Thursday, March 7, 2013
An Old Flash of Story
Caught Between the Sun and Moon
The cold earth would not remember him. That was left to me.
Alone, I sat on his grave; bewilderment and anger filtered through packed soil. A dirt fractured voice, I heard, betrayed by flesh and desire. His one true love lay between us solid and silent, encased in steel and satin. They were forever. He would never abandon her, though she died without him. Their decades together stretched through molecules of silica, clay, and carbon. I was always outside—a part, but not really. I was simply an idyll, an occasional intrusion, to be cherished or ignored, when what I wanted was to be the rift in the continent of their love.
It started before I could remember. It always was: my world between his Sun and her Moon. I became a tide. High and low, pulled and released between orbits.
When I was with the Moon, she was cold and remote. Phases were her moods. She was full when we went to the movies. She held my hand as I leapt from bench to bench in the park while we waited for the Sun. After I pushed her away to cross the gaps unaided, she nursed my sprained wrist.
The night was her time. She sang: “La-le-lu nur der Mann im Mond schaut zu, wenn die kleinen Babies schlafen, drum schlaf auch zu.” She sang in a language she swore she did not speak, if you asked in daytime. As I dreamt, alone in her twin bed, she disappeared. The days were waning.
The dark Moon wandered the house. She searched. Things went missing, photographs and money put in drawers and beneath cushions. She forgot where she was and who we were. Over and over, she would sit with me and tell me of her childhood: of riding next to her father in a carriage on a crisp winter day, of teeth, lost when she was fourteen. Her dentures smiled from a jar each night.
He was the day. Hot and commanding, though his love was winter-cold. I could not touch his adoration of the Moon. I became a release from his vigilance. The Sun could be kind. He bought me gifts, listened to my stories, my loud music. He drove me places. I was special. There was something within me that was needed. He ignored the others. But, his need and anger scalded.
In my absence, they had each other. Only each other. The routine of their days diminished as they cycled through ages. Without me, they ate breakfast at the small table. He had his bran, she sometimes gummed toast. They wandered through the remaining hours with crossword puzzles and television. At night he slept while she wandered. He cared for her, nurtured her, made sure the doors were locked before dark. The Moon was locked inside at night.
I learned to stay away. I grew old enough to shun her chill and deny his heat. I imagined a life far from their gravity, a place where I could command my own Sun and become a new Moon. There was a day when I revealed my wounds, laid bare the invisible puckers of scar and charred flesh. Flaunting my damage, I longed for escape. It was a dream. Once caught within their orbit, I was always drawn back.
Later, I visited when forced, gibbous with adolescent righteousness, pretending to be a tepid stranger, unscarred and whole. Never again, would I linger on the edge of breakfast at the small table. I was too big for the Moon to rock to sleep. I freely spoke the language she forgot. The Sun no longer listened to my stories or brought me gifts. I could drive myself.
Still, he burned. Occasionally, across the crowded dining table, I met his eye. Sometimes I was defiance, he was the question. Or vice versa. He sat at the head, I at the foot. The Moon sat between, an arrangement as natural as rain.
Gradually, the Moon forgot the day. A night-time world embraced her as she drifted through the dark. The Sun learned to cook. He coaxed her to eat. When she wandered, he watched. When she finally slept, he retired to his room. She asked for nothing, locked in her own nocturnal orbit. He gave her what she needed.
The day they said the Sun was fading, I laughed. His defective heart sputtered. The others were angered and disgusted; they left me alone with my guilt. No matter how scarred, I was required to care. I knew he would shine once more. He would fight against his traitorous heart for each beat, if only, to be able to lock the doors before dark. For his Moon, who needed him.
In his absence, the Moon escaped; half-dressed, she roamed, lost in the driveway. I sat with her through the night, listened to her speak of carriages and snow, spoke to her in the language she forgot. I tucked her into the small bed as the Sunless day dawned. She slept while I locked the doors.
When the Sun left forever, the Moon waned and followed. He was buried first and deeper. In death, she guarded him, locked between him and the sky.
My wounds severed me from their world. As I sat on the unforgiving ground, I offered only tears to the earth that now kept them, leaving my scars to rot beneath the dirt.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Parole
In a room inside a government building in Waterbury, CT, members of my family and I once again faced the man responsible for the deaths of my mother and aunt. We sat on a side of the room, perpendicular to the long table where the three members of the parole board sat. At the front of the room a large flat-screen TV held the image of the inmate. We could see him, but he could only hear us.
I know emotions were high for my sister, my niece, and my brother-in-law. For myself, I held on to the numbness that had steadily grown inside me since that awful morning of early-morning knocking at my door. I had wanted to come. I felt it was important. But I no longer knew why. Nothing said or done on this day would change anything. Though I often joke about them- my tough, sarcastic, driven mother and my crazy, hoarder of an aunt- there remains a deep hole full of "what-ifs" and longing that can never be healed.
I should still be angry. But I am not. I am numb.
I watched the screen and waited, witholding my judgement, holding on to the only scant scrap of hope I could imagine from this scenario. Was he truly sorry? Had prison changed this young man for the better? Can you look at an image on a television screen, listen to a voice, see into the soul of another human being and ome away with the assurance that all this loss was not for nought? No, but that was the fantasy I held to. I wanted a crystal ball.
It had been five years and I noted the changes.
He sat patiently, his hands folded against the front of his beige jumpsuit. His dark hair was cropped close, his goatee well-trimmed; it was easy to tell he had added muscle to his tall frame. He had aged. I waited to see if he had matured.
His daughter was now seven.
The parole chairwoman called the session to order. She listed all the things he'd done while in prison: he'd enrolled in drug and alcohol counseling, taken college courses. On paper, he was on the road to rehabilitation. He had jobs lined up for after release and he planned to live with his parents.
He spoke about what he'd done and what he'd learned. The board asked questions. He answered them with a quiet, humble voice.
In turn, my sister read a statement she had prepared, citing all the damage done to our family, letting him know of our continued pain, but also of our hope that he could find his way to a better life, learn to be a better father, and a productive, not destructive member of society.
My niece read an essay she had composed shortly after the Incident and followed it up with how that resonated now. She articulated her sadness, her anger, and her belief that his sentence was too lenient, that an early release would diminish the fact that he had killed two innocent women.
He was permitted to speak again. He wiped a tear as he expressed his sorrow, his guilt, and how he had a "life-sentence" knowing he had caused the deaths of our mother and aunt. The chairwoman called for a decision and we filed out of the room while the panel deliberated.
In our waiting area, we deliberated, too. Did we believe him? Could we dare?
It came down to one, simple thing. The words of remose, his apology to us, the family, those words should have been the first words out of his mouth as the hearing began, uttered because he believed them, not because he suddenly realized we were there and watching.
We were called back in and the verdict was read: parole denied, probation lengthened from three to five years. The board had not believed him, either.
And here I am, safe in my home, figuratively surrounded by friends and family, thinking about the advice I gave my niece before we went in to the hearing. Advice I learned after a different lesson. It has served me well. Like me, she thirsted for revenge, she wanted him to pay and pay for his crimes and the hurt she still feels; she was afraid they would let him go.(Though her words were what kept him in prison.) "It doesn't really matter." I told her. "In the end, we all have to live with what he did. And the only person you can control is yourself. You need to live your life. It will never intersect his again, whatever the outcome of today, unless you let your anger at him destroy you. Don't give him that power over you."
Am I following my own advice? I try. I am still numb. I am still conflicted. I wanted to believe him, wanted to see the positive, have faith in the changes, faith in his love for his daughter. I know I am naive. My anger and sorrow will return. I will again want him punished and will feel justified in denying him early freedom. Either way, I will continue with living my own life the best way I can. What he does and who he becomes is irrelevant.
But, deep inside, I hang on to the hope that it will sink in, that he will learn to feel remorse, that he will rehabilitate himself...that some shred of good will come out of this tragedy.
I know emotions were high for my sister, my niece, and my brother-in-law. For myself, I held on to the numbness that had steadily grown inside me since that awful morning of early-morning knocking at my door. I had wanted to come. I felt it was important. But I no longer knew why. Nothing said or done on this day would change anything. Though I often joke about them- my tough, sarcastic, driven mother and my crazy, hoarder of an aunt- there remains a deep hole full of "what-ifs" and longing that can never be healed.
I should still be angry. But I am not. I am numb.
I watched the screen and waited, witholding my judgement, holding on to the only scant scrap of hope I could imagine from this scenario. Was he truly sorry? Had prison changed this young man for the better? Can you look at an image on a television screen, listen to a voice, see into the soul of another human being and ome away with the assurance that all this loss was not for nought? No, but that was the fantasy I held to. I wanted a crystal ball.
It had been five years and I noted the changes.
He sat patiently, his hands folded against the front of his beige jumpsuit. His dark hair was cropped close, his goatee well-trimmed; it was easy to tell he had added muscle to his tall frame. He had aged. I waited to see if he had matured.
His daughter was now seven.
The parole chairwoman called the session to order. She listed all the things he'd done while in prison: he'd enrolled in drug and alcohol counseling, taken college courses. On paper, he was on the road to rehabilitation. He had jobs lined up for after release and he planned to live with his parents.
He spoke about what he'd done and what he'd learned. The board asked questions. He answered them with a quiet, humble voice.
In turn, my sister read a statement she had prepared, citing all the damage done to our family, letting him know of our continued pain, but also of our hope that he could find his way to a better life, learn to be a better father, and a productive, not destructive member of society.
My niece read an essay she had composed shortly after the Incident and followed it up with how that resonated now. She articulated her sadness, her anger, and her belief that his sentence was too lenient, that an early release would diminish the fact that he had killed two innocent women.
He was permitted to speak again. He wiped a tear as he expressed his sorrow, his guilt, and how he had a "life-sentence" knowing he had caused the deaths of our mother and aunt. The chairwoman called for a decision and we filed out of the room while the panel deliberated.
In our waiting area, we deliberated, too. Did we believe him? Could we dare?
It came down to one, simple thing. The words of remose, his apology to us, the family, those words should have been the first words out of his mouth as the hearing began, uttered because he believed them, not because he suddenly realized we were there and watching.
We were called back in and the verdict was read: parole denied, probation lengthened from three to five years. The board had not believed him, either.
And here I am, safe in my home, figuratively surrounded by friends and family, thinking about the advice I gave my niece before we went in to the hearing. Advice I learned after a different lesson. It has served me well. Like me, she thirsted for revenge, she wanted him to pay and pay for his crimes and the hurt she still feels; she was afraid they would let him go.(Though her words were what kept him in prison.) "It doesn't really matter." I told her. "In the end, we all have to live with what he did. And the only person you can control is yourself. You need to live your life. It will never intersect his again, whatever the outcome of today, unless you let your anger at him destroy you. Don't give him that power over you."
Am I following my own advice? I try. I am still numb. I am still conflicted. I wanted to believe him, wanted to see the positive, have faith in the changes, faith in his love for his daughter. I know I am naive. My anger and sorrow will return. I will again want him punished and will feel justified in denying him early freedom. Either way, I will continue with living my own life the best way I can. What he does and who he becomes is irrelevant.
But, deep inside, I hang on to the hope that it will sink in, that he will learn to feel remorse, that he will rehabilitate himself...that some shred of good will come out of this tragedy.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
I'm Back.
It's a new year and I felt it was the perfect time for a new start.
