day 3....i think

The air is cool this morning. A light mist hangs in the valleys below the deck where I am sitting, and have sat to drink tea for the past days. A thicker clouding obscures the peaks beyond. Again I sit and listen to the gold finches and chickadees, the dog in the valley below and a few of the rumbling motorcycles as they pass thru on the roads below. Today is graced with a nice breeze that is keeping the tiny no-see-em’s from being a bother, and it makes the flag over my head give occasional gentle pops.

I can hear Mark too, inside the lodge, talking with the students, them asking questions and him answering, sharing, explaining, and trying to simplify the mystery of the modern photography age. Their questions are many today, a few new faces in the mix. They have come with different levels of ability and are at different points in the learning curve and he is patiently trying to keep them all on a similar page and is having a bit of difficulty, like a kindergarten teacher rounding up her unbridled students. I suspect there will be the ol’ divide and conquer routine of sorting them into smaller groups to help the ones who are beginners and not bore the more experienced. Always a challenge. The martini shaker has been put on notice to be ready latter for medicinal purposes.

Yesterday was lovely, slightly cloudy, and eventually later gave way to a hard rain. Part of the day was spent in the lodge with the classes, then we went on a journey to try to find a photo op that was interesting, and general exploration. We traveled a ridge top road, sort of like the Blue Ridge Prkwy, enjoying great vistas of the soft blues and greens of the rises and falls of the folded earth below us. We came to a turn off where a trail head began to a bald and stopped the car. This one was called Huckleberry Bald and I was curious to learn why. I saw quickly that everywhere were berries. I don’t know if these were indeed Huckleberries but my guess was they were a blackberry/raspberry sort of thing, no thorns, tiny seeds, and bursting with sweetness. I grazed on these while the guys got their cameras together for the walk to the top. Once ready, we walked on thru the greenery on the narrow trail.

At the top the lush canopy gave way to an open field with a vast panoramic view. The un-mown grasses were quite tall but a well worn path led onward. And then I noticed, blueberries. These are my quest when I come to the mountains in August. These tiny berries are unequaled in flavor and behold here were tall shrubs full of them. The guys went on taking their photos and I spent my time filling my cap with handfuls of these yummy morsels, one in the cap, and one for me, or two or three.  I felt like Yogi Bear and Booboo would be walking by at any moment, followed by the Ranger. It began a steady rain so we returned to the lodge.    

I had brought some pastels and paper on the trip, so I did some playing around with these while the rain fell hard outside the window, having not messed with this media in a long while. Giant crayons they are, and I had forgotten how much fun they are and also how messy. My hands quickly turned to varying shades of yellows, reds, and blues as I drew and pulled a portrait of my young colt out from the paper. It felt good. I will do some more today.

The rain retired and left an evening of beauty to the valley. After dinner we headed to the porch and watched the half moon rising. Between the setting sun and the lunar light, the clouds that began to rise from the valleys had a soft golden glow, and was spectacular. Tripods came out with their cameras and took in the scene, beginners and advanced photographers equally appreciating how special the scene was that nature was sharing.

Then off to bed, for another stressful day ahead. Somebody has gotta do it. 

  

Day 2. Here

Day 2 lazily began with a nice mug of coffee, eggs benedict, and Mark began doing a bit of helping folks with their f stops and such on their cameras. I spent time writing and relaxing again on the front porch.  After a of time at this, the plan was made that each would do individual time with their cameras, exploring the area and new techniques. This move gave Mark and I much needed time to head into town for some critical provisions, the North Carolina ABC store to be exact, as seeing our martini shaker going thru withdrawals is not a pretty sight.

Armed with sketchy directions and good intent we headed to Andrews, NC, via Robbinsville, crossing Log Hollow Road, Willie Calhoun Drive, Big Snowbird Creek Road, and other such colorful descriptive names. We pulled off the road by a lovely tiny stream to eat our sack lunches and peered into the clear water for any sign of any elusive trout rising to catch a drifting meal. We saw none but the moving babbling water was soothing and peaceful. Our meals finished, we pressed on further into our quest.

