPPY I pointed out, as if that implies some sort of bonus for him. He didn’t fall for it though.

     Mark said, “I’m not going to fill my truck with these plants. You can just pick berries when you take a walk. Besides which, I’m sure that if you look, we have plenty of wild berry bushes on our own land.”    

      I mumbled that if he was going to be uncooperative, I would just get Denver to help me, and we would pull off this nature heist when he wasn’t home. I might be able to pick berries this summer when I talk walks, but next summer I’ll be on the land, and it’ll be unlikely I’ll drive to this mountain for berry picking. Nevertheless, I really, really, want fresh blackberries and raspberries for cooking. (I’ve been collecting recipe’s ya see, along with my bazillion blueberry recipes.)

    Then Mark said, “Just be aware that if you remove the bushes now when the fruit is demanding the plant’s energy, they may not survive the transplant. It would be best to get them later, in the fall, after they are done bearing fruit.”

   Drat, he knows I’m not about to do something that would destroy something so lovely. But waiting is a problem, because I won’t be able to distinguish these plants from others without the berries. Unfortunately, they do not stand out from the other wild bushes in appearance. I could tag them now, I guess, but now the entire caper is getting complicated.

     Mark assured me that I’ll have all the berries I want if I’m patient. He would find them on our land, because they are everywhere in Georgia. If not, he would plant some AFTER we are done building the house. I must have faith. And PATIENCE. “Rome (and our new life) can’t be built in a day,” he often reminds me. 

    Sigh  

    That night, don’t ya know I saw a hundred blackberry bushes along the backcountry road where I run. There is a fence around a pasture entirely covered by them – millions of tiny berry buds weighing the branches down. It seems as if nature was teasing me now. Everyone has wild berries BUT me. While I can pick to my hearts delight at these places where the plants are left unattended and unharvested, I still feel deprived. I want my very own berry plants that I can nurture and visit. I want to experiment with making all kinds of berry things – jams and syrups , pies and pancakes – and that takes gobs of berries, more than you’d want to buy.   

      That night, I went horseback riding alone. I steered Peppy down all the side roads of our land keeping my eye out for blackberries. All of a sudden, I saw a bush. Voila!!!! I got off the horse to inspect the plant. Sure enough, I had a few little berry buds waiting to turn. I went a bit further and saw another. Then another and another and another. I found about four dozen bushes along our roads. I hadn’t known they were there, because the plants start blooming in June and peek in July and we didn’t begin spending time on the land last season until August, after the berry explosion was over. I haven’t recognized the plants as berry bushes without fruit. But now that I have become berry-aware, I’m discovering berry bushes everywhere!

       Each day, I find more and more berry bushes tucked away in the foliage of our land, laden with unripe fruit. Soon, they will be ready for pick’ in. (My blueberry bush has zillions of green berries soon to turn. In fact, a few turned plump blue, but they are still sour. (Had to sample them) In three weeks, it will be like hitting the blueberry lottery.)

    Mark has warned me that the deer and birds might get the blackberries and raspberries before I have a chance to. I guess he wants to prepare me in case my berry aspirations are crushed. Deers think they can eat all my fruit? We’ll see about that. My mind is already circling methods to protect my bushes. Can I construct wire cages around them? Shall I pace the grounds daily like an army sentry to shoo away hungry pests?

    I have to admit, Mark was right. Blackberry bushes are hiding everywhere in the wilderness in this area of the country. The birds must eat them and fly elsewhere and their droppings lead to more plants.  Now that I have found them on our land, I am planning to fertilize and care for them, hoping to build strong, healthy berry bushes that will grow as big as my car (like my blueberry bush). I will spend July picking and hopefully fill my freezer with dozens of containers so we have them all year long. I want to cook a magnificent dessert this Thanksgiving and Christmas out of berries off our land. I am funny that way – for me, even food is better if it has intimate meaning and good memories associated to it.  For the holidays, I want to make desserts that are special for more reasons than taste.

      So, I’ve been celebrating because have a berry resource right under my nose. Yippee.  We also have a dozen black walnut trees and some old apple trees that no longer produce anything worthy to eat. Next spring, we will be bulldozing them out and replacing them with peach and apple trees. I’m told that in three years, I’ll be able to harvest my own fruit from my own small orchard too. How cool is that?

