August

It is the end of the summer months. It used to be, as a kid, that August got to be ridden to the very end, to the very last day, before school was started up and fun time was over. In August’s wake the following Labor Day weekend meant fireworks, barbeque, and the closing of the country club pool with a day of races and relays. The end of summers were always bittersweet and languid and I’ll admit to having always felt a gladness that summer and the worst of its heat was coming to a close, and yet, it made me sad that another summer of my youth/life had come and was gone. It is like the romance of the end of a relationship that was not meant to be, but also the hope that another one would come along.

August is my birth month, the specific date falling on the 11^th, a date which I have shared with my mother for all of my life, her plan on that, not mine. This year was the first and only time we have not shared the date, as she died last year almost two weeks after the 11^th. So the date this year was finally mine to have as a special day, just mine, and somehow it felt disorienting and weird, like there was a puzzle piece missing. And it’s not like we have had a traditional party together on the date in many years, my plan on that, not hers. We usually exchanged gifts of some sort early and then, in more recent times I went out of town to be away and was able to savor “my” special day without sharing. In truth my leaving did not make “my” day more special, it just made it separate, and underlying it has always been “our” birthday. This year lacked any cake, ice cream, or balloons, which was fine sort of, but it did give me some moments of retroflection to feel the ending of something. My mother and I will never share the date of our births in August again.

We, once again, left the brutal Alabama heat and humidity last week and headed to the mountains to enjoy the cooler temps there and visit with friends. Mark taught his photography workshop, as he has done for many years now, the workshop scheduled by using the time of my birthday as an excuse to escape the dismal end of another summer. We met some old friends who we had met at the lodge years ago and who we feel like we have known our entire lives, and yet in truth we only get to see each other for four or five days annually. Somehow we are able to pick up conversation as though we had only been in another room for a moment, no time lost, we move on. Together we are just on the same page, playing hard, relaxing, or finding some adventure for the afternoon, and especially enjoying the dining and wining experiences that the lodge’s chef renders to us all. This trip was no different in that aspect.   

There on top of the ridge that the lodge sits on, the air is cool and a nice breeze tends to keeps the no-see-um’s away. The air is clear with a few distant puffs of clouds hanging behind the mountains on the horizon. Gold finches chatter and flit around and chip monks fill their cheek pouches with as much sunflower seed that they can stuff in and carry their loot back to where ever their secret hiding place is. A refreshing cold front brought in some especially lovely weather the other day. It was preceded by a rain shower that caught us when we went out for a brisk walk down the incredibly steep driveway and up the mountain highway that surrounds the base of the lodge. As we huffed and puffed our way along the drops felt good and deeply refreshing. Our piety returned and, once dried off, it was wine thirty.

This place we come to, is not for everyone. Those who feel a need to have entertainment shoved at them from every angle with a barrage from which there is not escape, won’t like it here. Their comment will be, “There is nothing to do”, and no, there really isn’t. There are no tv’s and even though there is a connection to the internet if you have to, the perfect entertainment here is sitting and watching the birds, the clouds, the trees swaying in the breeze, listening to the motorcycles rumbling below as their riders take the hairpin turns on the road below. There are walking trails to peaks that face east and one, west to take in the different views. There are tennis courts, gardens to admire, chickens to feed blades of grass to, horse shoes to throw, fire pits to be sat around, books to be read, and did I forget to mention, there are the fabulous meals to be savored.

Nearby there is a creek with a long smooth pool where folks go to stack cairns in the water and in doing so create a place of beauty and ephemeral zen charm, until they are knocked down by some bad little boy, or from an increase in the flow of the stream driven by a rain somewhere up the hill, accumulating until it reaches the bottom where we sit on the “birthday rock” and watch young trout holding in the eddy line in the crystal clear water at our feet.

There is a deep blue lake where we take canoes and paddle boards out to explore the steep coastline and feel the coolness rising off the water. There are hiking trails too numerous to mention and waterfalls to go see. There are places to get away and just sit and think, or write, under trees, in the screened room, on decks built just off the trails, or just sitting in the lodge main room overlooking the far peaks to read or chat. No, there really isn’t much to do, and that suits me just fine.

All places of paradise proportion like this, though, have a flaw somewhere and this hallowed ground has hornets. August is their time of year to be pure evil. We have run into them before and now try very hard to avoid where they might have their nests in the ground. As the night time temps get cooler, these bugs begin to get mad and pissy as they must feel the change of season coming on and that their time in limited and so make the most out being aggressive.

 On our last full day there I went for a morning walk on a path to the east, one that is well traveled and clear, and I was hoping to not get crossed up with any ground dwellers. The sunlight was starting to peek through the tall trees and cast long beams of warming light to the cool ground below. In the beams of light and warmth all kinds of bugs were trying to get some energy, and then I saw two hornets doing a buzzing in circles fight with each other. Up and down the shaft of light they fought each other vying for the heat. I stepped wide to their left to avoid their possible wrath but one shot out of their duel and flew all the way across the path and tagged me on my left hand right between my fingers.

