Salad Days

"I hope ya feel as good as ya look to your gal Sal" Gail and I smile at each other, because we do feel good! It's around 4:30 pm on a wintery afternoon about 1958, and Gail and I are watching The Sally Starr Show with our Patty PlayPal dolls. OUR GAL SAL is wearing a shirt with sparkles and spangles and stars, and a white cowboy hat. I know that this particular day I recall was in winter because in the summer we were not allowed to sit inside watching tv. We would be outside swinging on the swings singing Yippee Aye A Cay AYE! Yippe Eye OH! in our cowboy hats and spangly shirts, firing our cap guns into the air to add emphasis. I love Sally Starr so much that I am pleased that my initials (S.A.L.) get me half way to being almost named the same, and I love her blonde hair. (I consider remaining blonde into my mid fifties as one of my highest achievements.)

At 5:00pm, Daddy will come home, pretend that my blond Patty is me, kiss her and make a fuss. Sally will say "May the Good Lord be blessing you and your Family, Bye for now!" tv will go off, I will walk Gail and her Patty half way home, come and sit down to eat with my sisters and my parents. Afterward, we girls will do the dishes - singing all the while so we don't fight - and Mum and Daddy will walk the dog around the block. Then off to bath, bed and dreaming of riding the plains on my horse and and saving towns from bad guys in black hats.

I remember heroic dream hangovers for days, after one of these western themed sagas. A palpable threat, like say a horde of angry rustlers (I had a very vague idea what these were, from Bonanza) would be forming on the horizon (again, something I had only seen on TV because Springfield, PA's horizons were the roofline of the house next door) and I would do *SOMETHING HEROIC* (insert unexplained action) and the horde would disperse, the townsfolk would gather to cheer, there would be a parade, and I would get some kind of brain chemical infusion from this head trip that induced feelings of good will and confidence in the waking world of school and play and home.

These days my dreams have a Sisyphean theme: doing endless paperwork, car ignitions that just click and click but won't turn over, a salad making competition where I have to make a salad 'three ways' - and the only one I make is frisee with roasted walnuts and goat cheese. Why I have a dream about a salad I have never eaten or heard of is beyond me. I dare Freudian analyzers to sexify that.

So, at 4:30 am, I am looking up FRISEE on google and wondering why my family dislikes me.

Turns out, frisee is a kind of endive, and endive is a bitter salad green related to the daisy family. Now, this is interesting because I have often been accused of being a little over cheerful, sort of Daisy like. Gerbera daisies frighten me with their aggressive cheerfulness: this is how I must appear to some people - gigantic technicolor head on a tiny body inadequate to hold it up, supported by some kind of device like a clear plastic straw or wire. I love the regular shasta daisy with white petals and yellow center. I aspire to their simplicity and geometry. And of course, I always count the petals ahead of time, so I know where to start, to guarantee the results I crave while plucking off "he loves you, he loves you not." Yes, I want to know, as long as I know ahead of time and can prepare.

I am not sure that the walnuts and the goat cheese are important at all, except that I can't imagine having a salad with less than three ingredients. And then, at 5:00 am I finally get around to thinking what this would actually taste like, the bitter daisy greens, the acrid walnuts and the tangy goat cheese. Oh.

So, this harsh, acerbic mix is the only one I make, according to my dream. Sally Starr, I hope I am feeling as good as I look to you, but probably not. When did the Star-Spangled, gun toting Rodeo Girl become an acrimonious one trick pony? Those were my salad days, and I made of them what I could, but as far as I know, the competition is not over and I still have two salads left to make.

The Good Enough Mothers

My grandson Jeremy (eleven) is the chicken guy and on vacation- and I have my instructions which go something like this: "Nana, Jim Bob is very bossy so don't turn your back on him- if he goes after you, just hold your hand down flat over his head. Or you can just let him get you, it doesn't really hurt - and he gets tired of it. Party Girl is laying eggs right on top of Lulu who is broody, she only has a couple of eggs under there but she's in a bad mood. Michele and Brenda are co-parenting again, they will take care of their babies, you don't have to do anything. Just make sure they have food and water inside and outside, only feed them once and try to keep track of how many babies there are." You would be thinking right about now that it's cute that he gave all of them names, and I won't know which ones he is talking about and that is the gist of my story. And then we can laugh all afternoon about one Nana's cute chicken antics. But no. That's not it.

I DO know their names, because our whole family watches the flock like it's the Real Housewives of Honey Brook. Much of our conversation as a family revolves around the drama and pathos of the chicken yard. The chicken's names were given them because of a characteristic behavior or their social status in the flock, mostly by me.

Our chickens are free range, which sounds like we made a conscious decision based on information regarding humane needs and best practices. In actuality, it means we don't have and can't afford a fence that will contain them. Our chickens have been 'free range' for twenty five years, never once has one been hit by a car. Occasionally, a rogue hen will refuse the coop they stay in at night. She might start perching in the trees and while we are deciding what and if to do something about that, she usually disappears - owls will pluck her right off the branch as she sleeps. We have had suspicious paw prints in the snow around the coop, and we have found some chicken bodies 'cached' in holes around the farm. Bob and Nola, the bulldogs, killed a chicken together when they were puppies, but a few days with the shock collar took care of that. Since we got goats, we don't see fox foot prints at all, so Ripper thinks that the goats are like watchdogs. It's a rate of attrition we can live with considering we aren't very efficient at collecting eggs, so we have piles of babies all the time. I know this manner of chicken keeping flies in the face of all those who want to complicate the simple life, but it works for us.