    You may be thinking, “When is she going to start a veggie garden?” Well, of course, I’m thinking along those lines. Got space. What I don’t got  – water. We have a creek, but no pumps or wells yet. Can’t have a garden without a source to water it, as Mark has explained each time I point out someone else’s garden with envy. He says next spring will be another matter. I can have a garden if I’m willing to do the work to tend it.

   My husband listens to me squeal with excitement when I see tomato plants for sale or a big pumpkin patch on the side of the road, laughing, because he knows growing veggies is hard work and I might not like it as much as I think. And yet, he is a gardener, so he understands the appeal of being out in the sun, watching your plants grow and flourish a bit more each day. He loves freshly grown fruit and vegetables and looks forward to the dishes I can and will prepare with them, so he says that if I really want to try my hand at gardening, he will help. After all, he has the tractor to make my dreams a reality. Gotta love a guy with a tractor.

    Now, you may think I am turning into Miss Farmer Brown. Not true. But I do love to cook, and I’m planning to take this interest to another level. The older I get, the more I am drawn to less physically demanding activities, I guess – lazy me. Or maybe it’s because now, we have time to entertain friends and I want to make the most of it. I am forever making this foolish list of people to invite over when the house is done. Mark laughs and says I have us theoretically booked until the year 2008. Maybe so, but I am looking forward to evenings with good friends, good food, and a rousing game of Sequence. (I love that game.)  I want to cook more for just us too. There is something so intimate about feeding your family– taking time to nourish them with special dishes. I want to go to the trouble to make meals eventful. I am old fashion, I guess, with romantic notions of building family intimacy around a happy, generous dinner table.

   Anyway, cooking appeals to me. I have plans to take a few gourmet-cooking classes at a nearby fine wine and gourmet food store and have been looking for other ways to push the envelope.  I like the idea of working with the seasons offerings – meeting the challenge of using what is readily available.  And I love being self-sufficient at home, avoiding processed and overly packaged commercial foods. I like the concept of growing my own food for social and environmental reasons. And add to this the fact that I love being outdoors. The way I see it, it’s a win-win situation.  This food is free, wholesome and healthy, and harvesting it is a lovely, peaceful thing to do. It’s not like I’m collecting it for market, laboring in the fields like a work hand to support the family. I am just collecting food in a natural way, the way humans were meant to- (we are hunters and gathers by instinct). And I get a special thrill of setting something homemade on the table knowing I put it together, literally, from start to finish.

  

     I am on a tangent. What is my point? Oh yea. I am excited about my new berry discovery. Perhaps, I will inundate you with recipes this July after I do some tests. I may be walking around with a blue tongue from all the taste tests, but if that is the price of discovery, I am willing to accept it.  

 

     Oh yea, you might be wondering about my dog. He was bit by a snake the other day. He had two puncture wounds in his cheek and his mouth and neck swelled up to three times the normal size within minutes. Panicked us. We called the vet and they said it sounded like a copperhead. But they were closed and they said that unless we are alarmist, we should wait. There was a 90% chance he would survive. He would be sick all night as the poison takes hold but they could treat him in the morning. (Like we could sleep while we waited?) Actually, we are not alarmist, and so, even though we felt badly for him, we decided to do what they advised.  So at 6:00 the next morning, I went to check on him with no small degree of anxiety. Teddy seemed so much better – the swelling had gone down considerably and there was no sign of him having been sick. Mostly, he was perky and excited because he saw my running shoes. Despite a small degree of swelling,, I allowed him to join me, and he ran the three miles with far more energy and enthusiasm than I could muster.  Made me happy, because that is not the sign of a sick dog. In the end, we skipped the vet, and by 3:00, he was perfectly normal. Don’t know what bit him, but it passed. I’m just glad whatever it was bit the dog and not Neva. But then, Neva doesn’t bark and chase snakes in an obnoxious way. At least, not to my knowledge.

   All is well in Ginny’s Arc. Can’t help but love (and be grateful for) hearty pets.