Down the mountain we went, swerving left, hairpin right, speed up then slow down, turning a mile into days. After many hours of this, in reality only 20 minutes or so, we hit a bigger road and assumed and had faith that we were pointed in the general direction of our mission.

Miles after miles we rode along with some occupied houses along the way, very many that weren't, but what was amazing to me was the lack of grocery stores, any retail other than gas stations, no pharmacies, no medical facilities that I could see. There were just no services of any sort anywhere. This got me wondering what does one do in an emergency in regions like this where basic services are nil or very far away. If one broke their arm what was one to do? And if snake bit? Generally sick? Where would anybody come from to help, and where would anybody find even aspirin to deal with pain?

This got me to thinking. These folks who live up here have to live with a different attitude, or else stay very healthy. This all got me thinking too that maybe I needed to be a bit more careful before thinking about skipping over stream side rocks, watching where I sat (lest it be next to a Copperhead snake like I managed to do on another outing), not get stung by a wasp (to which I am allergic), or do anything that might make my wondering about getting help, my problem, and a big one.

We finally made our way to the store we had sought, barely seeing it as we passed by, a camouflaged hole in the wall with a neon sign blinking an ad about a tequila based sweet mix. With a sliding stop and quick turn into the tiny parking lot, we accomplished out mission, and jumped back onto the road home. Up we went, climbing the mountain to Snowbird Lodge, swerving back and forth, again and again, and once again, up and down and around...I get sea sickness easily so I happen to notice the curvy road stuff and its affect on me.

We returned to find a large tour bus full of rather elderly folks who were there for a quick lunch, respite, and a visit from a local member of the Creek Indian tribe here, named Diamond. He was dressed in full native dress complete with peace pipe and he startled us as he appeared as if out of nowhere from around the garden wall. Mark took his portrait and asked him if he did email to get a copy sent to him. Diamond said “Yes. I do smoke signal,” and off he trod in his fringed moccasins.            

Once in the lodge we sat in the main room to rest from our journey, and quickly picked up on the fact that one of the elderly ladies from that group was laying on the sofa behind us and was having some sort of trouble. “Is there a doctor in house?” was the next thing we heard. Our friend from last year happened to be one, an anesthesiologist( correction...a radiologist), so he went over to see if he could help.

This lady was 94, traveling with a tour group on her own, and had tripped over a curb, fallen and broken her wrist, badly. She was laying there quietly, but was going into shock, and needed to go to hospital. 

Here was the situation I had been wondering about. Just what does one do now with an elderly lady, needing attention, probably surgery, in the middle of no where? Answer was that some emergency techs were pretty close in the area, 30-45 minutes or so away. They came and carted her away to a clinic an hour away, with probable plans to send her several hours away to a real surgeon once the bones, and she, was stabilized. She was a spritely lady and should be fine, but it was a reality check. The rest of the group were instructed to take the down stairs to the bus with extreme care. They did.

The afternoon brought a rain in the valley, obscuring the view for a while and then lifted to reveal the peaks beyond like an etherial sumi painting. We walked thru the garden and took pictures, and drank some marvelous Champagne that was brought as a token of congratulations from our friends here, who share our intensive love of college football, and whose team lost this year, to ours. The bubbles went down easily.

Another wonderful dinner was followed by a game of throwing the bones, or dominos, a sprinkling of martinis, and a good night to all to rest up for another day ahead.

To vacate...to leave. Day 1

Yesterday we began our trip up to our destination for a week long vacation, a week in the mountains of North Carolina at the lovely Snowbird Lodge set on the peak of a mountain, overlooking the vast smokey valleys below it. The trip began with the car thermometer reading 99, a relatively cool day, compared to the recent ones of August. We traveled along the interstate until finally reaching the point where civilization gives way to less inhabited areas of smaller roads and nondescript towns, small farms tucked into grassy coves and tiny brooks meandering thru the shadows of the overhanging trees.