So what is my intention with this revised platform? Well, I have to admit, after lots of soul-searching, self-depreciating thought, where I questioned my purpose, my desire to write, and fought with my inner narcissist, I decided to let go a little.
What does this mean?
Probably nothing.
But instead of detailing the minutae of my day or my rides or my writing progress, I thought I would share the things that chase that fading dark cloud farther away or post some creative writing instead of talking about the difficulties I encounter.
Of course, the road to Hell... well, you know.
So what do you say?
Let's give it another go.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Pony Possession
After much thought and consideration, I have finally concluded that the recent issue between Tucker and I is entirely his fault.
Was it only scant months ago, when the sun was warm and the days were long, that I laughingly mentioned my "racehorse's" lack of motivation? I made fun of the fact that a Morgan mare outwalked him? Yes, yes, that was true.
Well, welcome to the change of season.
I must add that Tucker has been great (after a little convincing to get on the trailer) when I have shipped him over to my friend Sheryl's for lessons. Everything I have asked of him, he has done willingly, with me flopping around and trying to find my balance. (For some reason-age, perhaps?-my ankles don't flex and absorb the motion, forcing me to brace over fences. Added to my tendency to snap back too quickly on the downside right onto Tucker's sensitive back.)
I really felt like I was getting somewhere.
So as a reward, I figured a few trail rides were in order. The first one started out fine. The late afternoon light was beautiful. Unseasonally warm, it was the quintessential autumn day. We meandered through the harvested cornfields, fallen leaves crunched under hooves, and those trees that had not shed their summer finery rustled in the slight breeze.
It was one of those rides that reignites my deep love for horses. Until we headed for home...
Suddenly, I was riding a plunging idiot. He bounced, he yanked, and cantered in place. I tried to bend him, turn him around, play with the reins, talk to him, remind myself to keep breathing, all of the things I have been told to do with a naughty horse. Except kick. I couldn't bring myself to boot him forward. When I lightened my contact, Tucker took the bit and ran. All of those times I could not get him to gallop, he was saving them for now. I pulled him up into another round of bouncing and yanking. I turned around and sent him away from home. It worked until I turned for home again. And time was not on my side.
As it got darker and his bounces gained altitude, I made the decision to walk the rest of the way. Once I dismounted, Tucker quieted. At least I got my exercise.
Fast forward to the next day. I was on a mission. We left earlier and I chose a route that offered a plethora of options. Same thing. Nice ride out. Turn for home and off to the rodeo!
I stayed with him longer, chose alternate routes to confuse him, but he knew which way meant home. And again, I was running out of daylight. And guts. There is something about being on a plunging beast alone in the woods to make you remember you are not immortal. There is the everpresent possiblity of bodily harm-especially on a rock-strewn, windy, undulating trail.
I gave it a good fight, battling between the leaping and galloping sideways, but in the end, I dismounted and did the long walk of shame back to the barn.
I have since overanalyzed what happened, what I could have done differently, and why my placid pony has become a fire-breathing demon. It all boils down to less turnout, more food(too much high-test), and, most of all, a severe need for some serious damage control. We're going to stay in the ring, reduce his grain intake and increase his turnout (hello, darkness my old friend).
At least now I know he has it in him- and maybe he just wanted me to eat my "non-racehorsey" words.
Was it only scant months ago, when the sun was warm and the days were long, that I laughingly mentioned my "racehorse's" lack of motivation? I made fun of the fact that a Morgan mare outwalked him? Yes, yes, that was true.
Well, welcome to the change of season.
I must add that Tucker has been great (after a little convincing to get on the trailer) when I have shipped him over to my friend Sheryl's for lessons. Everything I have asked of him, he has done willingly, with me flopping around and trying to find my balance. (For some reason-age, perhaps?-my ankles don't flex and absorb the motion, forcing me to brace over fences. Added to my tendency to snap back too quickly on the downside right onto Tucker's sensitive back.)
I really felt like I was getting somewhere.
So as a reward, I figured a few trail rides were in order. The first one started out fine. The late afternoon light was beautiful. Unseasonally warm, it was the quintessential autumn day. We meandered through the harvested cornfields, fallen leaves crunched under hooves, and those trees that had not shed their summer finery rustled in the slight breeze.
It was one of those rides that reignites my deep love for horses. Until we headed for home...
Suddenly, I was riding a plunging idiot. He bounced, he yanked, and cantered in place. I tried to bend him, turn him around, play with the reins, talk to him, remind myself to keep breathing, all of the things I have been told to do with a naughty horse. Except kick. I couldn't bring myself to boot him forward. When I lightened my contact, Tucker took the bit and ran. All of those times I could not get him to gallop, he was saving them for now. I pulled him up into another round of bouncing and yanking. I turned around and sent him away from home. It worked until I turned for home again. And time was not on my side.
As it got darker and his bounces gained altitude, I made the decision to walk the rest of the way. Once I dismounted, Tucker quieted. At least I got my exercise.
Fast forward to the next day. I was on a mission. We left earlier and I chose a route that offered a plethora of options. Same thing. Nice ride out. Turn for home and off to the rodeo!
I stayed with him longer, chose alternate routes to confuse him, but he knew which way meant home. And again, I was running out of daylight. And guts. There is something about being on a plunging beast alone in the woods to make you remember you are not immortal. There is the everpresent possiblity of bodily harm-especially on a rock-strewn, windy, undulating trail.
I gave it a good fight, battling between the leaping and galloping sideways, but in the end, I dismounted and did the long walk of shame back to the barn.
I have since overanalyzed what happened, what I could have done differently, and why my placid pony has become a fire-breathing demon. It all boils down to less turnout, more food(too much high-test), and, most of all, a severe need for some serious damage control. We're going to stay in the ring, reduce his grain intake and increase his turnout (hello, darkness my old friend).
At least now I know he has it in him- and maybe he just wanted me to eat my "non-racehorsey" words.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Popping in to Say Hello
Fifteen minutes. That is the extent of my "spare" time this morning. I've been busy. And I have written some blog posts, but...I haven't posted them.
They are horrible.
I don't like them. Not at all. I was trying to be funny and fell flat on my literary face.
A little bumped and bruised in the ego department. I'll get over it.
Meanwhile, my other writing projects are swimming along like happy little fishes. I can't have everything, I guess.
Now, I'm off to the barn to play with the ponies. (Well, lets be real. I'm going to clean up after them.)And then it is time to sit my butt in the chair and let the words flow. Hopefully, some of the more witty ones will find their way to this page.
I'm confident they will. Soon.
They are horrible.
I don't like them. Not at all. I was trying to be funny and fell flat on my literary face.
A little bumped and bruised in the ego department. I'll get over it.
Meanwhile, my other writing projects are swimming along like happy little fishes. I can't have everything, I guess.
Now, I'm off to the barn to play with the ponies. (Well, lets be real. I'm going to clean up after them.)And then it is time to sit my butt in the chair and let the words flow. Hopefully, some of the more witty ones will find their way to this page.
I'm confident they will. Soon.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Lovely Day for a...Power Walk?
Her name is Velvet. She is 14.3hands(or 59 inches at the shoulder), a lovely deep brown- so deep it should be called black, with a long flowing mane and tail; she is an excellent example of her breed: the Morgan Horse.
You know...Justin Morgan had a horse. Yeah I drank too much of the Kool-Aid in Vermont, but they are incredible horses. Imagine, a breed of horse supposedly traced back to a single sire. Even the noble Thoroughbreds were developed from three stallions.
But I don't want to give a lesson on equine history. Velvet lives in the here and now. And she lives in my barn.
Velvet is here for Mr. W. to ride, but since he works during the week(I didn't put the quotations around work- I am evolving)my friend Anne offered to ride with me. She used to ride Cosmo the Good Doober, until his passing last year (yes, I still miss him.) Nevermind that Anne now has her own "pony" - a 15 hand large boned Haflinger who lives in our sheep pasture until her barn is built. Oh and the "pony" has never been ridden- another small detail that needs attending.
Anne is tall, Velvet is not. No matter, Velvet is a Morgan. They are mighty. It finally stopped raining. So Anne and I saddled up and headed out. I mounted first and Tucker bounced a bit in excited anticipation. Anne swung her leg over Velvet's back...and away they went.
Let me make it clear that Velvet never did anything wrong; she never even broke out of a walk.
Tucker and I followed at a nice, brisk, forward walk. But Velvet was gone. She was fading into the distance, tail bouncing back and forth, head in the air, mane flowing in the breeze created by her speed. Tucker broke in to a jog to close the distance. Anne pulled back on the reins and Velvet slowed, turning around and chomping the bit in...anticipation? frustration?
Anne laughed and made like a train: "Choo choo. We've left the station!" And it's an express. Tucker and I caught up and off we went. Tucker gave his speedwalking all to no avail.
Velvet faded into the distance and we trotted to keep up. It was not a ride for conversing much, unless you count shouting. Mainly stuff like, "We're coming!" or "We'll get there!" or "Trotting up on your right!"
We passed the Hunt Kennels, the hounds were bellowing at two ladies walking their two dogs.
"Are your horses used to dogs? They're so pretty!"
I glanced at the cacophany of foxhounds, howling and barking. Um, yeah, they're used to dogs. Though Velvet was doing her best to imitate a giraffe as she surveyed her domain...
The one loose dog, a Lab, bounced around the horses' legs and wanted to follow, but he got tired an gave up once Velvet turned on the afterburners. Anne pulled her up a ways down the road and waited. Tucker sighed as I pressed my legs against his side and asked him to catch up.
Tucker pulled alongside and Velvet jumped slightly. I think she fell asleep while waiting. Either that or the large boulder on the side of the road was harboring a saber-toothed chipmunk, but Tucker usually finds those.
To get home, we had to climb a hill. Now, I use this particular stretch to condition Tucker- it's a great butt workout for him. I thought maybe, just maybe, it would slow Velvet down a tad.
Choo-choo!
I called out the turns as Velvet flew up the incline- still walking- while Tucker cantered, yes, cantered to keep up. With her walk! Did I mention that Velvet is 14.3 hands and Tucker is 5 inches (mostly leg length) taller? And Tucker has been ridden at least five times a week (when the weather is good); he's in fairly good shape. Velvet gets ridden...whenever someone has time.
We got closer to home and I was a little worried that Velvet, with her excessive speed and dense coat, would be overheating. Nah. She was a little sweaty, but her eyes were bright and eager. Anne and I could almost hear her saying "Well, that was a good warm-up, where to, now?" (Gotta love Morgans)
Tucker, however, was definitely looking forward to getting off that train.
You know...Justin Morgan had a horse. Yeah I drank too much of the Kool-Aid in Vermont, but they are incredible horses. Imagine, a breed of horse supposedly traced back to a single sire. Even the noble Thoroughbreds were developed from three stallions.
But I don't want to give a lesson on equine history. Velvet lives in the here and now. And she lives in my barn.
Velvet is here for Mr. W. to ride, but since he works during the week(I didn't put the quotations around work- I am evolving)my friend Anne offered to ride with me. She used to ride Cosmo the Good Doober, until his passing last year (yes, I still miss him.) Nevermind that Anne now has her own "pony" - a 15 hand large boned Haflinger who lives in our sheep pasture until her barn is built. Oh and the "pony" has never been ridden- another small detail that needs attending.