 

When I ran yesterday, I left the dog at home and opted to take a trash bag instead. I’ve noticed trash wedged in the weeds along the country road where my new route lies. I guess when you run someplace regularly, you tend to take ownership of the space, because I’ve been compelled to clean it up. Beer bottles, cigarette packages, and fast food containers are not my idea of landscape art. (Figures it would be beer bottles. Wine drinkers wouldn’t be so classless as to litter.)  These discards drag my attention away from the green rolling hills and soft-eyed cows, so they simply have to go.

 

I jogged the first ¼ mile passing up the small wrappers and rare Mountain Dew bottle on the side of the road. I figured anything I picked up early would have to be dragged with me the entire run, so it would make sense to just get it on the way back. But the second ¼ mile happens to be the stretch where most of the litter has landed, as if there is one culprit who drives home from work everyday, and at exactly this point in his journey, rolls down his window and tosses out the remains of whatever he was consuming.

 

I started picking up Budweiser cans and Taco Bell boxes. Pissed me off. For one thing, you can’t run while stooped over, so this pretty much wrecks my workout, and for another, it’s gross. I filled the entire bag with rotting debris on that next ¼ mile. Now, I was only ½ of a mile into a three-mile run, lugging a heavy bag of garbage. I propped it against a tree and decided to pick it up on the way back. No reason to carry it the entire way, beside which it was full, so its not like I could pick up more trash. The remainder of the run was relatively trash free (supporting my “one man with no environmental ethics and a pattern of behavior” theory). I figured I’d run with another trash bag tomorrow and nab the leftovers then.

 

By the time I had turned around and made it back to my trash bag, I was getting tired. These are not easy runs for me anymore (and I fear they never will be). I’ve never been a good runner, only a determined one. I spend all my time looking up at the sky, enjoying the breeze on my sweaty skin and stopping whenever something interesting catches my eye. I spend zero time concentrating on pace or form or doing speed drills to improve. I don’t push to go farther or faster. I just enjoy the lumbering plodding that gets my heart racing. If my natural lack of talent isn’t enough, the hills around here catapult my “below average” rank into a “you’re an embarrassment” status in the pecking order of those that run.  

 

Because I was tired, I contemplated leaving the trash and driving to pick it up later. I was not looking forward to that ½-mile walk straight up the mountain with this loot. But I also imagined a dog coming around and scattering it all over again, and that was unacceptable too. So I just ran (slowly) with it tossed over my shoulder like I was Santa Claus. I passed a house where a couple was outside having a cigarette and lounging on their freshly cut grass before a burning trash pile.

The man said, “Picking up trash? Good for you.”

 I said, “Yep. But it’s heavy. Can I throw it on your fire?”

He thought I was kidding, and made a joke, but I pointed out that I was serious.

He said “Sure, why not.”

So I took advantage of the opportunity and tossed my bag onto their fire.

I complimented their freshly cut grass and his wife took credit for cutting it that day. We exchanged a few jokes about him being a mowing-slacker while we watched the flames swallow my bag. He was a good sport, convincing us he should be excused from razzing because he was hard at work all day. I agreed that was a fair excuse.

Mostly, I think I talked to them just to watch the fire. I was delighted to see that road trash become smoke.

 

Afterwards, I plodded home, growling as I passed the litter left behind when I first started this project. I will just have to get it tomorrow. The question is, will my refreshed running path stay that way? Or will I have to pick up again and again after that certain someone who thinks the great outdoors is his private car receptacle.

 

And will I? Or will I step over the beer cans out of principal, the way I leave my son’s socks on the floor to teach him that he has to be “responsible”. Picking up once after a lazy someone is a gift. Doing so everyday alleviates the proof that one’s actions have consequences.  

 

The thing is, what’s acceptable to one person is not always acceptable to another. So while I’d love to imagine that the suddenly clean roadside will inspire reverence and appreciation for the view, it’s more likely my efforts won’t even be noticed.

Except by me. And if I’m the only one who cares whether or not this route is clean, I’ll have to be the one to bend over once in a while to keep it that way. Fair or not.

 

So, the real question is, how can I repeatedly pick up trash and not get a chip on my sweaty running shoulder over it? Hummmm………….

 

How many calories does a bending-over-break in the middle of a sluggish run actually burn?

. . . . . . Enough, I guess.