Along with the lovely and the quaint came an awareness of the weight that has come from economic struggle in the world and its effect to an area which had been riding a bubble of development. Scattered along these roads were subdivision gates and their overgrown garden entrances, ghost towns who had never seen inhabitants, full of hope and promise of prosperity that never got the chance. There were abandoned restaurants and shiny strip centers all poised to scrape up the gravy. One such place was an apparent former dining establishment. It stood on top of a hill, vines now covering the facade, with a sign in the front facing the road that said for all to see that this was a ”proven location”. The claim was certainly dubious at any time, but its proven track record of failure was a grisly, and somehow humorous fact, to be claiming now.

Finally we reached mountains, the temps cooled but not to the 70’s or less that we had expected, but they hovered sluggishly in the mid 80’s. Temps much nicer than where we had just come from, perhaps another sign of the pendulum swing of the changing climate, it was a bit sad to think of this Mecca as ever being anything but cool and pleasant. Despite the warmth, it was so nice to breathe a different air. Dinner at the lodge was excellent, shared with friends we had met here last year, and so we resumed where we had left off, sipping our pre dinner martinis and laughing a lot.   

This morning begins Mark’s gig teaching whoever wants some help with cameras, and what to do with a photo once you take it. I am sitting on the front porch of this massive lodge and listen to the chirps and whistles of the golden finches as they flit around the various feeders. Butterfly bushes cascade down the lawn in front of me, and they are covered with many bouncing varieties of boldly striped swallow tails, and tiny periwinkles. There is an unhappy dog barking somewhere far away, hummingbirds hover in front of my face and cicadas buzz in the trees.  The sound is concentrated  and thick.

Somewhere far below in the valley I also hear the rumble of groups Harley’s and their not so quiet sound systems, with their predominately graying riders, they are here to slay the famous Dragon. Highway 129, which winds its way thru some of these western hills,  lives up to its fame by whipping its riders thru wicked hairpins and steep inclines. There are photographers set along the road to catch these ambitious actions for these seeking a spot of immortality and the right to say “I did it”.  There are t-shirts for sale at the end, and there are ambulances on call for the ones who don’t judge the turns well enough.

To vacate, to leave. Leaving the farm always fills me with such anxiety. My first action this morning was to try to check messages back home to see if all was ok. There were a  few questions from my invaluable substitute “me” there to take care of all the animals, which I answered. I keep my fingers crossed that all will be fine, no emergencies, and time will pass as quietly there for them as it,hopefully, will here for me. I know all too well how a pleasant day can be ruined with the look of an ill horse and what that could mean if not caught soon enough. I do appreciate the willingness on the part of my friend to take on this responsibility in my vacancy from the farm. 

Getting away is important tho. I do need the break from the daily grind, the patterns. It is good to see new faces, and new places, eat someone else’s fine meals, and to relax. My brain is always sharper for the changes, and the spirit is brightened., and I certainly hope to achieve these things on this trip. Maybe we will go hike to a waterfall today or a lake. There are many lovely ones near here.  As warm as it is I may get in for a dip. There is no script and nothing written in stone about the day, my plan is to try to fall thru the week like water down a mountain stream, do some writing, do some catch up on my painting, and simply recharge.  

birthdaze

Today is my birthday. I have had many now. I share my birthday, not by choice, with my mother who is 80 years old as of today. (The story of her suduction of my father and bribery of the doctor, to this end is another story for another day.)

 Birthdays are always somewhat reflective and reminiscent to me, and I am glad to be here and have to wonder how many more might be ahead. This may well be the last one for my mother, who very nearly didn't make this one having spent last week in the hospital getting a gallon of fluid drained off of her cardio/pulmonary area. Who knows how many more any of us get, until it just is the last one, and then I guess you won't know or care.

Remembering the early ones tho is fun, to remember details, first parties, first cards, and even the first awareness of what a birthday really was. The first one I do remember was accented by mother having her friends over with their respective kids, and we stood at long, low tables with paper coverings set out under the car port . We had cake and ice cream in the little tubs that you dug out with wooden spoons. They all sang to me, and to my mother.

I also remember the women as they stood around us kids, dressed in their very late 50/s garb, full skirts, fitted bodices, and the pocket book draped on their left arms, lips brightly covered with red, hair cropped short, and all smiles. I do not remember what gifts I got that year but I do recall how difficult it was to take a nap before the party when I was so full of anticipation about it.