I quickly got to the top of the trail head without any further stings and they had not followed me, but my problem was, I had to go back by them to get to the lodge. I let the two dueling buzzers chill for a bit, then charged my way past where they had been and did not wait to see if they were still there. It is an amazing thing that adrenalin does to make the body move faster and with more agility than it has by itself. I got back with out further incident, found some bendryl, and waited to see if I was going to react and have to take a dose of my epi-pen. My hand swelled to balloon size and itched but I felt no hives coming on and that was a good thing.

We finished out our last day back on birthday rock, drinking some red wine and restacking more rocks. A mean spirited young boy who we had seen the day before is suspect in having knocked down the previously stacked cairns, and some of which had been balanced by a real master or very powerful witch. I just don’t understand destroying something like these graceful piles of rocks, but I have never been a young boy looking for trouble either, and that too is a very good thing.

Anyway, we headed back home from our paradise to a parched scene that today, is finally getting a much needed rain to quench the browned and crispy plants. I have spent the morning scratching the necks of the horses and feeding them the last of the pears that have fallen from the trees, and not much more. Riding them will wait a day or two and they don’t seem to mind at all.

August, is half way done.

 

good intentions

I woke today with good intentions of having a productive day on the farm, first to ride the horses, then cut the grass in the yard, bush hog the pastures, spray the tomatoes and put roundup on the weeds, clean the house from last night’s visit from the grandkids, check the pool chemistry, run the dishwasher, wash some clothes, and so the list goes on etc.  In reality, I also woke with a set of arms that screamed in pain from over use as a result of water skiing this past weekend, the second such adventure doing so in twenty years.

thirty years earlier

The first time back on a ski was two weeks ago and I did not stay up long as I got tired pretty darn quickly and, surprisingly was not sore after that time. This time though, felt so good that I stayed up for most of the length and back of the bay of Soldier Creek. I crossed the wake with conviction and turned and leaned and sprayed high banks of water just because it felt so good to be doing something I used to do on a daily basis during the hot summer months at Lake Martin. The muscle memory was back and I smiled as I glided over the water. Today, though, the lactic acid that I built up a few days ago has cramped my forearms into blocks of concrete, heavy and noncompliant.

So I type for now, with these arms of lead hanging off my key board. The grass is calling me to cut it but it will wait for a while and the horses have headed off to the far end of the pasture to the shade. As to the other annoying chores, they too will have to see me another day, unless I make a serious rally.

It really isn’t just about my arms from skiing, there are other new muscles who have joined the ranks of soreness from yesterday having to move the heaviest washer and dryer I could have ever imagined there being. Our daughter was moving to a new place and had this combo that needed to be moved out and so she was donating it to us to use as it wasn’t going to fit in the new place. So out we headed bright and early to my pick up truck to go and get these items moved. I turned my key to the truck, and it turned but would not start. Over and over I tried flipping buttons around to see if I could reset anything electrical. We read the manual’s trouble shooting guide and still it was a no go, nothing, dead, and seeking a tow truck. Punting on this vehicle we headed to the You Haul place to rent something that would start.

Finding a suitable truck, we headed to our daughter’s old house and then, remembered we had left all of our tools to take a washer apart in Mark’s car, back at the You Haul place. More running around to get them and finally it was time to move the washer. We were quite surprised when we pushed to tilt the thing to get the hand truck under it, that the washer had grown roots and would not budge. Another more enthusiastic effort was made and we got the thing on it and bumped it out the door with Mark on the important end of the hand trucks, the part the holds the weight up. It weighed a ton if not more, and my job was to try to not let the rolling mass take off down the very long and very steep drive, with him leaning back to hold it back and me on the down side pushing to slow the descent. Then we all heaved it up the ramp into the truck, with a very close to failure effort. We were shaking and stunned at how close we had come to a total state of sudden exhaustion. But the dryer was still inside and so we repeated the same routine with it. This lovely combo now sits on my front porch next to the dog bowls waiting for a chance to replace my current washer and dryer, and I am anticipating a wait greater than a week for that to happen. It might be easier to hook them up out there under the guise of “you know you are a red neck when” for even contemplating the idea, but moving them did not help out my skiing muscles nor my other ones screaming at me now.

We had been to the beach house for a long weekend hence my getting to ski then, a reunion from last year’s gathering of Mark’s siblings, their children, and ours. It was a very full house with a whole bunch of togetherness but as before, in a good way. It was noisy and boisterous with lots of activity and everyone chipped in to help make things run smoothly. But my being responsible for the opening and closing of the house, making sure there was stuff for the making of the meals, the hoping everybody was having fun, and all of the tiny stresses that hosting a large group entail added up and when it was done, so was I. It was great fun, and then we drove the long drive home, with me whipped, mentally and physically.

My parents used to lease a house at the previously mentioned Lake Martin when we were kids, and we spent the entire summer there every year, until an evil developer of the area took the cabin from us. During those years, especially during our high school years, every weekend my brothers had many friends up to visit and so did I. We ate delicious piles and piles of thick steaks that my dad bought and cooked for us on his Weber. We had everything that a bunch of adolescents could eat and drink and we never gave a real serious thought to the incredible generosity of my parents, especially dad to give us so much. We had full tanks on our boats so that we could ski all day or just ride around the lake, and all that was expected in return was that we behaved ourselves, and we generally did, sometimes.  I think back on my growing up in this water world utopia and think of my self and my brothers, and all of our friends as incredibly lucky to have had such wonder experiences because my parents made these efforts, over and over for years.