I’m not bragging when I say I’m good at almost everything I do. It’s a fact. The reason I insist this announcement is not bragging, is because my being good at things has nothing to do with my being intelligent or talented or special. It’s simply the outcome of having a wealth of life experience to draw from. We are all nothing more than the sum of our experiences and I have always had eclectic interests and a willingness to jump in and try things.

 

As a young girl, I dabbled in crochet, quilting, sewing, tatting, knitting, needlepoint, candle making, and other crafts. I danced, loved sports, and camped. I rode horses, loved sailing, ice-skating, fishing, and gambling. I play a mean hand of cards, and can whip your butt at ping-pong or croquet.  I’ve taken courses in guitar, computers, and language – none of which I proved a natural at, but all of which added to my basic understanding of these “arts”. I cook like a fiend and I run. Tried a few races, just to see what that was like. I’ve studied yoga, dance (obviously), taken every workout class in existence and even got aerobic certified. I once got a certificate in publishing from New York’s New School back when I joined writer’s groups for the first time. I earned a BA in business at 40, written articles in magazines, written books and now am earning an MFA in fiction at 47.  I ran a business successfully, which forced me to learn more than I wanted to learn about marketing, management etc. I managed a non-profit dance company and wrote grants too.  I have a donkey, a llama, four horses and a pile of books on how to raise wild chickens and turkeys, (and you know where I’m going with that.) I’ve taken classes on pottery, chair caning, storytelling, watercolor, and basket making just this year, and have others scheduled.

This are just a few of the “life experiences” that come to mind. The point is, when you are hungry to try new things, and you have no fear of looking stupid, you tend to expose yourself to unusual things, which add to your ever-growing base of understanding.

 

This means now, in my mature years, I’m good at lots of things.

 

So, WHY THE HECK WAS I SO BAD A SILVERSMITHING??????

 

Last weekend, I took a silver metalworking class at the Campbell school. The project was a linked silver bracelet and, time permitting, a few charms. Looked simple. 

 

The teacher said that putting the basic chain together (which wasn’t basic, it was a complicated, albeit gorgeous chain) was a bit like crochet. If you understood the concept of pattern, it would be easy. Well, lord knows, I understand patterns. I crochet. And dance is making patterns in space.  So, I’m supposed to get this, right? Wrong. I felt like an imbecile as I struggled with the seven loops made in a special coil system. I kept making a mess of it. Four hours later, my chain (with help) was finally complete. Whew.

 

The next day, we were to solder each of the 40 loops together so there is a consistent flow in the silver – no breaks. This is for security and looks. Cheap bracelets come from Mexico or other places, and often they are not soldered. We were learning to make “quality” jewelry.  

 

You many have noticed that when I listed all of the above life skills, power tools were not even hinted at in any endeavor. Nope. I’ve never lifted anything other than a screwdriver or hammer – very non-threatening, non-powered, non-challenging tools.

 

We were taught to use power torches powered by propane tanks to solder. I thought soldering was like using a glue gun with liquid metal in the base or something. Ummm… nope again. You must cut up itty-bitty chunks of silver soldering material, pick up these minute flecks and put them onto the piece. You first slather on this goo to assure the soldering will flow. Then each ring must be heated for the fleck to adhere. You then heat the ring and the soldering material melts and seeps into the fine spaces where the ring is connected. It glistens as if it is crying, then disappears.

 

Rule one. Don’t touch the bracelet when you have just spent several minutes aiming a blowtorch at it. Umm….. why did I have such a hard time with that rule? Band-Aids took the place of jewelry on my fingers all weekend as I proceeded to burn my skin every time I wanted to adjust the position of my chain. Just because it is no longer red hot doesn’t mean it isn’t hot. Duh.

 

Now, it is only fair to say I wasn’t the worst student in the class. There were six of us, and three of the women were definitely slower and less steady handed than I. Therefore, this put me in the middle, meaning I was “average” in the silversmith department. I can live with that.  And one of the women who was better than I confessed she’s taken many, many silversmith jewelry classes, so she doesn’t really count. So, that leaves the college kid as the only person better than I. She was amazing. She worked fast, accurately and with passion. She had instant understanding each time we were given a lesson and she would squeal with delight as she trotted off to make something grand. Ah, to be young and excited by your own, newly discovered gifts.