Anne is tall, Velvet is not. No matter, Velvet is a Morgan. They are mighty. It finally stopped raining. So Anne and I saddled up and headed out. I mounted first and Tucker bounced a bit in excited anticipation. Anne swung her leg over Velvet's back...and away they went.
Let me make it clear that Velvet never did anything wrong; she never even broke out of a walk.
Tucker and I followed at a nice, brisk, forward walk. But Velvet was gone. She was fading into the distance, tail bouncing back and forth, head in the air, mane flowing in the breeze created by her speed. Tucker broke in to a jog to close the distance. Anne pulled back on the reins and Velvet slowed, turning around and chomping the bit in...anticipation? frustration?
Anne laughed and made like a train: "Choo choo. We've left the station!" And it's an express. Tucker and I caught up and off we went. Tucker gave his speedwalking all to no avail.
Velvet faded into the distance and we trotted to keep up. It was not a ride for conversing much, unless you count shouting. Mainly stuff like, "We're coming!" or "We'll get there!" or "Trotting up on your right!"
We passed the Hunt Kennels, the hounds were bellowing at two ladies walking their two dogs.
"Are your horses used to dogs? They're so pretty!"
I glanced at the cacophany of foxhounds, howling and barking. Um, yeah, they're used to dogs. Though Velvet was doing her best to imitate a giraffe as she surveyed her domain...
The one loose dog, a Lab, bounced around the horses' legs and wanted to follow, but he got tired an gave up once Velvet turned on the afterburners. Anne pulled her up a ways down the road and waited. Tucker sighed as I pressed my legs against his side and asked him to catch up.
Tucker pulled alongside and Velvet jumped slightly. I think she fell asleep while waiting. Either that or the large boulder on the side of the road was harboring a saber-toothed chipmunk, but Tucker usually finds those.
To get home, we had to climb a hill. Now, I use this particular stretch to condition Tucker- it's a great butt workout for him. I thought maybe, just maybe, it would slow Velvet down a tad.
Choo-choo!
I called out the turns as Velvet flew up the incline- still walking- while Tucker cantered, yes, cantered to keep up. With her walk! Did I mention that Velvet is 14.3 hands and Tucker is 5 inches (mostly leg length) taller? And Tucker has been ridden at least five times a week (when the weather is good); he's in fairly good shape. Velvet gets ridden...whenever someone has time.
We got closer to home and I was a little worried that Velvet, with her excessive speed and dense coat, would be overheating. Nah. She was a little sweaty, but her eyes were bright and eager. Anne and I could almost hear her saying "Well, that was a good warm-up, where to, now?" (Gotta love Morgans)
Tucker, however, was definitely looking forward to getting off that train.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Why My Office is in the Barn!
I'm feeling a bit peckish today. I've been having a bit of trouble sleeping lately, for many reasons-overtired, reading good book, mulling over good writing ideas, a dog who likes to sleep with his hind feet toward my face and frequently stretches, another dog who insists he must pinion my legs, too hot, too cold, my hip hurts if I'm on my right side, stiff neck on my left, not comfy on my back or stomach...you get the idea. I'm just the princess and the pea restless lately. Plus I wake up at 5:30 AM waiting for the elderly Jack Russell to get up, which makes the mixed breed perk up and wait for me.
The bottom line is I decided to relax a bit and write at home. Yeah.
It goes something like this:
Push the kitten out of my skim chai latte (LOVE the Keurig milk frother!)
Yell at the dogs to get away from the kitten's crate-they love the litter and the food.
Shoo dogs out of office. Put up the gate and barricade the door.
Sigh when the Pomeranian starts whining. Let him in the office.
Yell at the ancient JRT when she knocks down the gate and tries to jump the barricade.
Go see what the other dogs are incessantly barking at.
Tell them to stop. They do. Walk away. Run back an yell at mixed breed who has returned to whoofing at the door. Look outside and assure myself that there is nothing there. Place hands over ears when all four dogs return to barking just because the mixed breed sees a bird in the lawn. Threaten all dogs with bodily harm if they don't stop. Stomp my feet to get their attention and tell them, "good dogs" when they look at me like I am possessed.
Go back to computer and type a few words. Sip what the kitten left of my skim chai latte. Pet kitten who has lovingly settled on my lap.
Get aggravated with JRT trying to force her way in. Move the kitten, who bites me to let me know he's annoyed at being moved. Lock the kitten's crate, move gate and unblock the door.
Type some more.
Grab kitten before he pees in a bucket of snake bedding (don't ask, I don't know why it's there either), unlock crate, shove kitten in box, lock crate.
Why are they barking now? Go look. Let them all outside to bark.
Hit the keyboard a few times.
Yell at the Brittany who is throwing himself at the door and barking to come back inside. After all, he's been out for a whole nano-second. (Yes, this is the dog who used to have an automatic doggy-door. It would open when he came near with his special collar. He burnt the motor out. Enough said.)
Let dogs three dogs in, let kitten out and relock crate.
Sit at the computer again.
Go let the fourth dog in, who couldn't be bothered to come to the door with the rest, he waits until I get comfortable and back into some semblance of a writing rhythm to emit a high pitched bark every three seconds, just in case I wasn't aware that he is ready to come in NOW.
Type until the JRT starts scratching at the crate's tray in an attempt to dump the kitten's food dish.
Push her away. Ok and yell a bit, then feel guilty for pushing and yelling because she is so ancient.
Type some more.
Break up dog fight between the old JRT and the mix (Maltese/Shih Tsu/JRT-what were they thinking? And what was my mother thinking when she adopted him...sigh) as they argue over who has the right to dig their way into the kitten crate for food. (And while I appreciate their kindness in wanting to clean the litter box, I must gracefully decline said offer.)
Clean litter box and remove food dish to a high shelf.
Type.
Yell at kitten who is climbing the shelf to get to his food.
Shoo dogs out of the room, yell at the JRT for trying to bite my foot, tell the Brittany to go lie down, break up another bicker session between the JRT who has snuck back to the kitten crate and the mix who now thinks it all belongs to him. Physically pick both up and throw them out of the room. Close the door and settle down to...
What did I want to write again? Oh. Yeah. Ok. Sip my cold skim chai latte. Revel in a moment of peace and quiet. The kitten comes back and snuggles on my lap again.
Type.
Until the Pomeranian starts whining and scratching at the door...
The bottom line is I decided to relax a bit and write at home. Yeah.
It goes something like this:
Push the kitten out of my skim chai latte (LOVE the Keurig milk frother!)
Yell at the dogs to get away from the kitten's crate-they love the litter and the food.
Shoo dogs out of office. Put up the gate and barricade the door.
Sigh when the Pomeranian starts whining. Let him in the office.
Yell at the ancient JRT when she knocks down the gate and tries to jump the barricade.
Go see what the other dogs are incessantly barking at.
Tell them to stop. They do. Walk away. Run back an yell at mixed breed who has returned to whoofing at the door. Look outside and assure myself that there is nothing there. Place hands over ears when all four dogs return to barking just because the mixed breed sees a bird in the lawn. Threaten all dogs with bodily harm if they don't stop. Stomp my feet to get their attention and tell them, "good dogs" when they look at me like I am possessed.
Go back to computer and type a few words. Sip what the kitten left of my skim chai latte. Pet kitten who has lovingly settled on my lap.
Get aggravated with JRT trying to force her way in. Move the kitten, who bites me to let me know he's annoyed at being moved. Lock the kitten's crate, move gate and unblock the door.
Type some more.
Grab kitten before he pees in a bucket of snake bedding (don't ask, I don't know why it's there either), unlock crate, shove kitten in box, lock crate.
Why are they barking now? Go look. Let them all outside to bark.
Hit the keyboard a few times.
Yell at the Brittany who is throwing himself at the door and barking to come back inside. After all, he's been out for a whole nano-second. (Yes, this is the dog who used to have an automatic doggy-door. It would open when he came near with his special collar. He burnt the motor out. Enough said.)
Let dogs three dogs in, let kitten out and relock crate.
Sit at the computer again.
Go let the fourth dog in, who couldn't be bothered to come to the door with the rest, he waits until I get comfortable and back into some semblance of a writing rhythm to emit a high pitched bark every three seconds, just in case I wasn't aware that he is ready to come in NOW.
Type until the JRT starts scratching at the crate's tray in an attempt to dump the kitten's food dish.
Push her away. Ok and yell a bit, then feel guilty for pushing and yelling because she is so ancient.
Type some more.
Break up dog fight between the old JRT and the mix (Maltese/Shih Tsu/JRT-what were they thinking? And what was my mother thinking when she adopted him...sigh) as they argue over who has the right to dig their way into the kitten crate for food. (And while I appreciate their kindness in wanting to clean the litter box, I must gracefully decline said offer.)
Clean litter box and remove food dish to a high shelf.
Type.
Yell at kitten who is climbing the shelf to get to his food.
Shoo dogs out of the room, yell at the JRT for trying to bite my foot, tell the Brittany to go lie down, break up another bicker session between the JRT who has snuck back to the kitten crate and the mix who now thinks it all belongs to him. Physically pick both up and throw them out of the room. Close the door and settle down to...
What did I want to write again? Oh. Yeah. Ok. Sip my cold skim chai latte. Revel in a moment of peace and quiet. The kitten comes back and snuggles on my lap again.
Type.
Until the Pomeranian starts whining and scratching at the door...
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Rainy Days
Here it is the end of another schizophrenic weather day and I have yet to accomplish anything. It was raining and breezy, then sunny and humid. I took my backpack, weighed down by my computer and all the possibility it contains, to my office. My intention was to finish barn chores and write until lunch, take a break and head back to the office.
I cleaned the barn, emptied the manure cart, dumped buckets, and swept up. There was a phone conversation with my sister. And I did watch the filly run like a possessed maniac around the paddock, but I was ready to work.
Unfortunately, I looked at the time when I finished the manual labor portion of my day. It was almost lunchtime. My stomach rumbled to remind me of my scant piece of toast breakfast. Ok. Food is good. I’ll go eat and come back with the kitten for company.
The best laid plans…
Lunch consisted of yogurt, strawberries and granola. I ate that while I finished my current pleasure reading. There was a knock on the door. A neighbor dropped off some invitations for some of the local horse-related shindigs-big foxhunting area and I wanted to get to know some more of the riding community. We chatted for a bit and I went back inside to finish up.
The phone rang. I caught up on the latest happenings at the farm in Vermont. The heater needs fixing. Of course.
Hung up the phone, yelled at the dog, who was barking at the sheep(actually the owner of the sheep and his dog. It was still annoying.)
Phone rings again. This time it was my friend, Anne, who keeps her “pony” (15 hand, heavily built Halflinger) in the sheep field.
“Did you eat lunch yet?”
“Umm…yeah.”
“Oh. I’m starving and I wondered if you wanted to meet, grab a bite to eat and then go with me to return things to Tractor Supply…”
“I could go with you…”
I had a cup of soup and a Diet Coke. And I wonder why my clothes keep getting tighter.
We ran errands, groomed her “pony,” and I came back inside. How could it be 3:00 already?
And I wonder why I am not published yet. I can only laugh at myself. I know there are days like these and I’m not sure if it’s a good sign that I am learning to accept that. Just yesterday, I was writing at a rate of about 500 words an hour. I surpassed my 10,000 word mark (last count was 12, 094). Progress.
So when I break 300 pounds and 5000 words a day, I can call that success!