This morning I can hear them crowing and bumping and rustling as the flock moves around inside the small coop. It's a little like listening to someone's stomach growl - you can't see what's causing it, but you can definitely hear it. When I open the little door they tumble out, like clowns out of a clown car.

Party Girl (small black and white Banty) is the first one out. She is named Party Girl because... well, she only dates the dominant rooster, she lays fertile eggs all the time and insists that other hens raise her children. After the really hard work of rearing the babies is done, she will hang out with her own adolescent offspring, which can be identified by their distinctive coloring. Right now she has a pure white teenage rooster and a black and white teenage rooster following her every where, but otherwise, her only socializing is with Jim-Bob. Or with Jeremy. She loves to be picked up and carried around by him. They sit together on the porch and he strokes her feathers and talks to her. She stares at him with the intention of a geisha. She knows how to work it.

Jim-Bob is a pure white incredibly attractive nasty little s.o.b. He has cobalt blue cheeks and a black crusty comb. He is the father of almost all the babies. He and Party Girl have a very Clinton-esque relationship - she tolerates his indiscretions, she is unfailingly loyal to him. I think she thinks he has a job to do. And he does. Not only is he primarily in charge of making sure the flock increases, he watches the skies for predators during the day - like crows and red tails. He also is a caring wonderful father, often helping Michele and Brenda with their huge broods made up of their babies and Party Girl's. He teaches the babies how to find stuff in the ground, and he breaks up fights with the older kids.

Lulu, Brenda and Michele lay eggs, raise babies, and teach babies to find food. They often stumble around with a dozen or more babies pushed up under their wings, under their legs or chin. As the chicks get older, they take groups of them on trips down into the field, past the dog kennels, and to the manure piles behind the barn. Cluck cluck, they say, follow me, look at this, you can find food here. They issue warnings, confer with the other Mothers (But not Party Girl) and generally are a miniature theatre production of what goes on, on any playground anywhere. They keep track of all the babies, steal each other's babies and seem to know whose is whose. Well, that is how it appears.

As I said, the kids are on vacation and I am homesteading solo during a week of horrible thunderstorms. Almost daily, the clouds roll in from the southwest, darkness eating up the day, winds coming out of nowhere. One early evening, I get caught on the lawn, between the car and the house, as curtains of rain drench me. I am so glad to get inside, dripping water on the kitchen floor. It was hot, but now, soaking wet, I am freezing, teeth chattering. I am alone, so I strip down and grab a robe from the peg in the hallway. Then I hear it, over the banging of the shutters and the rain on the metal roof.

Hysterical, persistent chirping. Louder and Louder, more and more frantic. Where are they? They sound like they are right in the house! I can hear branches clashing, torrential sheets of rain crashing across the yard. The tree between the house and the barn is bending and twisting from powerful gusts, causing the motion detecting light to go on and off, almost at the same time as the lightening flashes. Still I hear the chirping. I go out on the porch with the flashlight and yes, I see them. A moving mass of yellow under the chicken house, on an island between coursing run off from the driveway and barn roof.

Chirping. Yelling for help. About to be swept away, out into the pasture.

WHERE ARE THEIR MOTHERS?

Throwing a raincoat over the robe, forcing my still wet feet into my barn shoes, I grab an umbrella and head out into the storm to save the babies. This is right up my alley.

I fight my way against the wind to the chicken house and think, I can just reach down and pick them up and put them in through the little door. Except, standing there, I can't reach them. They are too far under the coop. I realize I am going to have to kneel down in the rain and mud. Well, it would be ideal if it was only mud but it is the yard surrounding a chicken house, where chickens live. Who are not known for their excremental control.

It is impossible to kneel down, reach under the chicken house and hold the umbrella, so the umbrella has to go. It's not really functioning as any sort of protection anyway: the wind is blowing the rain nearly horizontal. However, I find I can use it to kind of scoop the baby chicks toward me, and I get four or five at a time out and up to where I can reach them. I open the hatch on the nesting box side of the coop and start throwing them in. I can hear the chickens inside protesting against the rain and wind that blows inside, and I can hear Michele and Brenda chirping 'come here, get under' to the rescued babies. I repeat the process several times until there are only two babies left, huddled together and chirping.

I call them, I beckon them, I plead with them and finally curse and scream at them. They heed me not. To save them from the cold water now swirling menacingly toward them, I get down on my belly, shimmy under, grab them, and shimmy back out. I can feel their tiny hearts beating through their bony, wet, feathery breasts. They seem more scared of me than the storm. I toss them into the nesting box and slam the lid closed.

I feel good, standing on the lawn in the storm, so wet and dirty that I realize I am as wet and dirty as I ever could be. There is a freedom to this, as it is no longer necessary to protect myself from anything. I do a little hero dance in the puddles, throw back my head and laugh. It's all very enervating until a bolt of lightening slamming to the ground in the field across the street sends me tearing for the house.