Our being able to go now to a lovely beach house, and to share it with others, is directly because of my dad’s insistence on having a place to gather with family and friends, and made it happen. If I could tell him so, I would humbly say, a much bigger thank you to my dad.

It is the first day of July with the fourth coming this weekend. My ill fated truck was hauled in shame to the ford place and I am waiting to hear the damage report. Somehow I already know the news will not be good. Somehow, also, I must get to the store to buy some ribs, or steaks are sounding pretty good too. My plan is to do as little as possible the next few days and let myself rest up so I can attack the farm chores, later.

A Farewell to Tony

I just got off the phone with my vet after making arrangements for him to come tomorrow to do a kindness for my tiny pony stallion Tony. Tony is ancient, and as I said “tiny”, Shetland size, but has been a huge driving force in the past several decades of my life. Tomorrow we will let Tony pass away with a kind injection that will put him to sleep and I will bury him and say a fond farewell.

Tony came into my life some twenty some odd years ago when I was beginning a breeding program with a few mares that I had bought and or bred and raised. I was planning to use artificial insemination from shipped semen, so I didn’t have to ship my mares off to far away farms, and also so I didn’t have to deal with any very large, hormonally driven, stallions. My problem was that I needed a way to tell when the mares were ready to breed without the expense of many wasted trips to my farm that my vet would have had to make based on my guess work and observation. A friend who knew my plight suggested that Tony might be the trick.

For several years I borrowed Tony for breeding season from a lady who owned him but whose mares would not tolerate him being around them. Since she couldn’t use or need him, I would go pick him up and for a few months, he would stay in a tiny paddock near the mares, talking to them in high shrill voice and swishing his tail, flirting shamelessly, hoping for a chance to prove his man hood. When the mares began to show him the time of day and act interested, then I would call the vet and he would come and check the mares to see how close they were to the optimum time to breed them. In twenty something years of being the teaser, he was, never ever, wrong. Sadly he was unrequited with his amorous intentions with my mares but he never gave up his enthusiasm and effort.

I finally bought him when I found out that the lady who I borrowed him from yearly, had gotten herself tangled in a messy personal situation. Tony, as well as her other horses, had become trapped in the middle of her predicament and his future whereabouts to live were questionable.  So I called her and arranged to buy him, not for the 500$ she asked for him when I first asked his price, but she happily took my cash amount of 50$ instead. With that deal, Tony had a new life home.

There really isn’t a way to tell exactly how old he is and can only give it a good guess based on when and where he showed up years ago. I think the story goes that he came down a dirt road with several young black boys aboard, bareback and squeezing to all stay on. They didn’t know where he came from but had found him and hopped on the tiny little man. This was many years before I knew of him, so best guess is that he is possibly well over thirty years old, at least. He has, until just recently been in great health with only a few minor hiccups along his long life.

I quit the breeding any of my mares, years ago now, when bad luck caused one of my prized, and much loved mares to die in foaling. Tony was then retired from his official duties but still remained near to his herd of ladies, usually tethered to a long line with a swivel snap so that he was free to move about, with limitations. He became my moveable weed eater, cleaning my fence lines and keeping the grass down. More recently as he began to show his age, I moved him into the big barn, where he was tethered to the gate behind the barn so he had a stall he could get into and eat his meals in, and then when he wanted he could go out, eat grass, drink from the pond, or just lay in the sun resting.

It has been a good life for the boy here on my farm, and I am in his debt for all the help he gave me. In the past few days his health has swiftly declined and, on Saturday, Tony simply refused to eat. I am suspect of teeth being an issue at his age, but the quality of his life will not be improved by any heroic effort my vet might do to postpone the inevitable end. When we spoke this morning we both agreed, it is time.

The good thing about having pets and being responsible for the welfare of the animals we own is, the having an option when the time comes. The fact that we can decide what to do for them when the quality of their life becomes a downward spiral with no chance or hope of rebounding, is a humane and caring thing. I have put too many of my animal friends to sleep. I have held them until the life was gone, and have cried many a tear as I said good bye to them. But with each, as they slipped into death, my consolation was that their suffering was done and gone. I will simply not watch Tony starve and let him suffer. It is time to let go. He is ready.

I already know that I will miss his high pitched whinny every morning as I walk to the barn to feed. He has been a huge part of my farm success, and of all of our lives around here. He has been in our farm yard since my children were babies and he has carried my first granddaughter around like a trooper.  I will dig his grave tomorrow and bury him with no line snapped to tether him any longer. Tony has earned his freedom.  Farewell my little friend.

 

 

Tomato Soup

 

I don’t usually cook for myself in the middle of the day, but today it was warranted. The weather sucks, and has sucked for a pretty long period now. It has been day after day of clouds, gloom, and rain, all draped by temperatures that have pulled the warmth all the way from the marrow of my bones. Today, though, is slightly different. It is colder, and wetter. I needed some soup. I needed warmth from the inside, something for the body that was good for the soul. I went to my pantry and opened the doors.