I have  a scrap book which mother kept up for me when I was little and the book contains many of my first birthday cards from my grandparents and other relatives and friends, their signatures faded but their scripts still obviously theirs. The hands that wrote them are long gone now, and they will celebrate birthdays no more in this life. To see these cards and these best wishes from the past makes me want to say thank you to them now for making me understand that on your birthday it is a special day, and one that should be taken stock of because they are not guaranteed.

Perhaps one of the most disappointing gifts that I ever got was for my 16th  and was from my mother. I was turning driving age, finally, and was really hoping the trend of my brothers receiving new cars for their passages, would continue on to me. In that mind set, one day as we came toa stop in our driveway, my mother suddenly turned to me and said that she just could stand it any longer and that she had to tell me what I was getting for my big 16th. "You are getting a Porche", is what I heard.

I sat there in stunned amazement and giddiness while I listened to her begin to describe it....What I didn't hear was the type of Porche, color etc. She was saying things about how exquisite the details in the dress were. We were absolutely on different planets in this moment and it took a long while for me to understand that she had indeed not said "Porche" but "Portia". I was looking at her dumbfounded, which she probably took as a sign that I was over whelmed with the news that, instead of a hot new car, I was so thrilled to be getting instead,,,a 12 inch tall porcelain statue of a woman... and what 16 year old would not be thrilled with that news?

I did not spoil her excitement that day at this gift she was so happy to be sharing with me. I did tell her years later and she had had no idea about my disappointment at getting no Porche. It was probably a good thing I didn't get one. I drove my early years with a heavy foot on the peddle, and the hand me down car I did get obliged by going way faster than I should have gone. I was lucky to have survived my youth, and hope to continue surviving the rest of this ride, at a slower pace.

I have had a good one so far, and a good day today. My horse went so well on my morning ride, and the air is beginning to feel like fall isn't that far away.  I have been a bit overwhelmed with Happy Birthday wishes from so many folks that I am feeling pretty good about reaching another milestone. Tonight I will raise a toast that they keep on coming for both myself and my mother. 

This week began with a visit from one of my favorite folks, my sister in law. Together, she and I and Mark peeled the  36  or so pears and made  and canned the 2010 batch of pear relish that everybody in the family will get to put on their veggies thru the winter. The recipe is a legacy from my grandmother and is closley guarded. Its yearly production is arduous but is so satisfying to know that there will be ample supply once again, for this year.  We go to the mountains next week for Mark to teach a photo workshop and I get to just chill out and enjoy the break.  aaaaahhh. Happy Birthday to me...

A cooler breeze, an old dog, and a mystery on the farm.

Early this week, Tuesday  I think, the day was graced by a strange north wind that blew the intense recent humidity back towards the gulf and it left a pleasant energy to the air. It never ceases to amaze me how much more I can get done in a day when the living conditions are tolerable. I am sure we are due for some more dangerous weather still to come but I was most grateful for this most unexpected reprieve, and I did take advantage of it.

With all this new found energy, I decided that it was high time for the silly fillies, my 3yr old Flemmingh sisters, to start first grade. These girls have been handled since birth of course, in kindergarten, but their training in formal had not begun as of yet. And so I began with them my pattern of teaching them to learn new things. The very first thing they must learn is basic manners. That includes, but isn't limited to, them learning to pay attention to me, my space, my body language, my voice, etc. even when things get scary, and to not climb on my head when it does. They were good working in hand near the barn, trying very hard to figure out what I was asking. Smart fillies, both, genetically programed to be good learners without attitudes, they kept their ears focused on me, made a few mistakes, but did well. Then I took them somewhere new.

I walked them each in turn, maybe 100 yards from the barn towards the house. As I had expected, this got their attention. Ears went up and eyes got wide at the very idea that there was anything other than the view from the barn yard. Their perspectives were changed in that moment, and after their moment of shock, they both dropped their heads to me for assurance, which I gave, and they relaxed.