I am sure that as the storm rolled in, the hens moved toward the ramp up to the chicken house like they do every day at dusk. I am sure they called to the babies, and I am sure the chicks heard them. As the thunder and rain rolled in and crashed around them, the chicks chirped so loud I could hear them in the house - and I know the hens could hear them, too. At some point, the hens decided to stick it out in the comfort and warmth of the coop and stop worrying. Later, washed and warmed by a shower, I think about what kind of mothers would take such care of their babies in the sunshine, yet leave them to drown in a storm.

The Edge

Charles has been dead three years, soon, and all my knives are dull.

When Fred came to visit with his family, I bought a beautiful roast of beef - something I do not do very often. He trained as a butcher and he loved these big cuts of beef, slowly, barely cooked, with rosemary and garlic pushed in. I was sure he was not getting such things in Iraq, and that he would appreciate that I remembered his preference.

I even had a chat with the butcher at the grocery store when I was picking it out, something else I do not do often. I wanted the butcher to pick out a really pretty roast, something another butcher would like. These cinematic moments only ever roll out in my mind so I don't know why I keep trying - black and white film clips clattered through the projector in my brain, calendar leaves flying, me - finally morphed into an odd melange of Ma Kettle grasping a flag to her chest and Aunt Bea in an apron holding a pie, adoring family paying homage to my efforts, local butcher presenting a huge hunk of flesh into a light from above and saying "Your soldier will appreciate this, Ma'am!"

At least I was expecting this at Wegmans' - a cut above - but instead, the young man (who apparently does not share my rich mental catalog of iconic images) merely pointed to the second one in, a three bone in rib roast, and said "That one looks good." and reached for the waxed paper.

My oven is broken, the heating element at the bottom blown out during a period of dank depression when I might have left it on all night or maybe for a day or two. Maybe a week. The oven that broke was not the oven I ever wanted: it was cheap, from the scratch and dent store and was supposed to make do until we had the money for the kitchen renovation. That money was going to appear shortly after every other single thing in our lives was taken care of. All oven type activities now take place in a stand alone, plug in roaster, which is pitch hitting for the oven I never wanted, until I get the stove I deserve and that is where I put the roast when I get home. But lately I have been thinking, maybe not. Maybe I will have a kitchen but not a kitchen, because after the kids move into the addition, am I going to do any real baking? As opposed to fake baking? I hardly use the roaster. Maybe I don't want a fancy oven any more.

Which makes me wonder if it is sad or happy that I may be giving up the idea of a dream kitchen, which was the fuel for terrible arguments and intense middle of the night cravings, and the hook that I hung all my martyrdom and justifications on. If I never, ever get a six thousand dollar dual fuel, self cleaning convection oven and a stove with a built in griddle down the middle, and I make that decision on my own, based on practicality and present need, if I give up that dream, that tightly held desire, which I have picked all the scabs off and used as my red badge of courage, the lack of which was the visualization of just how truly my needs and wants have been denied, who the heck am I?

And who am I having this argument with now?

Soon the roast is done, and I rest it for half an hour. I have heard that this is the single biggest mistake that home cooks make, not resting their meat. You see, you get your roast chicken or leg of lamb or roast of beef out of the oven, cover it all over with foil, and let it sit for a half hour before you cut. This way the juices stay in and don't run out all over your cutting board. I am a great, knowledgeable cook. I have created wonderful, memorable meals for multitudes of people in a terrible kitchen for thirty years. Lasagna, meringues, steamed shrimp and stir fry, roasts and pot roasts, jars of tomato sauce and jam, pickled green beans and red beet eggs, thanksgiving turkeys and chicken and dumplings, lamb rolled in rosemary and pepper, chocolate cookies and lemon sponge cakes, home made pasta, countless loaves of bread. The SOUP! The nameless mishmashes of leftovers that turned out to be delicious. I have done all this, I realize, in a kitchen that has two cabinets whose lowest shelf is 18 inches over my head, a sixty year old stainless steel sink, exactly three feet of counter space, no dishwasher, 1/2 inch to spare if you open the fridge and the oven at the same time, missing floor tiles and exposed plumbing traces to the second floor the cat uses to chase mice. My kitchen counter had little flecks of gold sparkle in it when it was installed after WW2, which you can only see now if you move the canisters. Not to mention seven doorways and two windows. All of these conditions grist for resentment and seething, stewing discontent and the springboard for imaginative problem solving and VOILA moments. For instance, if you don't have enough counter space, you get a cutting board that fits over your sink - that adds two feet. And one that fits over the top of your stove - when the stove is off, that is another two feet or so. If you don't have a dishwasher and company is coming before the dishes get done, put them in the oven til the next morning. In the winter, you can keep your extra groceries on the back porch - it's cold enough. If you keep the stuff under your sink organized in plastic tubs, it is really easy to get them out fast when the pipes freeze and burst.

And now, possessing the where with all to make all those headaches and compromises go away, I suddenly am not sure I care any more. I can buy that stove, I can have all new cabinets, I can have anything I really want, the way I want it.