I had recently re-fluffed my pantry. In doing so I had thrown away bottles and cans of this and that bearing dates to be consumed by, that were decades past, but hadn’t been. It was all prompted by our little dog who, recently, made me aware that there were visitors living in the pantry. After learning of their residency, we then soon trapped two Micky and Minnie’s who had found themselves a nice little smorgasbord in the cracker and snack area which I had not seen much of in months. The shelves of the pantry are deep and things have tended to be pushed to the back and not seen, and forgotten. My visitors had found a culinary heaven in the back of this one shelf and left a mess which required, after their removal, taking the entire contents out and assessing just how old the stuff really was, disinfecting, and restocking. So as I stood at my newly stocked pantry, I looked at ingredients and their potential to solve my need for warmth for my core.

Cans of pumpkin enticed me, but it was the box of chopped tomatoes that caught me. Tomato soup was calling me. I chopped a nice long leek up that I had sitting in the fridge, and put it in my soup pot with some EVO, and turned on the heat. I put some celery leaves in there as well for that flavor that only celery can bring, some chopped garlic and stirred as the heat began to make a soothing sizzling noise. After the leeks had wilted, and before they browned, I poured in a box of chopped tomatoes and added some chicken broth. For some heat I added a bit of red pepper and for some smoke I added a couple of shakes of smoked paprika. Then I added some freshly ground black pepper on top and stirred again. I tasted and mulled over what else.

I went to the fridge and grabbed the roasted red peppers I had sitting waiting for use and poured them into the bubbling mix. My indoor areo-garden had finally produced me enough basil that it was time to prune some of the leaves so I clipped a few and tossed them in as well. I tasted again. It was time for the mix to meet the blender. The blender whirled and pureed the mix into a beautiful creamy red goodness. I ladled some of it into my waiting bowl and topped it with shredded parmesan and asiago cheeses and snipped a few more basil leaves onto that. Then I sat to eat and enjoy.

I don’t know where the first bowl went but the warmth spread, my shoulders dropped and my mood brightened as I tasted the promise of summer tomatoes in each delicious mouth full. Like eating pure sunshine, this quick little soup in the middle of the day had nourished me in more ways than one, and just like that, this soup had done its magic. I was warmed, through and through.

The rain outside continues and according to the radar, will continue for a while. The northern part of the state is predicted to get snow, and possibly quite a lot, for here anyway. I do wish that we would see some but this time is not likely. There is a strong jet stream ushering the storm system and it is holding the line just north of our town, as it usually does. On occasion, it has slipped south and has allowed a storm to bring snow to us, instead of the numbing rain, so hope stays alive for a dusting at least.

In recent months I have been spending a lot of time cleaning out closets, drawers, the before mentioned pantry among them, and have been sorting things into that which needs to be thrown far away, those things and clothes that will be given to more needy (or perhaps to those who might fit my clothes which have mysteriously shrunken), from those things which I will keep. It all began with the closing down of my parents’ house after my mother passed, and in preparation for an estate sale of their belongings. For months I sorted through the drawers, closets, and attic deciding what was to be kept and what was to be sold.

The hardest of all the decisions I have had to make are over the photographs, and not the ones on the wall. It is the thousands of snap shots, some in albums, but mostly, loose prints in a paper bag, or a box that are really the time keepers of the lives that have come before me and whose images are now my responsibility. I have looked into the eyes of relatives I have no names for. I have sorted through countless black and white photos of babies in christening gowns, felt the stern gazes of the pioneer relatives, the older ones, the ones just off the boats from Germany and Scotland, and onto the more recent ones of my grandmother in the full bloom of her youth and beauty.  I have culled and culled but there is a corner upstairs, still, with many boxes of photos I have become the default caretaker for. They will all probably go into yet another box, to be put into the attic, to wait on the next caretaker to decide which to keep and which not to perpetuate. It will be their decision, though, not mine.

But the feeling of loosening up, of freeing up my space and my feeling of carrying too much baggage, had carried over to my own house after I finished at mom’s house. I now have a huge pile of plastic bags by the front door which will go to charity and hopefully be used in a second life. There is also a huge red box outside by the big oak tree that has a whole bunch of stuff that was cluttering our house and had no use, and so will be taken to the dump when I have filled it to the brim. I began with my file cabinet yesterday, the khaki one upstairs that I have used to keep up with my horse breeding business for thirty years, and also the one for the kids, and all of their school progress reports etc. Of course there is an enormous pile of photos to be sorted through and decided on whether to keep or not, of horses, of our kids as they have grown up, our farms, and our lives. It is a slow process. It takes time to reload the memories.

Ironically, as we have been keeping our fingers crossed in hope of bit of white fluffy stuff gracing us now, I came across a group of photos taken when it did actually snow here. The shots are glossy prints complete with the dates on the back telling me they were taken in December of 1993. The shots are taken at our old farm. Our kids were young, preteens, and were wearing the coats that they wore when my dad took us all on ski trips. In one shot, our youngest has a huge snow ball made, holding it in her arms and I rather imagine that it got thrown immediately after the shot at her older sister. My German Shepherd walks with our older daughter in one, and looks to be glad that the weather finally turned civilized. Kudzu and Kowaliga, two of my first Dutch horses that I had breed are standing in quiet contemplation with melting snow dripping off their coats.