Plato wrote a great little story way back in the day about some folks who lived in a cave and who always looked towards the rear of the cave and saw themselves only as the shadows that danced there on the walls. This was the only view of their lives, and to them, their only reality. Then one day, for some strange reason one of them turned around and saw the light at the front of the cave and was shocked at the sight. These folks' perception of their reality of being only shadows was totally changed forever. Now the shadows were behind them and this change in perspective had simply not occurred to them. Once the new view of life had been revealed, there was no going back to the old version of their model.
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So too with my fillies. They had never had a chance to venture far from their pasture, or the barn, and their reality only included these places and what happened there. Seeing a new expanded version of their world made some light bulbs go on. That is what I love about starting young ones out is the showing them the new, and sometimes alarming things, popping their bubble, and having them learn and keep getting reinforced that if they keep their heads and pay attention to me that life is good and interesting or, at least, safe.

There is truely an overwhelming amount things to teach a horse just to get them to a safe working relationship but it all starts with a change in perspective or a change in habits. What was is a reality, stays a reality unless an outside force reveals another, and its the adapting to this ever changing flow to life that keeps it interesting and keeps us, and the horses, learning.

I worked, too, with Fandango, now 8 weeks old, and scheduled to go to the keuring (a breed inspection) in September. I figured he might need to be halter broke for real. So he did as I had expected, fine when mommy Joline was walking beside him, but threw a fit when she didn't care to join us. That was good. He had to test the limits and find them, and then settled, and then walked with me like a pro.

My vet recently came out to do something out here on one of the herd, and asked about the boy and couldn't remember the colt's name. Hiladago? No, not quite. Then he said "Margaret, this guy needs a nick name". You have to understand my vet is old school, never makes editorial comment and such, but here he was adamant. I thought and remembered some of my first "f boy" names.  And so it is that the colt who was first thought of as a filly, then became a colt, then a blithe and dainty baby, is now a rough and tumble, bite everything in his path, solid as a brick,  and all male brat, is now sporting the barn name of "Frank, the tank."  It suits him well.

So life continues on the farm with its daily dramas. Heidi the shepherd had a visit to the vet yesterday with a hematoma in her ear, which had to be drained and dealt with. She sits under the piano now as I write and looks so sad. My puppy of just yesterday has begun to grow old, is gaining the flaws that come with it, and there is nothing I can do about it but to try to keep her cool and comfortable as possible. Her once elegant face is now edged with a gray muzzle, and now her proudly erect ears will have a bit of a droop. How sad that a dog' life runs so quickly thru your life and then moves on. I wish it wasn't so. I wish that their time spans coincided better with our own and I do hope that this sweet companion stays with me a good long while longer.

The mystery of the day, no, week is this...on Thursday I walked past the peach tree by the garden and noted the heavy weight of the near ripe peaches pulling the loaded branches downward. I thought, "great, Sunday will be chutney making day". Well, today, two days later, there weren't but 7 peaches anywhere to be found lefet hanging. We are talking about the mysterious disapperance of hundreds of ripe peaches. Hundreds, if not more, all gone, no pits, no traces, no tracks, zero. How does this happen? Did aliens return to abscond with all my lovely peaches? Will there be peach cobbler al a mode on planet Lortab tonight? This really riles me because this tree always produces a wonderful bounty of white meat, free stone, sweeter than honey peaches that I freeze, can, make wine with, chutney, ice cream, and oh yes, cobbler. This year there will be none. Damn.

A bit of a lazy day so far, the last tomatoes in the pots by the pool, just got picked and sliced for BLTs. Mark is working on some new photographs in the studio, to take to the gallery tonight. Farewell to July tonight and welcome to August tomorrow. Time keeps on ticking...into the future.    

Farewell to Lance, vive le Tour, and chillin

Today was the end of another Tour de France. It was the end of the era of Lance. It was a great tour, epic as all, but sad now that the greatness of one has faded, while others’ are blooming in the wings.

The ability to sit in my living room and to be able to watch such an extraordinary event is amazing to me and I do thank the powers that be that have brought the race to me for years, in such eloquence and beauty, truly epic battles of humans pushing their bodies and bicycles to unreal levels against backdrops of the grandeur of the ancient and modern France. I will miss the magic that Lance always brought to the stage, his uncanny ability to raise his level to the highest on the road, against the odds, and made it seem fun, a game, and shrouded in magic done by a man with super human gifts.