I pull the carving knife and fork out of the block to carve the rested meat. Instead of the elegant slice I am expecting, I end up sawing and mangling. The roast falls apart in delicious but ugly chunks. Very embarassing because by this time Fred is watching me and I feel exposed and pathetic. The knives are all dull. I don't know where the steel is and I don't know how to use it. Charles used to stand in the kitchen and expertly flick the knives back and forth and listen to me bitch about how terrible the kitchen was. He used to say, Stop cutting directly on the counter, you are going to ruin this knife. I would retort, I can't hurt this crappy counter and I am going to get better knives! And then we would sit down and eat a fine meal and later that night I would go to sleep, feeling sorry for myself and what I had to put up with. He honed the knives and I sharpened my resentment for decades. And now I know it takes just three years for both to lose their edge.

The Whoopie Bridge

A fine fall afternoon, a Saturday, I am sure. The top is down on the little blue Fiat Spider and I've loaded my son Mike and two golden retrievers into the jump seat. Everybody is excited to be going for a ride. We are getting ice cream.

The sky is blue, the trees are gold and the car is biting the wind like it is a crisp apple. We round a corner and I position the rearview mirror so I can see my happy son.

Downshifting, I pick up speed and the asphalt sings. Why isn't every car a convertible, I think. Two sets of ears flapping, my son's parka flying out behind him and my hair standing straight up with only about 400 feet to go, our speed is exactly 44 mph. The next moment, we are flying over the bridge, leaving the ground. I look in the rearview mirror and my son is holding on to the dogs' collars and they are in the air, off the seat and he yells WHOOPEE!

A thousand light years later, I get a phone call from that same son and he says, “Don't go straight down 82. The Whoopee bridge is closed. A big chunk of the bridge fell into the creek, probably from the thaw and freeze cycle working on the mortar.” He's a fireman, so he was among the first to know. Fortunately this all happened while no one was on the bridge but it does mean a detour.

I hate detours. This will be a daily thorn in my side for months, maybe years, I just know it. It's not like you can just take a right go down a block and there you are. There are five different ways to go around the bridge, all about six miles inconvenient. They are curving, narrow roads and I am not looking forward to all the hurried people careening around on them and cursing like me. Explaining the features and benefits of each route to visitors for a long period of time is going to be irritating. The whole thing just sets me off.

Everyday I sit in the driveway and ponder – This way? That way? I always end up making what turns out to be the wrong choice, stuck behind a tractor, or one morning, an actual gaggle of geese in no hurry to get anywhere, except down the middle of the road. Watching those geese I did sort of have a moment of OH COME ON, a acknowledgement that this is not the worst commute in the world. That was short lived. On the way home, more often than not I miss the turn that I would take for the first detour choice and end up driving more miles out of the way, just when I am cranky and tired. The itty bitty committee in my head just loves getting ten extra minutes alone with me to discuss my failings and inattention.

Each day when I am getting ready for work, I completely forget about the detour and how it adds precious minutes to my trip, and I end up making a lot of apologetic phone calls and exaggerating how much of an ordeal this is for me, mostly an effort to foist onto something other than myself an explanation for my lateness. Of course, after a while, my excuses and complaining are patiently endured but not really believed, and the conversations start to turn to “Just when do you think the bridge will be fixed?” Although I don't really have any idea, I say three months to three years, and the recipient of the call gives me much undeserved sympathy for how this is ruining my life, and I feel better.



The situation with the bridge does cut the traffic in front of our house by half, not a small thing when you consider that our old house is exactly 22 feet off a two lane state highway used by noisy gravel and trash trucks. They are now in front of someone else's house, slamming on the jake brake and jarring them out of bed in the morning. The guy who owns the ice cream store puts out his own custom detour signs, hoping that the baseball teams and camp councilors who swell his business during the summer will be able to find him. And his marque is how I learn, one afternoon, that the bridge is open again. GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE IS NOW OPEN! LARGE TUNA HOAGIE 5 DOLLARS! All good news.

See, I say to myself. It all worked out. I head out to work, driving in a straight line, which makes me happy, no thoughts of detours or excuses tormenting me. I approach the bridge at exactly 44 miles an hour. I wait for the whoopee.

And I get two.
Two mini whoopees.

Huh.

Where the old whoopee was a sharp, sudden jolt that sent you off the ground in a fine arch and placed you back down with a chirp of your tires, this new whoopee is like two little hiccups. Shaken, I pull over and drive back over, to try it again. Yes. Where there was one big one, there are now two.

I do it a third time, experience double mini whoopees, pull over to the side of the road, squint into a field of purple asters and ponder.

While I am fighting the disturbing idea that I might be the only person in the cosmos who would be moved to tears by an altered whoopee, it occurs to me that a bridge being out makes some things happen, other things not happen. Like the geese, like the trucks, like countless other things that were said or done or dreamed because the bridge was out, or not.

About two weeks after the bridge is fixed, I get an email from Fred.
Email : fred@yahoo.com
Comments : HI shirley I am not good at this computer thing. I am in IRAQ fighting this war .I am very proud of you!I am very sorry to hear about Chuck. I miss you both love Fred please email back

Well, that's good, because for years, I thought he might be dead.