 

She was a natural at jewelry design, and as such, I found her pretty obnoxious. Blowing on my burnt fingers in the soldering room, I told the other woman we should stop talking to the college kid, because she was just out to make us look bad and if we ignored her, maybe she would go away. 

 

The college kid said, “You are just jealous, Mom, now do you want me to help you with your chain or not, because I hate to tell you, but all those links you just soldered didn’t take and they must be done again.” (That would make it my forth attempt, grrrr)

 

I let her help me. I had long given up the idea that I would leave this class with silversmith skills. I just wanted to leave with a bracelet.

But without help, I would be leaving with a hunk of unsoldered links. I just couldn’t see when the soldering material melted. I couldn’t even see to put it on the right place, and once the bracelet turned black from the torch, I couldn’t see anything.

 

After quite a bit of help, I finished the bracelet, and it was lovely. I wanted to stop while I was ahead, but Denver kept insisting I make a charm. She had already made three. Sigh.

 

I put a “G” on a silver disk, planning a simple letter charm. First, you use a drill. I sat at the machine, just staring. Intimidated. Denver came in and said, “It’s just like a sewing machine.”

 

Ah – that I get. So I drilled some starter holes easily enough. Fun.

 

Then, I had to put this hair sized metal thread in a saw and start sawing through the silver – and let me point out that a “G” has lots of curves. Too many. Why couldn’t my name have been Ida? An “I” would be a straight shot.  

 

It wasn’t long before I sliced through my index finger. Blood gushed all over. As I was attending to it at the medicine cabinet (my home away from home), Denver came out and shook her head.

 

“I broke six of these saw blades already.” I complained, holding up my wound so she would feel ample pity for me. We took this class because making jewelry is HER passion. I was thinking that my drawing blood for her should earn me extra “good mother” points.

 

“Did you spit on it?” she said.

“My finger?”

“The saw.”

“Why would I do that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because Dori (the teacher) told us to. You weren’t listening. You were staring out the window thinking of bees again.”

True.

 

Another class that weekend was bee keeping. I thought that subject fascinating. I mentioned to Mark that I would love to try keeping bees on our land – you know making natural honey and bee’s wax soap and candles and all. But he hates bees and wasps – has a thing about them. He runs screaming like a little girl from anything that buzzes. So he isn’t about to condone my bringing 4000 bees onto our land. Drat. I spent the weekend looking longingly at the area where the hives were kept. Everyone in the class said it was terrific – amazing –they learned everything about keeping bees and it’s easy.

Well – maybe next year.

 

Anyway, after struggling with the chain for two days straight, I had no intention of making a charm for my bracelet so I didn’t pay close attention to the charm portion of the class. Nevertheless, Denver made me feel guilty for not trying, and we did have six hours left of class, so I muddled through and I have a nice lopsided “G” for my bracelet now. It rests beside a book charm that Denver made for me. It’s actually nice. Unfortunately, these charms do not come out on my photograph, but my G is a sunken carving – it rests on a second disk to give it depth, and Denver’s book has the word “book” carved on it, and it has pages and textire detailed into it too.

 

I do not see myself returning to this sort of jewelry course again – but I must admit, it was a novel experience. I do plan to take a lampwork bead class, which requires using the same propane blowtorch to melt glass, and I’m thinking I won’t be so bad at it next time, considering I have this experience to draw from. The more you do, the better you are at doing.  There was also a class on silver clay charms at the school that weekend and Denver and I visited the studio a few times to check it out. That looks more my speed – maybe next time, I’ll try that kind of silversmithing.

 

I’m thinking I’ll just add charms to my bracelet over the years as I try new courses. Next to my “G”, I might add a glass charm, one of clay, maybe a wood one, etc…. My bracelet will be a testament to my artistic bravery (even if it is full of slightly imperfect charms).   

 

Denver has a true gift for jewelry making. I’d love to see her study seriously just to see what she is capable of. (And just think of the great Christmas gifts I would get!) Our teacher was a very impressive and inspirational professional who designs one of a kind jewelry that has this mechanical flavor. She uses minuet pulleys and things that roll to add movement and special interest to her work. She also happens to be a fascinating woman with a generous artistic attitude. She lives on a farm and talked about the importance of leisure and calm in fine-tuning your artistic awareness – lovely attitude – one I admire at this phase of life. Anyone interested in seeing her amazing work can check out her website. It’s cool. http://www.FuturisticallyArchaic.com

 

When I got home, I noticed I could barely read my book- the words were all fuzzy and I was holding the book an arms length away. ( I do homework every night before falling asleep). I checked my glasses. They are 125 strength. Humm….. I rummaged in my collection of glasses and found a 200. These were better. The next day, in a store, I tried a 250. Wow –it is possible to read without getting a cramp from holding a book three feet away? Now, we’re talking.