None of these shots made it to an album, or got put in a frame but its’ nice looking back at them. They evoke sweet memories and take me back to that moment in time where it did actually snow. In that moment, our world stopped, and it was all white, magic, and beautiful.

With a quick glance at the still gray and darkening close of another wet and miserable weather day, I am losing hope that we will see the fluffy stuff, maybe next time. I am thinking a reheat of tomato soup for supper, or maybe the leftover chili, anything as long as it’s warm and comforting to chase the chill away.  

 

The Black Watch

Today is Veterans' Day, the eleventh of November, again. As a kid, it meant not much more than a day out of school and that most businesses were closed. It was about a parade and seeing old men in funny hats adorned with medals and emblems, and lots of flag waving, and that was about it for me. That all changed three years ago, on another Veterans’ Day, 11/11/11. It became the day that my super hero, and veteran dad, died. 

My dad was a veteran of the Korean War, a war not so well known about and overshadowed by the larger World Wars which preceded it, but it was a fiercely fought duel non the less, and my dad was a paratrooper in the infantry there. This past history of my dad was all totally background noise in my life, growing up. It was in my father’s past, irrelevant to the present and immediate moment of my own life at that time. I recall mornings where I heard that dad had spent some nightmare time reliving his battles there, and my mother found him, still in his sleep, standing in a shooting stance firing away at some invisible Chinese soldiers. There was usually a bit of a joke about his having eaten too much spicy food the night before to evoke the specters that needed shooting, and all of the horror that he lived with in his memory was glossed over and taken lightly by the young girl that I was then. I really never knew, nor could I comprehend, what it meant to have been a war veteran as he, and so many others had been.

I really knew very little about the Korean War and have to admit I know less about it than I should, given that my father fought there and nearly died before helping me into my existence a few years after it was over. I saw daily, the photos on the wall of my cigar smoking dad, holding his machine gun, wearing a ridiculously tall hat, smiling with his comrades and buddies, waiting for the next fight. There was the shadow box that held his medals for bravery, valor, and actions above and beyond the call, etc. I thought everybody’s dad had the same version of memorabilia and life stories in their house. It was on a trip to Scotland, when I was nearly done with high school, that his reality set in to me and I began to understand a little.

My dad had taken us on a trip to England and Scotland. True to his typical form we had stayed at the Connaught, caught the semi finals at Wimbledon with the Queen and the Queen mum sitting a few shoulders away, had enjoyed the wonders of the South Audley Street Pub, and covered the highlights of London before heading north to Edinburgh. We were going there to see the military tattoo, a large festival celebrating Scotland’s veterans and their military history. At this point I did not even know that the Scots had done any fighting with anyone but themselves after Robert the Bruce and Bonny Prince Charlie, but I was willing to be along for the ride, as it seemed to mean a lot to my dad for him to share it with us.

The afternoon before the big night time show that was to be held in the Edinburgh Castle, we were wandering through the castle’s museum and dad found a room where the names of soldiers who had died fighting in the Korean War were noted in huge open books laying on pedestals. Finding no relevance to my life, I wandered around in a distracted and bored sort of way that one does in similar situations, and noted the differences in all of the tartan plaids that hung on the  stone walls.

There was a docent of this castle’s museum standing in the room with all of us, saying nothing, just standing, fully decked out in the garb of the Black Watch regiment, kilt, knives, tall socks, sash and all. He was a red head and had a full, unkempt red beard to match. His eyes were a fierce cold blue and his presence was one of power and strength. Gradually my dad and him began to chat.

There are connections in life that are random and some are destined. I believe that this connection on this afternoon in the castle was perhaps both. As this powerful Scot and my dad chatted, their stories became more involved, and they realized suddenly and with a bit of shock, that they had met before.

The story goes that on one assignment back in Korea, my dad was to lead the troops under his command, and to take a  fairly random, barren and treeless hill, which was being held by the north Korean army and by the Chinese army who was there to help the north. It was a piece of real estate that the US army badly wanted and it was basically a suicide mission but orders are what they are, and so off my dad led his group in that effort.

For hours they fought in the mud and smoke and were getting their numbers cut down to nearly nothing. Retreat wasn’t in my dad’s vocabulary and so they continued to slog it out doing their duty and being gunned down by the dozens. Just when all hope was nearly lost, then, through the smoke, chaos, and flying bullets, came the sound of bagpipes playing “Scotland the Brave”. In a surreal moment, up from their rear, marching into the fray and confusion was a division of the Black Watch Guard coming in to relieve and assist my dad’s group in their attempt to take the hill.

Dressed in the famous black and green tartan kilts, and with the sound of bag pipers’ and fife drums’ continual drone together the US soldiers, and my dad, and these Scots took that hill and won the day.

The irony of the moment of that day in Edinburgh, was the realization that the commander of the Black Watch group that saved my dad’s life, turned out, was  now this docent, here, improbably talking with my dad in the Edinburgh Castle some twenty plus years fast forwarded. They had, indeed, met before.  My dad and his kilted savior, left us and retired to a local pub for the afternoon.