Fred came to live with us when he was a teenager, as part of a program for building community and independent living for children who had been raised in institutional foster homes. There was nothing wrong with Fred – he was bright, he was handsome, he had no physical or mental impairments. He just got caught in the system when the courts were not happy about terminating parental rights, and he was unadoptable for many years. By the time he was in his mid teens, he had not really lived in a family home or a town. The group home he lived in was clean, the social workers were kind. He went everywhere in a bus. People whose job it was made his dental appointments and had his eyes examined. They brought him clothes. They made sure he celebrated holidays and had a gift. They made sure he went to school. But even the social workers felt this was not enough for kids – the state turned them out at 18 and they had no understanding of any other life, and no ties to any community. They didn't know how to get jobs, and they didn't know how to make friends.

When Charles and I heard about this from a friend, we thought it would be a great idea to add to our family this way. I never thought of myself as someone who would only have one child, but that was what had happened. Our son needed family, this kid needed family, we didn't feel we had to have a baby, so Fred was our perfect choice.

And life rolled on. We weren't perfect, Fred wasn't perfect. He will tell you so himself. I called him my boomerang child because he came and went so many times. He liberated himself from everyone (legally) at 17 ½ and came and went some more. There were fights, there were tears, there were ultimatums and pleadings – on both sides. And then one day I realized I hadn't heard from him in a year. And then Charles died and I didn't know how to get in touch with him to tell him.

But I guess someone had, somewhere – told him about Charles. But how was it possible he was in Iraq? Of course I emailed him back, and then there was a phone call, and we got caught up on things. And then he tells me he is coming home on leave and wants to come out to the farm, bring his wife and daughter.

Of course!

I ask him if he needs directions and he says NO, he will always remember how to get to the farm. I am secretly glad I don't have to explain the detour. He will come home over the bridge, just with two mini whoopees instead of one.

The first thing he says to me is “Are you still wearing that apron?” and I feel loved, that he should notice this. I show him the addition, tell him about Mike and his family moving on to the farm and while we stand on the porch and watch the chickens run around I ask, “Is it the same or different – how does it feel for you that Charles isn't here?” And he says, “Yes, it's the same and different.” I know what he means.

Fred puts on his hat and his uniform shirt and we take pictures: Fred and Mike, Fred and Mike and the Grandchildren, Fred and I. I put them up on Facebook, announcing Fred is Home From Iraq and that I am glad the family is all together again. Suddenly people are blessing me and our family for our sacrifice. They are asking who this other son is? These blessings shame me and overwhelm me, because to explain why I don't feel we should be blessed is such a long story, so many times back and forth over a bridge.

I don't deserve them. I have not sacrificed anything for him or the country, not for a long long time - decades. I did not even know he had joined the service til two weeks ago. I didn't even know he could, at 43. I also feel that long ago, we could have made a different choice and adopted him, instead of leaving him in limbo. He is my son, but not my son. Maybe that would have made a difference to him and what he did with his life. I don't know why I worry - He is calm, mature, determined--together. He's done fine.

Sometimes a bridge goes out and you take detours and because of that, different things happen. The availability of a bridge gives direction to your journey. You will always wonder if you went the right direction. If the bridge breaks down, it can be fixed, but there are no guarantees that when you go back over it will be the same.

Treasure Hunting

We live in a very old house. No one seems to know exactly how old, even the public records. I recently had a conversation with my insurance person regarding this. You see, my house is not what insurance companies feel comfortable with, but it's okay, if you pay them more, they get over it pretty quickly. Although we only put in one claim in close to thirty years, I can hear them shudder when I call because they are basically pessimistic when it comes to 200 plus year old barns with imperfect flooring, horses and goats that spend their lives figuring out how to escape on to the road, the absence of sidewalks and fire hydrants, old trees close to the house and of course, they have read the blog so they know I am accident prone. I called my insurance person because we have the addition going up, basically doubling the size of the house, and I wanted to be sure we were covered over what has turned out to be (no surprise) a very protracted construction period.

She says, (after taking a swig of gin or whatever she keeps on hand for my phone calls) "What can I do for you, Rodeo?"
I say, " I need to make sure I have coverage for this addition - remember we talked about it?"
She says, "Let me pull up your account." I know she's got it in a bookmarked file on her computer, marked with a skull and cross bones, so it takes her no time at all.

"Now" she says, after another swig," Your original house is what? sixty years old?"

"Noooooo....it's like 160." I am patient. "The house you can see above the ground we think was built around 1876? Remember? there is a plaque on the wall in the stucco?"

"Stucco." she's starting to remember.

"And, remember, there is a house under the house that predates 1790? - the part with the dirt basement?" I hear her choke down some more gin.

"And remember, we talked about why it says sixty in the public records? Because when we got canceled by the old insurance company, you looked it up and it said sixty? That was in 2000 = and we figured that was when the Rural Electrification Program came through and we got electric, and the house then showed up as having been renovated, and the Simpsons who owned it then put the apartment in because Mr. Simpson had his knees broken by that bull and they hired a farm manager?"