I cleaned the barn, emptied the manure cart, dumped buckets, and swept up. There was a phone conversation with my sister. And I did watch the filly run like a possessed maniac around the paddock, but I was ready to work.
Unfortunately, I looked at the time when I finished the manual labor portion of my day. It was almost lunchtime. My stomach rumbled to remind me of my scant piece of toast breakfast. Ok. Food is good. I’ll go eat and come back with the kitten for company.
The best laid plans…
Lunch consisted of yogurt, strawberries and granola. I ate that while I finished my current pleasure reading. There was a knock on the door. A neighbor dropped off some invitations for some of the local horse-related shindigs-big foxhunting area and I wanted to get to know some more of the riding community. We chatted for a bit and I went back inside to finish up.
The phone rang. I caught up on the latest happenings at the farm in Vermont. The heater needs fixing. Of course.
Hung up the phone, yelled at the dog, who was barking at the sheep(actually the owner of the sheep and his dog. It was still annoying.)
Phone rings again. This time it was my friend, Anne, who keeps her “pony” (15 hand, heavily built Halflinger) in the sheep field.
“Did you eat lunch yet?”
“Umm…yeah.”
“Oh. I’m starving and I wondered if you wanted to meet, grab a bite to eat and then go with me to return things to Tractor Supply…”
“I could go with you…”
I had a cup of soup and a Diet Coke. And I wonder why my clothes keep getting tighter.
We ran errands, groomed her “pony,” and I came back inside. How could it be 3:00 already?
And I wonder why I am not published yet. I can only laugh at myself. I know there are days like these and I’m not sure if it’s a good sign that I am learning to accept that. Just yesterday, I was writing at a rate of about 500 words an hour. I surpassed my 10,000 word mark (last count was 12, 094). Progress.
So when I break 300 pounds and 5000 words a day, I can call that success!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Balance
There are all types of balance.
I just came from yoga class, so I am thinking of the literal practice of balance. Tree pose. I'm getting better. I can actually mimic a good tree. Until my yoga teacher cocks his head, in that way he has, and asks me to try to take the snake out of my tree.
What?
Then I catch a glance in the mirror. I may have imitated a tree, but it was not a very straight one-no mighty oak for me. Which made me think that I used to live at a farm where they described that kind of tree as a "craggle tree." I am a craggly tree.
I was told that recognizing my lack of linear alignment was part of the journey. Still working on it.
Then there is balancing all the things that demand my attention, namely, five cats, four dogs, and four horses. It's all about the routine. I am trying to allow myself time to write. But mainly these days, a lot of my time is spent trying to resist the lure of my iPhone 4 birthday present. I was happy with my old iPhone. I thought it was pretty neat. This new toy? A whole new level of mind crack.
Some "good" friends, (helpful, productive friends) suggested a few new apps. Angry Birds, Words with Friends, and then there is the reemergence of Snood on the desktop...
Plus there is mowing to be done, a garden to begin to put to bed, the patio furniture that still languishes in the garage, waiting to be brought back to the light of day. Piles of stuff, closets, and cabinets await organization.
And then there is making sure I have time to ride on those days when Mother Nature cooperates. My options are limited these days; the streams are still running high and quick. I have taken advantage of these limited opportunites to work a bit in the ring, trying out my other birthday present, a new bit for Tucker. What a miracle that is.
(I also got a gift certificate to a tack shop, along with a g-string that says "Barn Diva" on the front. My friend Anne has such a sense of humor. I think she meant to give those to Ramzi. he's the Barn Diva. I'm the "Tack Whore.")
But we are talking about balance.
Yesterday's ride was miraculous. It was magic. Tucker was forward, light in the hand, supple, and actually chewed the bit (that's a good thing). Walk, trot, canter, jump. It was like buttah.
Today's ride was a challenge. Tucker was trying to keep up with Velvet as she power-walked down the road. She and Anne were in full Morgan-on-a-mission mode down the trail. (The old nag. Sure) Tucker felt like he was saying "WTH? Really? I am NOT walking that fast. I CAN'T walk that fast. Please? I'm just going to trot. What? Putting my head in the air and inverting my neck is a bad thing?" He was good, but it wasn't buttah.
You can't have magic everyday. It has to be balanced by the mundane. It teaches humility. Just like Angry Birds and being an English Major/writer and getting your butt kicked in Words with Friends, while trying to take care of daily business. Throw in a craggly tree and I'm good to go.
I just came from yoga class, so I am thinking of the literal practice of balance. Tree pose. I'm getting better. I can actually mimic a good tree. Until my yoga teacher cocks his head, in that way he has, and asks me to try to take the snake out of my tree.
What?
Then I catch a glance in the mirror. I may have imitated a tree, but it was not a very straight one-no mighty oak for me. Which made me think that I used to live at a farm where they described that kind of tree as a "craggle tree." I am a craggly tree.
I was told that recognizing my lack of linear alignment was part of the journey. Still working on it.
Then there is balancing all the things that demand my attention, namely, five cats, four dogs, and four horses. It's all about the routine. I am trying to allow myself time to write. But mainly these days, a lot of my time is spent trying to resist the lure of my iPhone 4 birthday present. I was happy with my old iPhone. I thought it was pretty neat. This new toy? A whole new level of mind crack.
Some "good" friends, (helpful, productive friends) suggested a few new apps. Angry Birds, Words with Friends, and then there is the reemergence of Snood on the desktop...
Plus there is mowing to be done, a garden to begin to put to bed, the patio furniture that still languishes in the garage, waiting to be brought back to the light of day. Piles of stuff, closets, and cabinets await organization.
And then there is making sure I have time to ride on those days when Mother Nature cooperates. My options are limited these days; the streams are still running high and quick. I have taken advantage of these limited opportunites to work a bit in the ring, trying out my other birthday present, a new bit for Tucker. What a miracle that is.
(I also got a gift certificate to a tack shop, along with a g-string that says "Barn Diva" on the front. My friend Anne has such a sense of humor. I think she meant to give those to Ramzi. he's the Barn Diva. I'm the "Tack Whore.")
But we are talking about balance.
Yesterday's ride was miraculous. It was magic. Tucker was forward, light in the hand, supple, and actually chewed the bit (that's a good thing). Walk, trot, canter, jump. It was like buttah.
Today's ride was a challenge. Tucker was trying to keep up with Velvet as she power-walked down the road. She and Anne were in full Morgan-on-a-mission mode down the trail. (The old nag. Sure) Tucker felt like he was saying "WTH? Really? I am NOT walking that fast. I CAN'T walk that fast. Please? I'm just going to trot. What? Putting my head in the air and inverting my neck is a bad thing?" He was good, but it wasn't buttah.
You can't have magic everyday. It has to be balanced by the mundane. It teaches humility. Just like Angry Birds and being an English Major/writer and getting your butt kicked in Words with Friends, while trying to take care of daily business. Throw in a craggly tree and I'm good to go.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
No Real Point.
Let see. Do I go on about Vermont? Mention the piles of silt that have created beach-front properties in a land-locked state or the challenges of putting up a bannister, or do I wax poetic about holes in the roads; how you really can't get there from here? How about being able to catch up with at least some friends? It was nice.
Or I can write about writing or my jones for riding? I am such a whimp when it comes to trotting down the road in the rain. How about Gil's adventure with hives? It's very dramatic when a large animal throws himself down to itch frantically. It required quite a few injectables to get it under control. Then, because he rolls over so well (quite a feat for an equine) he kept getting stuck. Again dramatic and LOUD!
How about our fly infestation? Not fun when you have a touch screen computer. Who knew that a fly can open and close programs and move all the icons on your desktop?
Then there is the kitten, who now insists that he needs some of my breakfast toast, well, really he just wants some of whatever I have...but he's really cute about it. I took him to the barn office the other day. I put him in his little travelling bag, got in the truck, Putter jumped in and away we went. He was out and about before we were out of the driveway. He sat on my lap happily. Guess he told me.
And now there is water. Lots of water. The sump pump is going 24/7. And for that, I am extremely grateful. The last time there was half this much ground water, combined with a power outage, the basement filled with a foot of water. I can still see my oldest cat floating around on top of a trunk, yowling. The pump is now tied properly into the generator. And the basement is damp, but has not turned into an indoor wading pool. No floating kitties (or bouyant litter boxes-ick).
So today, when the rain abated for a time and, gasp, the sun came out. I tacked up my freshly bathed horse and headed out. The road was the only option. Down and back, with Tucker watching the rivers that ran down the edges. (I did convince him to trot through one- future eventer!) Even though he hadn't been exercised for almost a week, he was beautifully behaved. We came to a long incline, I gave him his head- permission to go as fast as he pleased. Keep in mind, he had won a race back in the day. He cantered. Then went a little faster. I was so happy to be out, exhilirated with the prospect of an adrenaline pumping gallop, anticipating the release of all his pent up energy. I leaned forward, anticipating a burst of blazing...oh...okay, you want to trot.
He did win a race back in the day.
Or I can write about writing or my jones for riding? I am such a whimp when it comes to trotting down the road in the rain. How about Gil's adventure with hives? It's very dramatic when a large animal throws himself down to itch frantically. It required quite a few injectables to get it under control. Then, because he rolls over so well (quite a feat for an equine) he kept getting stuck. Again dramatic and LOUD!
How about our fly infestation? Not fun when you have a touch screen computer. Who knew that a fly can open and close programs and move all the icons on your desktop?
Then there is the kitten, who now insists that he needs some of my breakfast toast, well, really he just wants some of whatever I have...but he's really cute about it. I took him to the barn office the other day. I put him in his little travelling bag, got in the truck, Putter jumped in and away we went. He was out and about before we were out of the driveway. He sat on my lap happily. Guess he told me.
And now there is water. Lots of water. The sump pump is going 24/7. And for that, I am extremely grateful. The last time there was half this much ground water, combined with a power outage, the basement filled with a foot of water. I can still see my oldest cat floating around on top of a trunk, yowling. The pump is now tied properly into the generator. And the basement is damp, but has not turned into an indoor wading pool. No floating kitties (or bouyant litter boxes-ick).
So today, when the rain abated for a time and, gasp, the sun came out. I tacked up my freshly bathed horse and headed out. The road was the only option. Down and back, with Tucker watching the rivers that ran down the edges. (I did convince him to trot through one- future eventer!) Even though he hadn't been exercised for almost a week, he was beautifully behaved. We came to a long incline, I gave him his head- permission to go as fast as he pleased. Keep in mind, he had won a race back in the day. He cantered. Then went a little faster. I was so happy to be out, exhilirated with the prospect of an adrenaline pumping gallop, anticipating the release of all his pent up energy. I leaned forward, anticipating a burst of blazing...oh...okay, you want to trot.
He did win a race back in the day.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Weathering the Storm
Irene came and went. For some, she was a non-event; a lot of rain and some wind. Here, I tucked away the grill, the lawn furniture, filled the hot tub, brought in the electric fencers and the water troughs. The horses were locked up in the barn. I was ready.
And Irene came, unleashed her wrath, but not on us.
Unfortunately, she dumped her fury-tempests of torrential rain-on a place we least expected, the lovely state I used to call home- Vermont.
It began with a text from my son asking if I'd seen the footage. No. I hadn't. He e-mailed links and I suddenly understood. I couldn't comprehend, but it was there, in full color. Bridges, familiar roads, farms and homes destroyed. Tiny, babbling brooks turned into walls of frothing water; the Williams river that runs through Chester, a waterway that my aunt used to laugh at- "they call that a river?", churned and raged, taking with it an historic covered bridge, as it roared down the valley.