 

So, apparently, I couldn’t see the solder melt  because I couldn’t see. Anything. Maybe I’m not as bad as I think I am. I mean, I wouldn’t presume to call myself a good silversmith, but I’m not a total dismal failure. I just need better glasses for that kind of work. So, today, I am cleaning out my various assorted glasses (damn – there goes some of my favorite wild designs) and I’ll begin collecting stronger glasses. Do I need to point out here that I hate that I am getting old?

 

I keep thinking about how awkward I felt with that torch. I need to learn how to manage tools. I’m thinking I should take a class on building something out of wood next time. Then, I can learn to handle a saw and power drill. Mark will have an entire woodturning studio. I should learn about what is in there, just to better understand his world. How can I nag him about safety if I don’t know what is and isn’t dangerous? And if I learned to handle tools, I could build my own chicken coop and not have to beg my husband when I want a favor, like a rabbit hutch.

Independence is a great thing.

 

I missed blogging this last two weeks. Wanted to be here, but couldn’t. Life was out of control (some of which I’ll share later) and what time I could carve out for the computer was devoted to finishing my schoolwork for this term. I am now on a month long break, but I have to write two original stories in the next two weeks for the upcoming residency. Yikes.  I’ll share them here when they are finished, but I can’t promise they will be entertaining. I am reading my teacher’s book, “The Good Negress” and then I’m on to some other recommendations from staff. I have to find time to work on my book before turning it over to a new mentor too. Gosh, I’m tired just thinking about it.

 

It’s odd – I gave up my business to have more time for living, but I have less time to write now than I ever had before. How is that possible? Part of the problem is driving. We spend at least 4 hours a day in the car, driving back and forth to the land, the house site, the schools, Wal-Mart. There are issues with living in this transitional situation that are hard to cope with. But the house will be finished in August, and life will change then for the better. (It must.) And the kids get out of school next week, which means my life will no longer revolve around their drop off and pick up hours. Yippee. My life is an adventure – and that is good – but I miss routine and the time to think. Breathe.

 

Now, I must use my time productively cause the day is slipping a way. I need to think of a place to start a story. I am writing about concrete. Trust me, it sounds stupid but it’s a good idea. Anything solid makes a promising foundation for a story, I’m thinking.

 

 

I just finished a book annotation that, for some reason, was a killer for me. It began . . .

       Beloved, by Toni Morrison, is a novel about the human spirit and how ravaged souls endure tragedy by adjusting mental attitude and shifting perspectives to survive the emotional aftermath of abuse. With the subject of slavery as the backdrop for revealing the complexity of the human psyche, the story presents unconsciousable treatment of black slaves and then shows us how those individuals continue living, altered, as result. 

It is a story about several generations of people, how they learn, grow and survive the perils of slavery, but it is also a study of the social problems of 1873 and the individual plight of slaves in late civil war America. The realism in scene serves as a powerful backdrop for a story about one black family and a tragedy that touches their lives, leaving a wake of fear and distrust behind.

 Blah, blah, blah. I’m exhausted – but I have another annotation to write. One on a book I don’t feel so thrilled about, The Metamorphis. Big sigh. So, I thought I’d take a blog break. But it has to be a short one.

 

    I’ll pick a subject. Running.

    My son used to dance 20 hours a week and that kept him in shape. When we moved, he started playing soccer to fill the hole that dance left behind. I did my best to take on the persona of a soccer mom, going to the games and sitting in the stands shouting, “Kick it,” or “Good pass,” even though I didn’t know what the hell was going on in the field. It was nice to just be there, living like the other half lives – the half that has the time to watch their kids grow up. In order to plan my day so I could watch him kicking that ball around, each day when I dropped him off at school, I’d ask,” What time is your rehearsal today?”   