"Riiiiiiggghhhhtttt." I'm losing her.

"No, no - you remember this, because you made the same noise then. Really, we brought the title search in from when we bought the house and you made copies, and it does indeed say the house, at least the part we live in now, was built in 1876. So that makes it...sort of 120. But we know it's a lot older. Because of the house underneath. We went to the Courthouse and we have records that some squatter named John Alford lived here long enough before 1790 so that he got the land from the new gov't, when they seized the land from the Penns? And now, we are building this beautiful addition - and we modernized everything, got a new metal roof, and a new septic, and well - well for water, not well, like I'm finished speaking well."

I realize that none of this is important in the context of our conversation, except that it makes me sound like I am pathetically trying to get her to like my house. We finally do get down to discussing coverage and get that all straightened out but I wonder if, in the future, some record will say the house was built in 2009.

And I start thinking about value. This is the second house Charles and I bought together. The first one was our 'smart decision' house. It was brand new, in a first time home buyer's neighborhood- a little three bedroom ranch house at the end of a cul de sac, with lots of kids in the neighborhood. The 300.00 mortgage payment, which included taxes and insurance, kept us awake at night - 17% interest! But we knew it was better than that 150.00 a month rent we had been paying. It was perfect, but I was never really at peace there. Charles was working on it all the time, tweaking that perfection: he put in hardwood floors (the only house in the neighborhood to have them) beautiful gourmet kitchen with a state of the art microwave oven/stove combo (again, only house in the neighborhood to have one) brick pathways and an over engineered fence to keep our two dogs in. Meanwhile I died a little inside each day, from boredom with the Tupperware parties and Creative Plaything parties, and just... two.... dogs. Only thing was, our son was deliriously happy.

So when I found this neglected but graceful farmette, not three miles from our present house, I went about convincing them both that this was also a 'smart decision' house. I told Charles that if he was going to work on something all the time, it ought to make a difference! He could restore this house, and never ever run out of projects! (I am a SERIOUSLY good closer) It took about six weeks of driving past every day for him to see the possibilities, but also it had a caveat: it was CHEAP but had almost 8 acres! He would be a LANDOWNER. He would have more ground than his brothers and sisters, PUT TOGETHER, and that was very important cred for the middle child of ten. Also he could have a big tractor. That sealed the deal.

My son was another matter. At eleven, the last thing he wanted to do was move away from his friends. We would be changing school districts. He looked at the no sidewalks, no pavement situation and asked plaintively, "Where will I ride my bike?" I explained he could have a DIRT BIKE. He said, "I have a dirt bike now." Which he did, but we had to load it in the car and drive to a place he could ride it. I said, "You can get up every morning and just ride right in your own backyard. Let's take a walk, and I'll show you what I mean." We climbed through the fence, into the pasture, weeds over our heads, gnats buzzing around our noses. He's skeptical. We walk and walk and I show him the barn full of weird scrap metal things, the huge rock in the field perfect for a fort. We actually get winded, fighting our way to the rear property line. I turn him around and say, look - all the way up there - that would be our house! And then.. I see something in the grass, half buried in the ground.

Pushing his head down for a closer look, I say, "Look! Every day we can come out here and find interesting things like this! It's an odd plant! We can come back every day and see what it grows in to! Some unusual pretty flower maybe!"

He shrugs me off. "Those are plastic grapes, Mom. Some old country person came out here and dropped their plastic grapes."

Okay, so he was right, and like most conversations that follow this, things are never as good as I think or as bad as my husband and son think. But he has no choice, we move and after years that fly past in the blink of an eye, he's moving in again, with his children and wife because it's the best place in the world and I can't stay here by myself.

But it is an old house, and when you live in an old house, people always ask you the same question: "Did you find anything valuable? Did you find buried boxes of silverware or cash? Did you find hidden antiques? Treasures?"

I got a metal detector once and within feet of the kitchen door, it started to click. I got a shovel, dug down and found a metal filter from a coffee percolator. I found what appears to be an entire tractor buried behind the barn. I have found shards of pottery and lots and lots of Schlitz beer bottles hidden beneath trees and in the eaves of the barn (someone seems to have had a problem). We have found big and small horse shoes, strap hinges three feet long, and lengths of chain.

Once, while facing the fireplace in the basement, I impulsively reached up into the beams and found ancient hairpins and a comb. In a moment transcending time and space, I knew a woman had stood where I stood, and let her hair down in the evening. And for a reason I will never know, never put it up again.

When we removed the mantle piece in the living room, a 1960's dog license fluttered to the floor. My son found an unusual blue marble deep in the foundation. He handed it to me and in minutes I found a Marble Guy on the internet, sent him pictures and was informed it was a regular old marble. Well, except that it was OUR old marble.

But no coins, silver or anything of real value (which means, worth money).

What we didn't find, and couldn't, was the real stuff. Like the reason that woman never put her hair up again. The first cries of the babies born here. The last sighs of those who died. The stuff that life is made of is in the air we breathe here, not in the ground or in the walls, and can't be sold on ebay. It's what we will leave behind when we go.