I first learned of the Tour back in high school when my brothers were set loose in France to do the youth hostile, find your way thru Europe thing, that my parents felt was right for boys, but certainly not for girls, especially me. They had great tales of their adventures there, I am sure some were left out, but they brought me a jersey with strange pockets on the back of it, and lettering of a French company who was the sponsor of the team then, and who still sponsors one. They told me of seeing the race in one of the smaller towns on Bastille day, and how huge of a spectacle it was then, for the local French spectators.

Now le Tour has become so huge, world wide, watched by millions. It has spurred so many to get off their sofas and ride bikes again, in their adulthood, visions of Lance running their brains as they peddle along clearing the sludge from their veins and lungs, my self included. It has been a part of July that I have treasured for many years and I hope that I can find another champion to admire, not just for the bike riding ability, but also for the strength of character that Lance brought to the world of cycling. I will miss him and all he brought to the game, and wish him well in his new endeavors athletically and in his mission on cancer.

With the end of the Tour leaves the last week of July, hot, humid, and floundering in mid summer’s purgatory. This is my least favorite month, forgetting of course the one when I was moaning about the cold back in January. There is little that can be done physically outside now unless one has constant shade, a breeze, and maybe has no clothes on, and is in water up to the eyeballs. The horses spend the day in the stalls, the doors are now left open to let them come and go out to the pasture, faces in the fans, nostrils flared with deep breaths, veins protruding, trying in vain to cool themselves. My riding them is regulated to maybe 30 minutes of mostly walking until we are both so drenched and heat stroke is eminent.

The grass is the only living thing thriving in this climatic madness, growing in bursts with each ray of sun and any drop of moisture, lunging taller with each run of the mower, as tho possessed with a knowledge that soon, relatively speaking, will come cooler days and its growing season will fade. Right now the mower is at the shop at Mosley’s store for Tony to give it some much needed tlc, and the grass has responded to this lapse by tripling its growing ability to needing a tractor and bushhog to whittle it back down, and maybe bale it.

Time moves along and the seasons will change, but patience is needed and used in the mean while. The dogs are masters of this mind set and seem totally content to adapt. Jack spends his days under the sofa in the tack room, Heidi is under the piano, Memphis has her spot under a shrub by the back door, and Marley is under the sofa. Dogs just don’t use up the energy I do wanting things to hurry up or slow down. I admire this ability and I really think theirs’ is a more pleasant way to exist, and perhaps theirs’ is the higher plane in the incarnation ladder. How many dogs do you know of that have heart attacks and stress related disease, psychologists on call, and worry that their life savings have just been obliterated by a housing boom catastrophic, global warming, and world wide economic chaos? My dogs don’t.

This Sunday night will mark the passing of two full moons since the birth of the foal, Fandango. Gone is the awkward baby. Now he is a little man, solid, tough, and covered with scratches from his daily adventures in discovering the world beyond his mother’s skirt. He is inquisitive and bold. He is also very fond of a good scratch from obliging finger nails on his neck and especially the belly. For the belly rub he will bow way down, neck and face pressed to the ground, front legs out in front and the upper lip pushed out as far as he can, obviously totally transfixed by the experience and pleasure. So of course my finger nails are perpetually filthy as I oblige him this treatment, and I laugh every time.

Today is a Sunday, my new Saturday, since gallery life began. Things have been busy and cruising along but I just realized I had no idea what day it was when I just made an appointment by phone with my veterinarian, and was going to put it on the calendar but I had no idea where to write. Wow. Maybe I have become one with my dogs’ attitude. For today, whatever day it is, I will chill with them, say a fond farewell to Lance and le Tour, let the grass grow,  watch the humidity condense and drip down the windows, and perhaps make something cool to drink with ice and a shaker.

OOOOOommmmmm.