 I miss my dad today, and every day, but will always have my memories refreshed on Veteran’s Day with his declaration three years ago that on 11/11/11, it was a good day to die. He was an old soldier at that point and had fought many battles of many types through out his years, and when the time came he was ready and he went. 

To all of the veterans, and to my dad, I want to say thank you.

RIP Dad 

Mom

There is truth to the fact that, at least in this present life form, that the only way to get off a mountain is by going down. And so it was as we ended our mountain top vacation, and down from the mountain we came. Down from our cool and lofty peak we drove, to home and the sweltering, humid, subtropical remains of an Alabama August. 

We drove home to the heat, to the drone of the cicadas’ buzz, and to the news that in our absence, my mother had taken a downward turn in her health. We had left town on the Friday before, after saying goodbye and wishing her an early Happy Birthday on Thursday. On that Thursday, Mark had taken her portrait, as she had requested, well, more like persisted of him. When we had gotten to her house that day, she was in her living room. She was sitting up straight and proud in her throne on wheels, freshly coifed and made up, wearing a colorful jacket, and had smiled for Mark’s camera, taking his direction to turn this way or that.

The following Monday the 11th was her eighty fourth birthday. My birthday also happened to be that day, not by chance but by my mother’s shrewd calculation and a probable bribe made to the attending doctor of my birth, that it  narrowly and miraculously landed, by mere minutes, on my mother’s birthday as well. Joint birthdays and parties were the norm growing up for me, and I hated them. I wanted simply to have my special day like all of my friends did.

For most of my life I was the entertainer and host to my mother’s friends’ children for my birthday parties and I really got tired of the work it entailed. In my teenage years, I would spend my day entertaining these girls, usually at our lake place, dragging them behind the boat on an inner tube or on skies, and I grew to not be so fond of doing this role. In the more recent years of my adulthood, I have found ways to be out of town to avoid this joint party thing, and this year found us again in the mountains on my/our birthday. 

While we were gone, we did learn that our daughters had taken their baby daughters to her house and found mom’s beach girls, ladies who all went to the beach house together on occasions, there celebrating her day. There was apparently some pinkish wine served and a cake and from what I was told, mom had a great birthday party. Our birthdays shared another quirk. The sum of the digits that make up our age for that year have always added up to the same number. This year we were both twelve.

When we got back into town and heard that she was not doing so well, it was not surprising, and not alarming. For the past several years, with both of my parents, it has been a roller coast, revolving door, going to and from the hospital, with one of them, or both being on death’s door. A week later, they were back home and kicking it. So one more up and down was not an altogether surprise to anyone. A few days later I got word that I needed to go see her sooner rather than later, as she was going down fast, and so I did.

When I walked into her bedroom, I was surprised to see her propped up in a hospital bed, gazing with a blank stare at the ceiling, quite a contrast from the woman whose portrait Mark had taken a week earlier. I called her name and she turned to me and mouthed my name and reached for my hand. I asked her if the birthday flowers we had sent were pretty. She smiled, and said yes, and something about them being yellow, and then fell asleep before muttering more. I was about to leave when she woke with a startle and I went over to her and held her hand again. She just looked at me, and I said “I love you”. She squeezed my hand, and slept again. This time I left without her waking back up. We were told by the hospice nurse that her time was coming, and that the possibility another rally was not likely.

For several days she fought the inevitable, and it was painful to watch her deteriorating condition. On my last visit with her, my brother and I stood by her while the nurse gave her some morphine to ease things for her. I told her that we all loved her and that it was time to just let go. Fifteen minutes later as I was driving out to the farm, my brother called and said she was gone. Whether the morphine had helped her over, or my words, or a combination of it all, she had released herself from this worldly body that had run its course, and my mother, was gone.

The funeral and all of the many details that a funeral of a notable personality entail, have now come and are almost gone. Three weeks ago, today, my brother and I began a journey to begin picking up the pieces on the day following the funeral. The journey began with our going to her house with the intent to unravel her belongings, to begin to sort them into estate sellable piles, and to eliminate the copious and varied ways that my mother planted possible security breaches, not just for her but for everyone in the family. My mother was a paper trail person, leaving hers and even ours’, personal information and numbers at every turn, in triplicate, in every box, in every corner, and everywhere. It was our job to find them, and to sort through all of the stuff that were the remains of her and my father’s lives.

In a brain numb fog I began with drawers, clearing them out and sorting what was junk,  and guessing what was of possible value, either financially or emotionally. I had known my mother was a serious keeper of all things, but as we delved further into her belongings, this definition became a gross understatement. She did not know how to use a garbage can and had obviously never thrown anything away.

Then there were mountains of things she had bought as she had become older and less able to get up and do, and so we found that, in her recent years, she had spent her time and money in catalog land ordering things, ridiculous things, not just once but in multiples. 