Starring In My Own Movie (Magic Number TWO)

If you are just tuning in, I am going to suggest you read "I Believe In Magic Again" before you read this. It will give you the back up story as to WHY I went on this trip.

So, when last we left the battle over my soul, The Universe had sent this salvo out: "I don't like to make predictions, but the way things are going, Rodeo, I wouldn't be at all surprised if this year you have a ball, go to a ball... and put the pics up on Facebook.
You are so poised for the time of your life -
The Universe"

It was like I had just read a horoscope that said, Rodeo, Taurus that you are, you will back your grey Ford Five Hundred out of the driveway and run over your hot water kettle. So obscure but actually something that would happen in my world. And Has.

So with the power of the Universe solidly behind me, the actual details of the trip were easy to plan and execute. My faithful travel companion Carol called me the next morning about something else entirely and ended up committing to going with me. My Son and Ripper and the boys even started getting excited and pledged their support on the home front. Lisa and Gordon on the other end in New Orleans smoothed all needs out cheerfully and generously and Alan sent me bulletins every few days with tantalizing details about surprises and costumes and events.

Gradually, I started to believe I was going. And it was going to be magic! I vowed I would not buy any clothes, so of course I stopped at Talbots and they had some perfect colorful t shirts on sale, and the perfect velour sweatsuit equivalent on sale, so it wasn't like I really bought clothes. They were on sale. You know, like food eaten over the kitchen sink has no calories, clothes bought on sale at Talbots don't really cost anything. AND, I have found that packing new clothes folded by ladies at Talbots is ever so much easier than doing laundry. Ripper found me the perfect green hat at the Goodwill which went with everything, I gathered all my electronics together, then my makeup and my toothbrush and tucked it all away in the fabulous luggage I bought two years ago (Steel Magnolias: Olympia Dukakis as Clairee Belcher to Shirley MacLaine as Ouiser Boudreaux: I love ya like I love my luggage.")

I'm ready.

I drive to Carol's and then her sig other Andrew drives us to the Airport and then there is security and lines and shoes off and jewelry off and then plane boarding and lift off. The wind beneath my wings.

I never pay much attention to where I am sitting on a plane, but this time I am in the middle seat of three. On either side of me are two huge pieces of Man Beef in flannel and denim. I am like a little sliver of cheese between two huge slabs of rye bread. Conscious of this, the large men have their arms folded up and their mammoth thighs pressed together and are thinking slim thoughts. I feel so bad for them - they are trying so hard not to touch me or intrude in my space. I go for the joke.

Aloud I say, "Well, I am feeling pretty safe right now. I've got my own crash cage!" Tensions ease considerably. The big guys start chatting amicably about the price of carry on luggage and I fall asleep.

I wake long enough to change planes in Charlotte, NC. and immediately fall back asleep on the last leg to New Orleans.

On the ground, we call our host Gordon and he is there in minutes with smiles and hugs and lifting our luggage into the trunk of his comfortable car. A word about Gordon, the father of my friends Lynda and Lisa: I am going to be telling you many many things that Gordon did with us and for us, and how he drove us hither and yon, took us to dinner, got us up, made us breakfast every morning, etc etc. went for walks with Carol, how his house was decorated for Mardi Gras with masks and beads, how we all stayed up til all hours, and got really tired. All of us, except Gordon. He never gets tired, lost or out of sorts. He never complains about standing in a parking garage waiting for the car for an hour and a half. In the cold. and the Rain. He always has the perfect clothing, the perfect demeanor and the perfect attitude. He always knows perfectly where he is, how to get home. He always knows the right thing to say and the right thing to do. He always has cash when I can't get to the bank, he always accepts a check. He always remembers what you drink and how to mix it. He is the consumate host, the perfect escort. Gordon is 87 and setting the bar a little high for the rest of us.

Gordon tells us that before we even get to his house, we are going to a party and a parade! This is a great way to start our Mardi Gras! Our friend Jan, (a half and hulf like me - Australian mother and American Father) is hosting a party in her beauti-gorgeous home in the Sanctuary across Lake Ponchatrrain. The Sanctuary is where a lot of the Saints Football team live. Also, where Brangelina have a home, I have heard. There is gumbo and red beans and rice and beer and wine and happy talk and great accents. After dinner we drive a short distance and park and walk to where hundreds of people are already waiting.

Watching this parade with this crowd reminds me of a herd of Elk I rode through in Yellowstone Park once.The young ones are all together, playing reindeer games - galloping to each other and leaping in the air, squealing. There is young girl hair tossing and young boy posturing. There is shoving and little pockets of hysteria (did you see him? is he here? where? NO NO don't look!)

The parade was great, the beads flew through the air and later we drove home across Lake Pontchartrain, world class phenomenon, on the world's longest bridge (like 30 miles!). Carol and I settled down for the night in Gordon's wonderful home, and I set the alarm on my phone for BIG DAY.

Alan called me in the morning and asked that I meet him, the director Pasquale and the camera man Richard at the Hotel Intercontinental at six o'clock that evening for a meet n'greet, a viewing of the Endymion Parade and to film some footage of my Bead Catching Technique. I know, PINCH ME! Gordon volunteers to drive us back across the bridge - and I am flattered that I know he also wants to eyeball these guys. You know, guys I have only met on the internet who are "photographers" are filming a TV show, staying at a hotel.....I mean, would you let your daughter do this?