It seems that not one road or town was unscathed. It is impossible to travel directly East to West across the state. The route I used to travel to work is simply gone in one spot. It was near a river. Actually, it was about 100 feet above a river, the steep bank forested with large trees. You could hardly notice the water, seemingly so far away. You notice it now. The pavement is gone, dropping off those 100 or so feet, down into an impassable oblivion.
And that is only one. Communities are cut off, some brave souls making contact over hill and dale with horses and ATVs. No power. No water. No phone. And no way in or out.
I still can't believe it. I look at the pictures. I e-mail and call those friends with power and phone to make sure they are alright. They say they are. Vermonters are made of incredibly resilient stuff.
I know there are other states and communities hit hard by this storm. The shorelines are battered, parts of New Jersey are still flooding, the Catskill region has washouts, too.
Where I live and in nearby New York City, there is a sigh of relief. We dodged a bullet.
But so many did not.
And Irene came, unleashed her wrath, but not on us.
Unfortunately, she dumped her fury-tempests of torrential rain-on a place we least expected, the lovely state I used to call home- Vermont.
It began with a text from my son asking if I'd seen the footage. No. I hadn't. He e-mailed links and I suddenly understood. I couldn't comprehend, but it was there, in full color. Bridges, familiar roads, farms and homes destroyed. Tiny, babbling brooks turned into walls of frothing water; the Williams river that runs through Chester, a waterway that my aunt used to laugh at- "they call that a river?", churned and raged, taking with it an historic covered bridge, as it roared down the valley.
It seems that not one road or town was unscathed. It is impossible to travel directly East to West across the state. The route I used to travel to work is simply gone in one spot. It was near a river. Actually, it was about 100 feet above a river, the steep bank forested with large trees. You could hardly notice the water, seemingly so far away. You notice it now. The pavement is gone, dropping off those 100 or so feet, down into an impassable oblivion.
And that is only one. Communities are cut off, some brave souls making contact over hill and dale with horses and ATVs. No power. No water. No phone. And no way in or out.
I still can't believe it. I look at the pictures. I e-mail and call those friends with power and phone to make sure they are alright. They say they are. Vermonters are made of incredibly resilient stuff.
I know there are other states and communities hit hard by this storm. The shorelines are battered, parts of New Jersey are still flooding, the Catskill region has washouts, too.
Where I live and in nearby New York City, there is a sigh of relief. We dodged a bullet.
But so many did not.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Four Years Seems Like Yesterday
Grief is a process that never ends.
Four years ago today, I was awakened at 5:30AM, by a policeman's knock on my door.
Everyone who knows me or my sister, knows the story. Time has passed, it gets easier in some ways. Though it never passes completely.
Eulogy
It’s amazing that one family could produce two such strong and unique women.
First, there was my mom, Bettyann. Then, seven years later Snooker came along. Snooker told me repeatedly that my mom was the best sister anyone could have had.
For my sister and me, mom was always a role model. Strong, driven, and unwilling to let anything or anyone stand in the way of what needed to be done. We wanted to please her, but she set the bar high.
Overcoming the repercussions of a terrible accident when she was in high school, my mom turned her natural drive into an unstoppable force. Her favorite response to teenage whining sums it up: “There’s no such thing as can’t”. Throughout our lives, even when we couldn’t fully appreciate her achievements, my sister and I knew she was doing incredible things.
She was the strength and motivation for our family, the protector and provider. The Queen.
Snooker was both the court jester and archivist.
Through both of them I was able to see the country. With Snooker there was her beloved Hawaii. When I was eight, I was there for one glorious summer and then our road trip when I was 10, which took us from Denver to LA with so many stops in between.
My mother showed us parts of Texas, Arizona, Colorado and Ohio we had never heard of- not the tourist places but, she’d always try to show us something- even if it sometimes involved 2 or 3 carsick, crowded and bickering hours. And she allowed me the opportunity to spend a glorious month in Prague- something I’d never dreamed I’d actually do.
When each moved to Vermont my world was altered completely.
First Snooker arrived. And in the past 11 years I have had her present in my life- not just a random phone call (This is your auntie Snooker) or at various holidays and family events. She was here. And now weekends were gardening and shopping trips for plants in the summer and craft supplies or books in the winter. Just recently, I had finally figured out how to get her out of Wal-mart or Ocean State Job Lots in less than 2 hours.
My mom only begun to adjust to Vermont and we were beginning to work out our schedule. I was learning that a trip to the dump was now a joint effort, and that while she was “perfectly capable of doing this on her own since she had lived by herself for the past 14 years, she would go grocery shopping with me if I wanted”.
There were times in the past six months when I would feel like a ping-pong ball caught between those two and outings with them were lessons in listening (To 2 conversations and opinions at once) and patience (they would pause to let me answer sometimes).
But my mother gave me support and allowed me to live with the horses and the farm. She allowed me to go to school and she pushed when I was unsure.
And Snooker would have given me the shirt off her back- thank god she didn’t have to because she had 4 brand new ones with tags in a drawer- it’s a men’s x-large in orange and pink stripes, but you can wear it in the barn. And she has given Anne a new lifelong hobby on E-bay. I’m sure there is someone who wants 10 boxes of various seedpods, pinecones, and waxed leaves.
They leave a tremendous hole in my family’s life. They were vibrant, so full of energy and life- not little old ladies slowing down, but forces of nature.
We will never fill this hole. We will have to learn to work and live around it. But whenever it becomes too much, or a task seems insurmountable, their legacy will be there. Because Snooker left us plenty to do and as my mother always believed- there is no such thing as “Can’t”.
Notes on My Mother
A lioness hunts and watches,
Protecting, and providing
For her pride.
While the hummingbird
Flits here and there
Searching for sustenance.
The terrier is feisty and loud,
Persistent, and fearless,
Despite its small stature.
The strong wind buffets
And pushes
All in its path
So suddenly
There is stillness.
We stagger and stumble
When we are abruptly
Abandoned by the wind.
The ears go wanting,
Anticipating the chaos
Of the terrier’s bark.
This garden becomes
Static, lacking
That hummingbird’s flight.
While, a world away
The lioness finally reclines
And surveys her domain.
Four years ago today, I was awakened at 5:30AM, by a policeman's knock on my door.
Everyone who knows me or my sister, knows the story. Time has passed, it gets easier in some ways. Though it never passes completely.
Eulogy
It’s amazing that one family could produce two such strong and unique women.
First, there was my mom, Bettyann. Then, seven years later Snooker came along. Snooker told me repeatedly that my mom was the best sister anyone could have had.
For my sister and me, mom was always a role model. Strong, driven, and unwilling to let anything or anyone stand in the way of what needed to be done. We wanted to please her, but she set the bar high.
Overcoming the repercussions of a terrible accident when she was in high school, my mom turned her natural drive into an unstoppable force. Her favorite response to teenage whining sums it up: “There’s no such thing as can’t”. Throughout our lives, even when we couldn’t fully appreciate her achievements, my sister and I knew she was doing incredible things.
She was the strength and motivation for our family, the protector and provider. The Queen.
Snooker was both the court jester and archivist.
Through both of them I was able to see the country. With Snooker there was her beloved Hawaii. When I was eight, I was there for one glorious summer and then our road trip when I was 10, which took us from Denver to LA with so many stops in between.
My mother showed us parts of Texas, Arizona, Colorado and Ohio we had never heard of- not the tourist places but, she’d always try to show us something- even if it sometimes involved 2 or 3 carsick, crowded and bickering hours. And she allowed me the opportunity to spend a glorious month in Prague- something I’d never dreamed I’d actually do.
When each moved to Vermont my world was altered completely.
First Snooker arrived. And in the past 11 years I have had her present in my life- not just a random phone call (This is your auntie Snooker) or at various holidays and family events. She was here. And now weekends were gardening and shopping trips for plants in the summer and craft supplies or books in the winter. Just recently, I had finally figured out how to get her out of Wal-mart or Ocean State Job Lots in less than 2 hours.
My mom only begun to adjust to Vermont and we were beginning to work out our schedule. I was learning that a trip to the dump was now a joint effort, and that while she was “perfectly capable of doing this on her own since she had lived by herself for the past 14 years, she would go grocery shopping with me if I wanted”.
There were times in the past six months when I would feel like a ping-pong ball caught between those two and outings with them were lessons in listening (To 2 conversations and opinions at once) and patience (they would pause to let me answer sometimes).
But my mother gave me support and allowed me to live with the horses and the farm. She allowed me to go to school and she pushed when I was unsure.
And Snooker would have given me the shirt off her back- thank god she didn’t have to because she had 4 brand new ones with tags in a drawer- it’s a men’s x-large in orange and pink stripes, but you can wear it in the barn. And she has given Anne a new lifelong hobby on E-bay. I’m sure there is someone who wants 10 boxes of various seedpods, pinecones, and waxed leaves.
They leave a tremendous hole in my family’s life. They were vibrant, so full of energy and life- not little old ladies slowing down, but forces of nature.
We will never fill this hole. We will have to learn to work and live around it. But whenever it becomes too much, or a task seems insurmountable, their legacy will be there. Because Snooker left us plenty to do and as my mother always believed- there is no such thing as “Can’t”.
Notes on My Mother
A lioness hunts and watches,
Protecting, and providing
For her pride.
While the hummingbird
Flits here and there
Searching for sustenance.
The terrier is feisty and loud,
Persistent, and fearless,
Despite its small stature.
The strong wind buffets
And pushes
All in its path
So suddenly
There is stillness.
We stagger and stumble
When we are abruptly
Abandoned by the wind.
The ears go wanting,
Anticipating the chaos
Of the terrier’s bark.
This garden becomes
Static, lacking
That hummingbird’s flight.
While, a world away
The lioness finally reclines
And surveys her domain.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
I Married a Barn Princess*
No. I have not changed teams. Yes. I am still married to Mr. W. But...he does become a bit...pampered? Demanding? Perfectionist? When he is in the barn.
And he is in the barn a lot more these days due to the arrival of his horse-a two-year old Morgan filly. Add to the adventure is a leased older mare for him to ride while we (I) train the youngster.
I have to say, they are great additions to the barn. Gil, the bucking bronc is doing his best tryout as a teaser stallion. And, I have to say, he is excelling at it. He could have a future job. I digress.
At first, Mr. W. was apprehensive about the mare. Not the filly. He was excited about the filly. However, he was worried that the mare, being older might be an "old nag." Right. I know the breeder. She has wonderful horses and both of these girls are wonderfully perfect.
Icey, the youngster, is intelligent and affectionate. She hasn't done much in her short life, but judging from the way she marched onto the trailer to get here (she'd never seen one before) I'd say she's something special. I admit to a wee bit of bias there.
Enter Velvet, the "old nag." Cough. Cough. She has a heart of gold, a spring in her step and a happy gleam in her eye, not to mention a crush on Gil right now. My first ride on Velvet proved that she was more than enough horse for Mr. W.- she marched right out to the ring, picked up her paces on cue and when we strolled around the fields, she stepped out like she owned the place.
Which leads me to today, when I finally pestered Mr. W. enough to finally throw a leg over the saddle; when I learned that I had married a barn princess.