I have stuffed bags, and have waded through the artifacts of my parents’ long lives, and have begun to see that yes, while my mother was a hoarder, that she was also the keeper. My mother was the keeper of the keep sakes, of the family things, letters, photos, and memorabilia  of her parents, my father’s parents, and of the many ancient ones who have passed on before us. I have read love letters from my grandfather to his soon to be bride. I have found the sweet notes my father left to mom on early mornings when he went out to slay the dragons.

I suppose anytime one cleans the drawers of anyone’s long time house, there is a lot to learn about the people who lived there, some of use and some best left unknown. I had not known that my dad regularly clipped his fingernails and dropped the clippings into the drawer of the desk that he used as his home office. I had never seen the racy “how to???” magazines that my mother had tucked away in the bottom of one of her drawers. In finding things like this it did make me more appreciative of the fact that we are all just people, even my parents, and we are all just imperfect humans on this ride.  

I have found pictures of ancestors that I don’t know, each photograph taking me deeper into the lives of those that passed before me and who are part of who I am. My DNA comes from the people from these images, and mom kept them all. Perhaps she knew who many of the faces were. Some are marked with dates and names on the back but many are not. Who is now going to be the caretaker of the memories, of the nameless photographs, and for how long? My attic is full already and begs for purging lest I leave a mess for my own children to deal with when I die. Memories are like a flame that must be fed to be kept alive. The stories must be told and retold, the photographs saved, or like the flame, or a bubble, it ceases to be. When will my face be the unknown in someone’s attic and the days of my life forgotten and unknown?

Since my teenage years I can’t say that my mother and I really got along. That’s putting it

nicely. I know she was many things to many people and that as the first lady of this town, married to my father, the mayor for twenty plus years, she did some great things for the city and was loved by many for her work to help improve the lives of the folks who live here. Mother daughter relationships, however, are varied and complicated and ours was a perfect example. I did not live up to her expectations of what she thought a young woman should be, especially her daughter, and for many years I felt her deep resentment for this lacking on my part. I felt a resentment towards her in her being so judgmental about the things that I wanted to do, or what I felt strongly about. As a master manipulator, my mother could say one thing and make the world believe it, and underhandedly make my life miserable with no evidence to point to her. While I know she had her own demons and tragedies to deal with, it did not alleviate or help our relationship for the years of my teens and nor afterward. I felt that she did not know me, or really care to. I just did not do life as she wanted me to, and she always let me know it.

Once in high school years, mom had some fancy photographer from England come a do a portrait session with me. I very uncomfortably stood in the living room with a dress on for the first shots. Then the fellow suggested a more casual outfit, which suited me much more better. The fine portrait was finally delivered and it hung for many years in their living room. Then it magically disappeared, when news of my eloping hit them years later. It was found recently it in the attic and was brought down. A hole, and the imprint of the shape of a fist reside on the faded picture of my face. I had heard at some point that she was somewhat angry that night.

Another case of her not knowing me was when I was to turn sixteen, and was learning to drive and thinking about all of the new wheels I might get as my brothers had done when they turned driving age. We pulled into the driveway one day and she said she couldn’t stand not telling me early what I was getting for my birthday. I was absolutely giddy when she said I was getting a Porche and I listened to her describe my new car with disbelief as my car turned from being a car into a porcelain statue of a “Portia” from a Shakespeare play. I held my disappointment then and did not tell her this story until recently.  She had had no idea that, as a sixteen year old that I would have rather had the Porche rather than the Portia. Again, we were not on the same track. 

I  have been struggling with the question of how do I feel about the loss of my mother. In my last words to her, I did tell her that I loved her and meant it despite years of our guarded relationship. We did not get along well, but she was my mother, and somewhere in there that does matter and I had to find something in this process to make this make sense to me.  As I dug further into her belongings I began to see her life in layers like the peels of an onion, from the old lady she became, backwards into her younger days, days when she and my dad were having fun in life, running to Europe, skiing in Vail, vibrant and alive. With each boxed up photograph I came across the images of the years of her life stared at me and it made me wonder exactly what year, which phase of her life and mine, did we get crossed up. I then found earlier pictures from my childhood that showed me a different mom, the tender, caring mother who held me and put stupid bonnets on me and dressed me in lace. 

I remember the mom who came home one day from a luncheon, dressed in an impeccable pink dress suit, and she and I lay across my bed, making a barrier for our new puppy Skippy so he couldn’t get to the edges and fall off. She wore a pillbox hat that matched her suit cloth and she was beautiful. Skippy waddled around between us and eventually he chose to lay down beside her. This made me sad that I was rejected and asked her why. She replied that maybe he liked the color of her dress and that it made him think of his mom. It was a sweet moment and I wondered how she knew so much about being a mother.

The mom who I mourn for is that mom. That is the person who birthed me, who swaddled and rocked me to sleep. She is the one who taught me to make cookies and mud pies, and how to keep myself entertained. She was beautiful and had legs that I always envied having inherited those of my father’s side of the family. She was the connection to my grandfather who gave me my first horse and it was he who taught me how to act around horses. I loved to see her, and my dad, when they dressed up to go out to a party or to a ball. She was always especially pretty when dressed to the nines and made me appreciative of the fine dresses that my uncle Wilson designed for her to wear. I am part of her and always will be, and the fact that she and my dad now both are gone is stifling.  