    And he would roll his eyes like I am the biggest dork in the universe and say, “We have practice, Mom.  We don’t rehearse.”

    O.K. So I need more time to get acquainted with this “Soccer Mom” thing. Old dog – new tricks. It looks like a rehearsal to me. The game is a show, right? Besides which, let’s not get hung up on the semantics. I’m planning to show up, and that’s what counts. But even after months of being corrected, I still called the practices rehearsals. Habit. 

   Now that soccer is over, my son is worried about getting fat, so he has been bugging me to teach him to run.

   Of course, I could just say, “Put one foot in front of the other and keep going until you feel like you’ll puke if you take another step. Then stop.”

     That about sums up my technical knowledge about running. But such a response would eliminate whatever reputation I have for being a parent with some kind of physical prowess – a mom with some inkling of an admirable athletic skill. So, instead, I decided to talk to him about keeping his head up and shoulders back, rolling through the ball of the foot and stuff like that. I can discuss proper shoes, phonation, correct breathing, and how you can be more effective if you employ short spurts of energy within a steady run.

More Blah, Blah, Blah.

    On Tuesday, I was sitting at the computer trying to will myself to write an annotation (see how long it took me to actually do it – what a slacker) and he came in and said, “Come on. Let’s run. You promised.”

      I was not in the mood to run, but since I was definitely in the mood for any excuse to NOT write my paper, I agreed to take him out. We walked down the mountain and out to the highway where it isn’t so steep. My plan was for us to run the two miles around to the other entrance and walk up the other side of the mountain.

      Off we went, striding along, but only a quarter of a mile away, we stopped at a cabin they are building on route that sits on the same creek as our lot. I wanted to poke around, and look in the windows. Sum up the competition. My son expressed how glad he was for the break. I chuckled. A break? We hadn’t started yet.

     After this, we began a run in earnest. It wasn’t very nice. Too much traffic. There’s no excuse for running with cars living in a beautiful place like this – I have to find a better route – but I didn’t have much warning to plan this particular run and I’d clocked the distance and knew it provided a good starting place for a new runner and a runner that has been on a break. We leapt over squashed butterflies on the sides of the road, waving to friendly people in their yards or driving by. We couldn’t talk because we had to run single file. But the real problem was the slope of the road. It’s all uphill or downhill – neither of which is easy. After one mile, my son needed to take a short walk – but then, so did I. The hill was killing us both.

    He kept saying “I’m sweating!” or “This is hard.” As if he couldn’t fathom something as simple as running being so taxing.

    I pointed out how good running was for his body – how the impact was good for his bone density, the stress on his heart making the organ strong, the increased circulation good for his skin, and the fact that he burns calories great for weight control.

   He was huffing and puffing. “But my feet hurt.”

   Yea, well there is that. Can’t help ya there. My feet are a mess. They hurt 24-7.

  I pointed out that he ran all the time in soccer. Certainly more than three miles.

   He said that was different. Running when you aren’t chasing something is more tiring.

   I don’t know about that. I’m always chasing something – even if it is just personal serenity. Anyway, I like how running allows my mind to roam – I get in a zone where the monotonous pounding of my feet and breath take on a rhythm that is meditative.  I visit my favorite places and people when I run. 

    We were only out about 30 minutes. As we were walking up the killer mountainside, he said, “Ya know how I told you I wanted to be a runner. I changed my mind.” He was kidding – or so he says. (He did run again the next day while I was out.)

    Running in the Georgia Mountains is difficult, but I felt euphoric afterwards. I forgot how much I love running. Working out in a health club or walking the mountain just can’t compare. I love being outside, looking at the sky through the trees. I love feeling the sweat on my skin and seeing the small details around me, flowers, bugs, and the small changes homeowners do to their yards. Mostly, I love the solitude.

   So, now my goal is to find some decent place to run that is not all uphill – someplace near our cabin. I know there are great places to run out where we are building our house, which is what I’ve been waiting for, but I’m no longer willing to put off an activity that I think brings so much to my life – physically and spiritually . I don’t know if our outing the other day will encourage my son to run in the future, but it has certainly lit a fire under me.

   Funny, that we  can forget how uplifting things we love can be, when we ignore them temporarily because we are attending to our responsible lives.

   Some things, like running, are just good for the soul. I’m glad to be reminded.