Step one: Arrive at the barn. Feed the girls, bring in the boys(they are on night turnout), pick stalls, throw hay, fill water, and start to set out the tack while the horses digest breakfast.
Step two: Get ready to ride. I squeezed my legs into chaps that barely fit(they are a legacy from a skinnier time- I'm doing my best to stretch them to my current dimensions). Meanwhile, Mr. W. asked where his were.
He does have custom chaps, but he hasn't tried his on since before most middle-school children were born. I don't even think he knows where they are. I offered him a nearly new set of half-chaps. He put them on.
"They're too long! I can't bend my knees. I can't ride if I can't bend my knees."
Obviously, he has never had to break in a brand new pair of field boots, had the pleasure of trying to ride as the circulation in your lower leg is cut off by the inflexible leather biting through the back of your knee, while you pray the ankle breaks down quickly...
Mind you he was complaining while in a half-squat- almost perfect riding position. But he wasn't comfortable. So...I offered to wrap his lower legs in polo wraps. The look on his face said it all.
He was going to have to ride without chaps.
Step three: Helmets. He put his on and fumbled with the chinstrap. I had borrowed his helmet to give pony rides to a few children. Perhaps the strap was a bit tight. I don't think that warrented the choking noises. It wasn't that tight. He didn't turn blue, after all. I loosened it.
Step four: "Are you sure this is the right saddle pad?"
"Is this girth too long?"
"This is the bridle you used on her last time, right?"
"These strap keepers are really tight!"
I was starting to doubt his enthusiasm.
Step five: We brought our horses out to the mounting block. I told him to go first, so I could give him a hand if he needed. I also warned him that Velvet was, perhaps built differently than some of the horses he'd ridden the last few decades. She's definitely not fat, but her natural build is...well, a bit rounder. I suggested he check his girth before mounting.
"I have ridden before, you know."
Yes. I know. We rode together last year a couple of times. How soon I forget.
Step six: Tighten girth. Go to mounting block. Position horse. Curse as she steps slightly away. Get off mounting block. Tell horsey to stay. Repeat. "Whoa!" Repeat until horsey stays. Put foot in the stirrup.
Step seven: Whine about his severely tilted saddle. "Now what do I do?" (I was laughing too hard to answer.) Get off severly tilted saddle. Curse loudly.
"I told you the girth was too long."
"Now I have to undo everything and put it back to the center!" He didn't fall to the ground and kick and yell like a toddler, but it seemed close.
Tucker and I headed back into the barn. I tied up his reins and threatened him with bodily harm if he even thought of rolling with my saddle on.
Step eight: Straighten saddle. Adjust stirrup length and hold opposite stirrup as Mr. W. swings his leg over. Check girth and stirrups.
Okay. I did ask him if he wanted me to get a rope and lead him out to the ring, too. He politely declined my offer by squeezing his legs on Velvet's sides and sauntering away.
I ran back and retrieved Tucker, mounted up and met Mr. W. in the ring. We proceeded to have an incredibly relaxing ride around the hay fields. It was perfect.
We're just going to have to get him some chaps that fit. And a personal groom.
*This post was suggested by Mr. W. himself- "You mean you are not going to write about today??"
And he is in the barn a lot more these days due to the arrival of his horse-a two-year old Morgan filly. Add to the adventure is a leased older mare for him to ride while we (I) train the youngster.
I have to say, they are great additions to the barn. Gil, the bucking bronc is doing his best tryout as a teaser stallion. And, I have to say, he is excelling at it. He could have a future job. I digress.
At first, Mr. W. was apprehensive about the mare. Not the filly. He was excited about the filly. However, he was worried that the mare, being older might be an "old nag." Right. I know the breeder. She has wonderful horses and both of these girls are wonderfully perfect.
Icey, the youngster, is intelligent and affectionate. She hasn't done much in her short life, but judging from the way she marched onto the trailer to get here (she'd never seen one before) I'd say she's something special. I admit to a wee bit of bias there.
Enter Velvet, the "old nag." Cough. Cough. She has a heart of gold, a spring in her step and a happy gleam in her eye, not to mention a crush on Gil right now. My first ride on Velvet proved that she was more than enough horse for Mr. W.- she marched right out to the ring, picked up her paces on cue and when we strolled around the fields, she stepped out like she owned the place.
Which leads me to today, when I finally pestered Mr. W. enough to finally throw a leg over the saddle; when I learned that I had married a barn princess.
Step one: Arrive at the barn. Feed the girls, bring in the boys(they are on night turnout), pick stalls, throw hay, fill water, and start to set out the tack while the horses digest breakfast.
Step two: Get ready to ride. I squeezed my legs into chaps that barely fit(they are a legacy from a skinnier time- I'm doing my best to stretch them to my current dimensions). Meanwhile, Mr. W. asked where his were.
He does have custom chaps, but he hasn't tried his on since before most middle-school children were born. I don't even think he knows where they are. I offered him a nearly new set of half-chaps. He put them on.
"They're too long! I can't bend my knees. I can't ride if I can't bend my knees."
Obviously, he has never had to break in a brand new pair of field boots, had the pleasure of trying to ride as the circulation in your lower leg is cut off by the inflexible leather biting through the back of your knee, while you pray the ankle breaks down quickly...
Mind you he was complaining while in a half-squat- almost perfect riding position. But he wasn't comfortable. So...I offered to wrap his lower legs in polo wraps. The look on his face said it all.
He was going to have to ride without chaps.
Step three: Helmets. He put his on and fumbled with the chinstrap. I had borrowed his helmet to give pony rides to a few children. Perhaps the strap was a bit tight. I don't think that warrented the choking noises. It wasn't that tight. He didn't turn blue, after all. I loosened it.
Step four: "Are you sure this is the right saddle pad?"
"Is this girth too long?"
"This is the bridle you used on her last time, right?"
"These strap keepers are really tight!"
I was starting to doubt his enthusiasm.
Step five: We brought our horses out to the mounting block. I told him to go first, so I could give him a hand if he needed. I also warned him that Velvet was, perhaps built differently than some of the horses he'd ridden the last few decades. She's definitely not fat, but her natural build is...well, a bit rounder. I suggested he check his girth before mounting.
"I have ridden before, you know."
Yes. I know. We rode together last year a couple of times. How soon I forget.
Step six: Tighten girth. Go to mounting block. Position horse. Curse as she steps slightly away. Get off mounting block. Tell horsey to stay. Repeat. "Whoa!" Repeat until horsey stays. Put foot in the stirrup.
Step seven: Whine about his severely tilted saddle. "Now what do I do?" (I was laughing too hard to answer.) Get off severly tilted saddle. Curse loudly.
"I told you the girth was too long."
"Now I have to undo everything and put it back to the center!" He didn't fall to the ground and kick and yell like a toddler, but it seemed close.
Tucker and I headed back into the barn. I tied up his reins and threatened him with bodily harm if he even thought of rolling with my saddle on.
Step eight: Straighten saddle. Adjust stirrup length and hold opposite stirrup as Mr. W. swings his leg over. Check girth and stirrups.
Okay. I did ask him if he wanted me to get a rope and lead him out to the ring, too. He politely declined my offer by squeezing his legs on Velvet's sides and sauntering away.
I ran back and retrieved Tucker, mounted up and met Mr. W. in the ring. We proceeded to have an incredibly relaxing ride around the hay fields. It was perfect.
We're just going to have to get him some chaps that fit. And a personal groom.
*This post was suggested by Mr. W. himself- "You mean you are not going to write about today??"
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Of Things Not Done
Well, today could have been considered a failure. In the time management, productive world, then yes, I didn't achieve a whole lot. But after weeks of insane scheduling and rushing from one get-together to another, it was nice to stop and smell the coming Autumn.
In addition, we have added two more horses to the daily chore list. One is a two-year-old sweet bundle of energy and possibility. The other is a dignified mare of fifteen years. Both are Morgans and Mr. W.'s. We're all still adjusting to the increased barnload and activity, but it's all good.
I have poison ivy, I may have Lyme (waiting for test results- if I was of the canine persuasion, the answer would take all of eight minutes. For a human, it takes about a week. Go figure. Woof.), and a head full of ideas for the projects I have. Essentially, I am itchy and tired, with an overactive imagination. I am not the best company these days.
Today, we slept late-at least until the bull next-door, who I call Pedro (Ferdinand was taken)began bellowing like..well, I don't really know how to describe it- something between love-sick and lungs exploding. All I know is, its LOUD!
We turned the horses out, came back for breakfast, and my phone rang. My son was on his way to visit!
All plans flew out the window. He arrived, we had lunch,introduced him to the new additions, looked at wedding and honeymoon pics, raided the garden, and he wound every animal in the house to bursting.
I didn't ride. I did not weed the garden. The lawn remains unmowed, nothing was unthawed for dinner so Mr.W ate cereal and I had yogurt, fruit and granola. I spent most of the evening putting some of my frantic thoughts into the computer.
But I had precious time with my only child, a luxury in these days of his young-adulthood (understandably) and current tenure in Colorado.
I am still itchy. Still tired. I feel so out of shape for riding, behind in my house/farm projects, and especially my writing projects, but it doesn't matter. because today was a perfect day.
In addition, we have added two more horses to the daily chore list. One is a two-year-old sweet bundle of energy and possibility. The other is a dignified mare of fifteen years. Both are Morgans and Mr. W.'s. We're all still adjusting to the increased barnload and activity, but it's all good.
I have poison ivy, I may have Lyme (waiting for test results- if I was of the canine persuasion, the answer would take all of eight minutes. For a human, it takes about a week. Go figure. Woof.), and a head full of ideas for the projects I have. Essentially, I am itchy and tired, with an overactive imagination. I am not the best company these days.
Today, we slept late-at least until the bull next-door, who I call Pedro (Ferdinand was taken)began bellowing like..well, I don't really know how to describe it- something between love-sick and lungs exploding. All I know is, its LOUD!
We turned the horses out, came back for breakfast, and my phone rang. My son was on his way to visit!
All plans flew out the window. He arrived, we had lunch,introduced him to the new additions, looked at wedding and honeymoon pics, raided the garden, and he wound every animal in the house to bursting.
I didn't ride. I did not weed the garden. The lawn remains unmowed, nothing was unthawed for dinner so Mr.W ate cereal and I had yogurt, fruit and granola. I spent most of the evening putting some of my frantic thoughts into the computer.
But I had precious time with my only child, a luxury in these days of his young-adulthood (understandably) and current tenure in Colorado.
I am still itchy. Still tired. I feel so out of shape for riding, behind in my house/farm projects, and especially my writing projects, but it doesn't matter. because today was a perfect day.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Narcissism and Memoir
I just finished reading a memoir. Of sorts. It was a self-published book. And it had to do with Vermont. Sort of.
As I ponder the things I want to write, my life is, I admit something I like to write about. Hence this blog. It leads me to ask myself, "Is this writing thing all one big exercise in self-promotion?"
It might just be.
So are the hours I spend in my office, typing away, my excuse to dwell in my own reflection? Well...
No. Although I do steal events, emotions, and even personal charcteristics from "real" life to populate created stories, and contrary to what I write in this blog, my favorite word is not "I." it;s true, I am as self-absorbed as the next girl, but I really don't think I am the most interesting being on the planet.