In thinking about all she taught me, the one that I remember that stands out is, that she taught me how to hold a puppy. Once, I tried to pick Skippy up by his neck and she told me that was not nice and could hurt him. I had no idea and had no intention of hurting anything but I had to learn. I had to be shown how to hold a puppy, and, ultimately how to be a mother.

Thank you for all, mom. I love you.

and the sound of butterfly wings...

And just like that, it is the last day here in paradise. It seems like it was so long ago that we set off to get here and were  surprised by fabulous lasagna we had en route at that river rat hang out, now ages past. We have had a great time here at this amazing place, but the days have run together like a water color, blending and swirling the days and hours into a unnamed hue and it is one that will never be seen again. It is simply an ephemeral experience to be here at this lodge because time is elastic and the reality of the outside world is held in check for the period we are here. This lodge, this bit of heaven is a Shangra-La, an Avalon, often shrouded in clouds, a sanctuary from the world out there beyond the mists, with a magic that is broken only by choice in opening the newspaper or checking your emails. It is quite possible to be here for days with no outside communication, if you want to, and to just be here in this oasis of quiet, where the sounds of the butterfly wing beats and the chirps of the Gold Finches are the loudest noises to disturb the peace.

It took us a while to learn how to be here. This is not your typical hotel. There are no televisions and what telephone signals there are, are very sketchy at best. Internet is available, if you want to bridge some of the gap to the other world that lives outside the boundaries of this place, but most folks do little connecting time. The difference here is that there is the lodge, the center point and focus of being here. It is where all of the guests meet to take meals together, where it is comfortable to grab a book and kick your shoes off with a room of folks who are doing the same thing. It is a place where it is possible to be able to get into the quiet of your own mind and yet be instant friends with the person sitting next to you. There is a simpatico with folks who come here. Most are outdoor focused, interested in nature, art, doing outdoor adventures, and who do not miss the constant barrage of information that intrudes our lives at home, most of which is horrible news leaving us in a daily wallow of high stress levels about things we have little control over.

When you turn your car into the driveway of the lodge and pass the moss covered little pump house at the base of the hill, it is suddenly quiet, like the quiet of a sanctuary before the service. There is an instant reverence felt as the car shifts to another gear to make it up to the top of the mountain driveway. The drive is steep and takes effort to climb, and then once at the top the sound of the gravel drive is soothing and says, you are safe and at home. The swing of the screened door and the feeling of entering the foyer is unlike any place I have been. Perhaps it is because we have been here so many times that I feel this relaxed energy, and I have become patterned to feel this, but I think the site, this building, and this mountain are the reason, and I think most who come here feel the same. It is this undefinable feeling that bonds the guests for the moments they are here and it drops the barriers of unfamiliarity. It has always been a great place to spend my birth week and this one was maybe, the best so far.

My birthday dinner, the other night, was capped off with a gorgeous cake made just for me by the chef, and hand delivered by Robert, the owner. It was a white cream cake with luscious layers upon layers of cream, cake, and strawberry jam, covered in toasted slivered almonds and topped with strawberries dipped in white chocolate. We finished what was left, off last night and I shared it with any one  in the dinning room, passing among new friends whose names I did not know.

Over the past days Mark has continued sharing his photography knowledge to those who have asked questions and who have wanted to learn more about their cameras and how to take nicer photos. After class there is the sack lunch time, which we have spent usually sitting in the screened summer house, with friends, mulling over what to do with the remaining hours of the day. We have hiked, and we have canoed in a deep and clear blue lake where the water met the  tree lined edge of the mountains and rose from there. I have fed the new chickens, in their newly built coup, blades of grass and have laughed at their silliness as they have jockeyed to get the grass away from the hen who first grabs it. I have marveled at the organic garden, so full of vegetables which make it to our plates each night for dinner, and at how the cooler temps here make working in a garden pleasant and fun as opposed to drudgery and toil in our humidity and heat back home. I have read and I have

written. I have drawn sketches, and I have talked with many people I haven’t known before and who I will probably never see again, I have sat in the rockers on the porch and just let the clouds go by. We have rebuilt the magical stacked rock cairns in the stream down on Rattler Ford, only to find them knocked back down after the rains came with the cold front, but thats okay, we will build them again, next time. We have eaten, and we have drunk in the whole experience and have enjoyed it all.

The inn keeper was taking reservation calls the other day and I over heard him trying to explain to a person on the other end who was planning to drive a six hour journey to this place for just one night only, and who wanted to know what the night life was like. Robert was tactfully trying to tell them that this was a very remote place and that the disco balls and rock and roll were not part of the scenery here. I wonder what these people will think when they get here. Will they get it? Or, will they sit bored, wondering how to entertain themselves and be angry because they simply can not? I will not know because, sadly, it is our time to leave tomorrow.

But for today, we are still here. I am happy and feeling the joy of breathing. Perhaps we will go back to the lake again today, who knows. There is no agenda to our remaining hours. Reality will hit soon enough once we head down the driveway to head home, but for now, it is all good. A very happy birth day was had by me, with hopes for many more. My birthday wish is for more to be had here, but that, is for fate to decide. We shall see.