A July Haiku

It has been quite a while now since I have felt I had the time to sit and babble for the blog, and it wasn’t for lack of things going on worth the mention. There were many. They passed and so time has brought me to here and now. I just got off riding two of my mares, and they were both super today after so much time off. I have another painting begun upstairs and things are beginning to get back into some greased grooves.


Anyway, the feeling of finally getting to the edge of the waterfall, after months of gliding along slowly in the currents, gradually increasing speed, until the edge became tangible and real, then, whoosh, over the top, has been my feeling until last Thursday week’s opening of our new Dauber Gallery. Now we are over the edge, in the pool below and are going with the flow. Daily patterns are shifting and change isn’t always bad, and so far, it’s good.

A self admitted hermit, I have lived the past 15 years pretty much enjoying the solitude of being on the farm, and its relatively slow pace, with occasional forays into town or visitors out here for dinner and such. I have just really enjoyed my days in the company of my animals and had little need for human conversation. Now spending time in the Gallery, I find I am really enjoying  meeting new people and hearing their stories, beautiful sweet stories, and sad ones too.

Last night a family group came in with a few kids, all good looking, two girls 7 and 11, and a boy 16ish perhaps or more. Their dinner reservations for the nearby eatery were running late and so the mothers, sisters, hung around and we began to chat. After a few minutes, it turned out that at some time back, the young boy had lost his older brother in a car accident in which he was also a passenger and his father was the driver. This boy had spent the hours waiting for help, his own life fading fast, lying next to his dead brother, and his father was knocked unconscious, leaving him alone with this horrible situation. The scars were fresh in these words from this mother, but she smiled thru her pain at us as she told us of the healing that was beginning.

There was the fellow who stayed and shared a beer with us, and football stories, and told us of his dad who was a strong character who took him to every single home field Penn state game. He told us of his admiration for this man, his life, and his upcoming birthday. He saw the photograph that Mark had taken of the hog and Mr Jessie, right before the hog met with the end of the ax. This man’s father had been the manager of a hog slaughter house and had raised his family by doing this work. I sent the photo to his father, in time for his 80th birthday last week.

To see these people as mere faces, earns nothing. It is in the asking questions that scars are revealed, wants, needs, and things that make others tick are shown, that show the common bond with us all. We all have triumphs, and fears, and we all have personal tragedies. And these are good to share. We are all individuals and yet, we are all in this life together, just folks, just living beings rubbing shoulders as we cruise thru this incarnation.

A few weekends ago I came home in the afternoon to find our mailbox obliterated and a set of car tracks ran right over where the post had stood. My thinking was, and my anger was directed to the thought, that some young kids, perhaps drinking and driving a little recklessly, had been the hit and run source. I set the remains of the box by the side of the road and took out the mail figuring to fix it on Monday, certainly assuming no one else was going to come back to fix it, if they were even aware they had hit it.

Sunday however I drove to the end of the driveway to find a brand new post with our old box sitting there perfectly. There was a note inside from a neighbor we don’t know that said he hoped the box and post were to our satisfaction. His mother had been run off the road there, into the ditch and hit our box. He apologized and left his number incase we were not happy with the work. I was stunned and felt bad at my initial assumption, but happy to find a person of such good manners, doing the right thing, and I do hope his mother is ok. She taught her son well.

I am finding myself beginning to think that perhaps humanity isn’t all scum after all and that interaction has its rewards.

So as I find my new daily patterns, I am cherishing the fewer moments that allow me the slow time, which I took for granted in my pre-gallery/ hermit status. After a very busy, hot and sticky week, last Friday afternoon’s atmosphere lay again like a saturated wool blanket, until a massive summer storm rolled in and the rain and thunder cooled the senses. After the worst of the storm left, a gentle rain remained and the air glowed with a soft yellowish green. Mark and I sat on the front porch and watched the horses as they came out of the shadow of the barn and grazed in this rare comfort in July. A drove of 8 tom turkeys emerged from the woods, bobbing their blue heads, and pecked for bugs among the manure piles. The crickets began chirping a raucous chorus and for some silly reason, all I could do was think in haiku phrases...

Falling rain-

cricket songs, slow

munching of the horses.

Distant thunder …etc. It was a nice afternoon.