Which brings me to the book I just read. Honestly, it may even have my most hated, Eat Pray Love beat in the OMG-I-am-so-special-everyone-needs-to-read-about-it category. Of course I believe that my most recent read has sold maybe 10 copies. And if you read the reviews on Amazon (all 5 star, excellent read) you can easily figure out that all of the reviewers are friends of the author.
As I ponder the things I want to write, my life is, I admit something I like to write about. Hence this blog. It leads me to ask myself, "Is this writing thing all one big exercise in self-promotion?"
It might just be.
So are the hours I spend in my office, typing away, my excuse to dwell in my own reflection? Well...
No. Although I do steal events, emotions, and even personal charcteristics from "real" life to populate created stories, and contrary to what I write in this blog, my favorite word is not "I." it;s true, I am as self-absorbed as the next girl, but I really don't think I am the most interesting being on the planet.
Which brings me to the book I just read. Honestly, it may even have my most hated, Eat Pray Love beat in the OMG-I-am-so-special-everyone-needs-to-read-about-it category. Of course I believe that my most recent read has sold maybe 10 copies. And if you read the reviews on Amazon (all 5 star, excellent read) you can easily figure out that all of the reviewers are friends of the author.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Projects, Projects, Projects
So much to do! Not only am I rising early to ride before the heat index climbs over the century mark (not an easy task), but the extra daylight has inspired a huge increase in my artistic motivation.
Most afternoons find me heading to my office, laptop, kitten and dog in tow. I grab a bottle of water from the barn fridge, turn on the fan, boot up and get to work. Each day, I spend a couple of hours seated at my desk. Even if I am blocked, spend some time watching the kitten explore, flip through an old New Yorker, or scan the pages of one of my horse books, somehow, just being in a place I set up for writing, sets my fingers typing and, eventually, the words flow. And it's a good thing, because I actually have prijects!
I am working on a rewrite for my sister (she had a book ghost-written! I'd be offended if I didn't get to fix it). For myself, I am revisiting my last short story honing it for hopeful publication. On the re-read I actually liked it more than when I had let it sit. Shocker! I have also been asked to help with the memoir/biography of someone I love and admire. Such an amazing opportunity and project. I am ecstatic over it!
All of this, while adding to my daily workload, actually helps me. I work much better under pressure, a trait I discovered while juggling work, a farm, a commute, and school. The more I have to do, the more structured I become. Too much leeway leaves me floating along in a lazy daze. And the enthusiasm I have for these projects will carry me through those times when my motivation and creative juices lag. Just as my goal to show before the season is out, gets me out of bed at the crack of dawn.
Less time to worry, means less time to obsess over the realization (almost daily,, it seems) that everyone around me has published their work. Nevermind the fact that nearly all of these tomes are self-published, they are a constant reminder that if I want to be a writer, I have to write!
Most afternoons find me heading to my office, laptop, kitten and dog in tow. I grab a bottle of water from the barn fridge, turn on the fan, boot up and get to work. Each day, I spend a couple of hours seated at my desk. Even if I am blocked, spend some time watching the kitten explore, flip through an old New Yorker, or scan the pages of one of my horse books, somehow, just being in a place I set up for writing, sets my fingers typing and, eventually, the words flow. And it's a good thing, because I actually have prijects!
I am working on a rewrite for my sister (she had a book ghost-written! I'd be offended if I didn't get to fix it). For myself, I am revisiting my last short story honing it for hopeful publication. On the re-read I actually liked it more than when I had let it sit. Shocker! I have also been asked to help with the memoir/biography of someone I love and admire. Such an amazing opportunity and project. I am ecstatic over it!
All of this, while adding to my daily workload, actually helps me. I work much better under pressure, a trait I discovered while juggling work, a farm, a commute, and school. The more I have to do, the more structured I become. Too much leeway leaves me floating along in a lazy daze. And the enthusiasm I have for these projects will carry me through those times when my motivation and creative juices lag. Just as my goal to show before the season is out, gets me out of bed at the crack of dawn.
Less time to worry, means less time to obsess over the realization (almost daily,, it seems) that everyone around me has published their work. Nevermind the fact that nearly all of these tomes are self-published, they are a constant reminder that if I want to be a writer, I have to write!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Off and Running
These days it seems that my cup runneth over with everything but sleep. The house is cluttered. Wedding gifts that have not found their place perch upon the stacks of paper piled during the pre-wedding chaos- they must have bred during the honeymoon, becuase there couldn't possibly have been that much... Clothes litter my closet and the bedroom floor, unpacked but unwashed. Hey! I did one load of laundry last week.
The vegetable garden is being slowly rescued from the weeds- I keep uncovering tomato plants. But only a couple of pepper plants survived. The beans grew well an are about finished, cucumbers are coming, and I harvested the first zucchini. In these days of sun-baked rainlessness, water dancing occupies a chunk of the day. The dance doesn't beg the gods for sky moisture, it involves the dragging of the hose, hooking up sprinklers, and making sure all of my plantings get a good drink. It's good when I remember to turn the hoses off, too. Unlike last night, when the weltering heat was unrelieved by the ceiling fan and I roamed the house closing windows, and turning on the AC. As I pushed the panes closed in the guest bedroom, I heard the sprinkle of water against the house. Needless to say, the front lawn is well-soaked.
I have multiple writing projects and I have actually worked on them. Amazing! The office in the barn is functional now. Imagine my surprise when, all ready to work, I attempted to plug my laptop into the only outlet in the room, to discover it had only two prongs. My plug had three. Hmm... It was a quick switch and now we are ready. Except for an expired Microsoft Office subscription and I can't find my disc or product code from the copy I bought a couple of years ago. Minor problem.
We have been trying to catch up with friends and family, filling them full of pictures and tales of our adventures, and generally slipping back into the mundane routines of life.
The only glitch, or glitches in this reintegration are our lovely dogs (and an uber-demanding kitten). In our absence, the dogs decided that sleeping until 7:30 just would not do. They want to be up and out at 5:30! I am very sorry for our housesitters.
I have decided to roll with it and get up. It works out well. I can get the horses in, tack up, and get in a good ride before the bugs and heat are really horrible. This schedule is ideal. Except for one little thing...
A Dance with Dragons, a tome I have eagerly awaited for FIVE years, has been published and it's 900+ pages beckon every free moment. Unfortunately, that usually means bedtime. But once I start, I CAN. NOT. PUT. IT. DOWN.
The dogs don't care.
Diet Coke and coffe consumption are up. Generally, I think I am handling the heat, sleepiness, overall frustration with the mess that surrounds me, the drops that need to go into MR. W.s' irritated eye(ER visit. Not fun) four times a day, the kitten's demands, and barking dogs very well. Though, I might be getting slightly testy by the afternoon... Maybe I should pencil in a nap.
The vegetable garden is being slowly rescued from the weeds- I keep uncovering tomato plants. But only a couple of pepper plants survived. The beans grew well an are about finished, cucumbers are coming, and I harvested the first zucchini. In these days of sun-baked rainlessness, water dancing occupies a chunk of the day. The dance doesn't beg the gods for sky moisture, it involves the dragging of the hose, hooking up sprinklers, and making sure all of my plantings get a good drink. It's good when I remember to turn the hoses off, too. Unlike last night, when the weltering heat was unrelieved by the ceiling fan and I roamed the house closing windows, and turning on the AC. As I pushed the panes closed in the guest bedroom, I heard the sprinkle of water against the house. Needless to say, the front lawn is well-soaked.
I have multiple writing projects and I have actually worked on them. Amazing! The office in the barn is functional now. Imagine my surprise when, all ready to work, I attempted to plug my laptop into the only outlet in the room, to discover it had only two prongs. My plug had three. Hmm... It was a quick switch and now we are ready. Except for an expired Microsoft Office subscription and I can't find my disc or product code from the copy I bought a couple of years ago. Minor problem.
We have been trying to catch up with friends and family, filling them full of pictures and tales of our adventures, and generally slipping back into the mundane routines of life.
The only glitch, or glitches in this reintegration are our lovely dogs (and an uber-demanding kitten). In our absence, the dogs decided that sleeping until 7:30 just would not do. They want to be up and out at 5:30! I am very sorry for our housesitters.
I have decided to roll with it and get up. It works out well. I can get the horses in, tack up, and get in a good ride before the bugs and heat are really horrible. This schedule is ideal. Except for one little thing...
A Dance with Dragons, a tome I have eagerly awaited for FIVE years, has been published and it's 900+ pages beckon every free moment. Unfortunately, that usually means bedtime. But once I start, I CAN. NOT. PUT. IT. DOWN.
The dogs don't care.
Diet Coke and coffe consumption are up. Generally, I think I am handling the heat, sleepiness, overall frustration with the mess that surrounds me, the drops that need to go into MR. W.s' irritated eye(ER visit. Not fun) four times a day, the kitten's demands, and barking dogs very well. Though, I might be getting slightly testy by the afternoon... Maybe I should pencil in a nap.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Dust is Settling
The wedding is over. It passed in a blur that require pictures to remember correctly. We were blessed with perfect weather, great food, a future broadway star singing my processional, and an awesome band, who put up with my inability to choose music with calm assurance.
Not to mention the week of celebratory events that led up to the big day, a bachelor dinner for Mr. W. (my sister and I spent the evening at the mall picking up last minute items for the honeymoon- which was, in its own way, a perfect way to celebrate), a barbeque in our backyard for the wedding party and out-of-town guests, the rehearsal and dinner, wedding, and brunch the next day. By the way, Serevan restaurant is THE BEST!
Then the honeymoon, which provided so much blog fodder, material that I will gleefully torture my readers with in the coming days. Again, magical, but also an opportunity to broaden my horizons and see more of what the world offers. A humbling experience, to say the least.
So now we are back, slipping ourselves into a routine. For me, that means committing to all of those things I neglected during the whirlwind of wedding planning. My office is finished, the desk beckons, and my project list demands my attention. It is time to discipline my scattered mind, manage my distractions(I admit that I am not strong enough to ignore them completely, but the skills I employed that got me through college must be dusted off and used again), and give the work I love a chance to blossom.
Failure is guaranteed if I don't try.
With the kitten I found before the wedding still here-and biting at my ankles as I type-I am pushing off into my other world, full of fresh imagery and new ideas, and determined to stay out of my own way.
Not to mention the week of celebratory events that led up to the big day, a bachelor dinner for Mr. W. (my sister and I spent the evening at the mall picking up last minute items for the honeymoon- which was, in its own way, a perfect way to celebrate), a barbeque in our backyard for the wedding party and out-of-town guests, the rehearsal and dinner, wedding, and brunch the next day. By the way, Serevan restaurant is THE BEST!
Then the honeymoon, which provided so much blog fodder, material that I will gleefully torture my readers with in the coming days. Again, magical, but also an opportunity to broaden my horizons and see more of what the world offers. A humbling experience, to say the least.
So now we are back, slipping ourselves into a routine. For me, that means committing to all of those things I neglected during the whirlwind of wedding planning. My office is finished, the desk beckons, and my project list demands my attention. It is time to discipline my scattered mind, manage my distractions(I admit that I am not strong enough to ignore them completely, but the skills I employed that got me through college must be dusted off and used again), and give the work I love a chance to blossom.
Failure is guaranteed if I don't try.
With the kitten I found before the wedding still here-and biting at my ankles as I type-I am pushing off into my other world, full of fresh imagery and new ideas, and determined to stay out of my own way.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Just Another Few Days in Paradise
Tuesday was my dress fitting. All went well and, unless I lose a great deal of weight(unlikely, especially when I ate a Shake Shack Burger, cheese fries andd HUGE plate of Chicken and Broccoli Alfredo for lunch and dinner) or gain back all the weight I've lost, I do not need another fitting. The dress fits perfectly!
Sheryl and I spent the day wandering around Chelsea. We saw a guy with a parrot in a cage strapped to his back, leading a Min Pin decked out in the cutest tiny pink doggie sneakers. A lady on a bike serenaded us with a song touting the benefits of being vegan, while we were in line to order our burgers and cheese fries. And I gave a guy, who was hocking his CDs, 10 bucks because:
a)I thought it would be good karma to give him a chance-after all, he was on the streets selling his "vision";
b)I am a horrible haggler; and
c) I am a sucker who is not good at saying "no thanks" under pressure.
We plugged the cd in as soon as we got in the car. And there we were, two white women of a certain age, riding around NYC in a mud-spattered Mercedes, windows down, and head bobbing to the hip-hop beat. It was a vision.
But the music isn't bad, interesting beats and he sampled the Red Hot Chili Peppers. not bad at all.
The rest of the day was spent driving around the fabric/garment district looking for a place to park, but parking is only available at the most wallet-raping garages in the city. Well, at least now we know where it is.
I spent the next day at a horse show. Enough said there.(I did rememeber to put on sunscreen and wear a hat).
At 2AM that night/morning, I let Putter outside(yes, I let him drink a bucket of water before bed. Again.) As I opened the screen door, I heard it. Not the screech of the foxes that live in the sheep pasture, nor the lowing of the Black Angus(and the bull was thankfully not screaming either), nor the blat of the sheep. No coyotes could be heard. Instead, the loud mew of a kitten filled my ears. Hmmm...
I silently hoped the mother came back before morning or that I was mistaken and it was a terribly confused mockingbird. No such luck.
Opened the door this morning, released the hounds, and the air filled with the sound. Went into the sheep shed and there he was, one tiny black and white kitten in a large orange feed pan. Still screaming. And no sign of momma cat.
So after driving to Tractor Supply and waiting for them to open, I now have kitten milk replacer, a bottle, and a tiny kitten to take care of.
I love cats (have 4), but I'm really hoping the mother cat shows up soon.
Sheryl and I spent the day wandering around Chelsea. We saw a guy with a parrot in a cage strapped to his back, leading a Min Pin decked out in the cutest tiny pink doggie sneakers. A lady on a bike serenaded us with a song touting the benefits of being vegan, while we were in line to order our burgers and cheese fries. And I gave a guy, who was hocking his CDs, 10 bucks because:
a)I thought it would be good karma to give him a chance-after all, he was on the streets selling his "vision";
b)I am a horrible haggler; and
c) I am a sucker who is not good at saying "no thanks" under pressure.
We plugged the cd in as soon as we got in the car. And there we were, two white women of a certain age, riding around NYC in a mud-spattered Mercedes, windows down, and head bobbing to the hip-hop beat. It was a vision.
But the music isn't bad, interesting beats and he sampled the Red Hot Chili Peppers. not bad at all.
The rest of the day was spent driving around the fabric/garment district looking for a place to park, but parking is only available at the most wallet-raping garages in the city. Well, at least now we know where it is.
I spent the next day at a horse show. Enough said there.(I did rememeber to put on sunscreen and wear a hat).
At 2AM that night/morning, I let Putter outside(yes, I let him drink a bucket of water before bed. Again.) As I opened the screen door, I heard it. Not the screech of the foxes that live in the sheep pasture, nor the lowing of the Black Angus(and the bull was thankfully not screaming either), nor the blat of the sheep. No coyotes could be heard. Instead, the loud mew of a kitten filled my ears. Hmmm...
I silently hoped the mother came back before morning or that I was mistaken and it was a terribly confused mockingbird. No such luck.
Opened the door this morning, released the hounds, and the air filled with the sound. Went into the sheep shed and there he was, one tiny black and white kitten in a large orange feed pan. Still screaming. And no sign of momma cat.
So after driving to Tractor Supply and waiting for them to open, I now have kitten milk replacer, a bottle, and a tiny kitten to take care of.
I love cats (have 4), but I'm really hoping the mother cat shows up soon.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The DMV
It's amazing, the many types of people you find in the line at the DMV. A wide array of humanity, shuffling through the turns of the line, patiently(or not always) awaiting their call to a window.
The line was already long when I took my place. There was the man who expressed his regret, "I should have remembered to do this online," he proclaimed to all who waited, waving his envelope in the air. Further ahead, a woman rocked a car seat with her foot, bending down to offer a bottle when the baby squirmed and whined, and shoving the whole apparatus forward with her foot when the line moved. At one window, far ahead of me, an infantile young man(he looked FAR too young to be old enough to be applying for a license, but maybe that's just me getting old), handed over his documents and his cell phone, before disappearing behind a wall. At the second window was the client who doesn't want to understand that whatever she wants, is not going to happen today. "What do you mean I need...?" "Can't I have it faxed?" "Are you sure you can't just stamp it?" On and on, she would not leave the window. And we wonder why the DMV people are grumpy.
I was there to register my truck and horse trailer, finally trading my lovely green and white Vermont plates for ones of gold and blue. I dreaded it. Yes, I am shallow enough that, while green was maybe not the best match for my blue truck and my white trailer, the new plates are simply hideous. It still had to happen. I must add the fact that I was already frustrated as my computer froze three times while I tried to print out new insurance information. A five minute chore turned into a thirty-minute ordeal.
Step by step, person by person, I crept closer to the window. The mother strolled out the door with the baby seat draped over her arm, swinging with the motion of her stride. The proclaimer got his renewal, though he loudly congratulated the young man on his perfect permit test score.
"You'll make a good driver. Probably better than me. Just remember, if you get pulled over, be respectful and don't give the officer trouble and he'll be nice to you." The young man smiled and nodded, thrilled with his future behind the wheel and a little leery of this large man's advice.
It was finally my turn. I handed the woman my paper work. She looked it over. "Your registering an out-of-state vehicle. You need to fill out this form." She handed me a green sheet of paper, marked with red pen to indicate the required fields. Off I went and dutifully filled it out(and another for the trailer in anticipation) and got back in line. It was slightly shorter. This time a couple were bickering about what forms they needed.
"Do you have that one?"
"Yes"
"You sure it's filled out right?"
"I think so."
"Did you sign it?"
She turned her back on him and shook her head. They reached the window and she gloated when all was in order, "See? I told you."
Behind me, the woman who refused to take no for an answer had returned. She sighed dramatically and crinkled her papers, muttering, "I can't believe this. Such a pain."
I worked my way back to the front. We started over. She typed away, verified my license and passport. Yes, I am who I claim to be. Then she paused. Uh oh. "Your insurance card says 'replacement vehicle.' Are you transferring tags from one car to another?"
"No." Oh no.
From behind me the complainer yelled, "Hey, do you have a bathroom?" The answer was no, which prompted a new round of grumbling.
My attention returned to the woman behind the window, "You have to call your insurance company and get them to take the 'replacement vehicle' designation off the card. Have them fax it and I'll call you to the front of the line as soon as I get it."
Oh crap. Really? Sigh. Out the door, called the company(who were very nice, by the way) and went back inside to, yet again, await my turn. I met "Complainer" at the door, she gave up. I gave thanks for small favors. After a few scant minutes I returned to the window. More typing ensued, plates were pulled from a drawer, papers were stapled together, I thought my hour-plus ordeal was over. Screw registering the trailer, I'll come back another day to do that. I could finally go home, ride, garden. After all, it was a beautiful day outside and I'd wasted too much of it here.
The woman behind the window stopped her typing and shuffling. A crease appeared between her brows. She flipped a page back and forth. She turned to me and shook her head.
"Your insurance doesn't take effect until midnight. You'll have to wait and come back Monday."
The line was already long when I took my place. There was the man who expressed his regret, "I should have remembered to do this online," he proclaimed to all who waited, waving his envelope in the air. Further ahead, a woman rocked a car seat with her foot, bending down to offer a bottle when the baby squirmed and whined, and shoving the whole apparatus forward with her foot when the line moved. At one window, far ahead of me, an infantile young man(he looked FAR too young to be old enough to be applying for a license, but maybe that's just me getting old), handed over his documents and his cell phone, before disappearing behind a wall. At the second window was the client who doesn't want to understand that whatever she wants, is not going to happen today. "What do you mean I need...?" "Can't I have it faxed?" "Are you sure you can't just stamp it?" On and on, she would not leave the window. And we wonder why the DMV people are grumpy.
I was there to register my truck and horse trailer, finally trading my lovely green and white Vermont plates for ones of gold and blue. I dreaded it. Yes, I am shallow enough that, while green was maybe not the best match for my blue truck and my white trailer, the new plates are simply hideous. It still had to happen. I must add the fact that I was already frustrated as my computer froze three times while I tried to print out new insurance information. A five minute chore turned into a thirty-minute ordeal.
Step by step, person by person, I crept closer to the window. The mother strolled out the door with the baby seat draped over her arm, swinging with the motion of her stride. The proclaimer got his renewal, though he loudly congratulated the young man on his perfect permit test score.
"You'll make a good driver. Probably better than me. Just remember, if you get pulled over, be respectful and don't give the officer trouble and he'll be nice to you." The young man smiled and nodded, thrilled with his future behind the wheel and a little leery of this large man's advice.
It was finally my turn. I handed the woman my paper work. She looked it over. "Your registering an out-of-state vehicle. You need to fill out this form." She handed me a green sheet of paper, marked with red pen to indicate the required fields. Off I went and dutifully filled it out(and another for the trailer in anticipation) and got back in line. It was slightly shorter. This time a couple were bickering about what forms they needed.
"Do you have that one?"
"Yes"
"You sure it's filled out right?"
"I think so."
"Did you sign it?"
She turned her back on him and shook her head. They reached the window and she gloated when all was in order, "See? I told you."
Behind me, the woman who refused to take no for an answer had returned. She sighed dramatically and crinkled her papers, muttering, "I can't believe this. Such a pain."
I worked my way back to the front. We started over. She typed away, verified my license and passport. Yes, I am who I claim to be. Then she paused. Uh oh. "Your insurance card says 'replacement vehicle.' Are you transferring tags from one car to another?"
"No." Oh no.
From behind me the complainer yelled, "Hey, do you have a bathroom?" The answer was no, which prompted a new round of grumbling.
My attention returned to the woman behind the window, "You have to call your insurance company and get them to take the 'replacement vehicle' designation off the card. Have them fax it and I'll call you to the front of the line as soon as I get it."
Oh crap. Really? Sigh. Out the door, called the company(who were very nice, by the way) and went back inside to, yet again, await my turn. I met "Complainer" at the door, she gave up. I gave thanks for small favors. After a few scant minutes I returned to the window. More typing ensued, plates were pulled from a drawer, papers were stapled together, I thought my hour-plus ordeal was over. Screw registering the trailer, I'll come back another day to do that. I could finally go home, ride, garden. After all, it was a beautiful day outside and I'd wasted too much of it here.
The woman behind the window stopped her typing and shuffling. A crease appeared between her brows. She flipped a page back and forth. She turned to me and shook her head.
"Your insurance doesn't take effect until midnight. You'll have to wait and come back Monday."
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