Lisa and Carol also say they would not miss it for the world! I am more worried about abusing the friendship of these three wonderful people than I am about the strange men thing. The schedule that Alan has outlined for me requires that I travel in and out of the city at odd hours, by myself - up before they wake up (well, not Gordon, who seems to never sleep at all) . I will not be with them even for meals, most days. I feel like the most selfish person in the world. Especially regarding Carol, because she came all the way down here to travel with me. Over and over when I try to talk to them about this, when I say I am sorry, that I will make it up to them, they look at me like I am crazy. They say HAVE A GOOD TIME! They will have a good time!

Back across the bridge to New Orleans the city, we realize the hotel is on the parade route and completely surrounded by barricades. For a minute I am panicky, but I forget I am with two women who could break and enter the Vatican. It is just a lucky break for the rest of us that Lisa and Carol only use their powers for good. While I am calling Alan to tell him I have arrived, they have scoped the place out, found us a place to walk through and blinded the hotel security with their charms. I have no idea if this last thing was necessary or they just did it because they can.

We meet my CREW in the lobby of the hotel Alan is cerebral, sensitive and creative. He has very unusual deeply colored, dark eyes but is otherwise fair. Pasquale looks EXACTLY like Mr. Tumnus from the Chronicles of Narnia. Well, maybe his ears are not so big. Richard will join us tomorrow later - he's the videographer. Carol, Lisa, Gordon, Alan, Pasquale and I settle into an easy conversation, fueled by appetizers and drinks. They are telling me that this is about ME. I do not need to try to be anything, just myself. That it will be fun! That there will be surprises. That there will be a camera, almost always on. oh. my. gosh. After a few minutes of conversation, Alan says, I think you over sold the part about you being an ordinary girl! Carol, Lisa and Gordon start rolling their eyes and laughing and snorting. I don't know what that was about. I am pretty ordinary.

Alan says the first surprise is tonight, and we should get going. Unfortunately, Carol and Lisa and Gordon can't come with us. He only has 'passes' for a certain number of people. I'm not to worry, my good friends tell me. They will amuse themselves, and we will catch up by phone later.

Dark has settled, the gas lights in the street are lit. I follow Alan and Pasquale to the front of the hotel where there are stands erected over the sidewalk. They tell me we are watching the Endymion Parade from UP THERE! This puts us on the same level as the upper tiers of the floats. Have I mentioned I am five feet tall? Do you know what it means to ME to be able to see over heads? Beads start flying, crowds form on either side of the street. Pasquale is lining me up for footage up here. He has a large handheld camera on his shoulder. The parade is unrolling below us, floats, stilt walkers, guys carrying gas lights on their backs! I am up on this astro turf covered deck - people are pointing at us from the stands below us - they want to know who I AM, that I am up there. They don't recognize me, but they sure know what I am doing is special. Out of the dark, down the street, floating on the humidity, I hear the strains of Sweet Home Alabama! Four men join us on the platform - one a middle aged guy in a suit, three in their twenties or early thirties, in beautiful, unusual, expensive clothing. When I start singing the lyrics along with KID ROCK on the float, the three young men start to sing with me and soon we are dancing in a line.....

The three guys go back to talking to the business man guy and I am catching beads and getting my picture taken. Alan says to me, You know Shirley - you just danced and sang with Better Than Ezra.

Cool.

The parade finally winds to a close, and then a typical, wonderful New Orleans thing happens. A couple of police cars, with lights going, sirens blaring, crawl down the street. Behind them a line of policemen on horseback, shoulder to shoulder, crab walks down the street, parade watchers scattering in front of them like leaves before a wind. Last in line, bringing real life back to the street, are the sweepers, big trucks and people with brooms, chasing the magic back into the night.

Allan and Pasquale look tired - well, they worked! Taking footage of me catching and throwing beads, setting up shots, telling the story. Being nice to me. Making it easy to have every living second of my experience filmed. They head off to their rooms and I phone Carol and Lisa and Gordon, who appear as if by magic (not all of it has gone back to where magic sleeps, apparently). We wait for an hour and a half in the rain to get our car out of the parking garage. This is my best advice for anyone who comes to Mardi Gras. Forget your time related expectations. Suspend any feelings that begin with "I should not have to..." You will wait in lines, people will dawdle. But it's all good. In fact, waiting in the line can give you moments you will remember forever. For instance, I watched a young mother with two little kids turn their coats into tents and cuddle in the smelly foyer to the parking garage. Mother was wearing a red and white striped Dr. Seuss hat, the little girl was wearing a pink tutu and a tiara and an over sized Saints t-shirt, and the big brother tried to cover them both with his Transformers blanket. Gordon was unbelieveably gracious to all the drunk cracker youth who could not walk past him without saying LOOK AT THIS GUY! I WANNA BE HIM, How old are you, old man? Party Hardy Grandpa! They meant this as the highest praise.

I fall asleep in the car, listening to Carol and Lisa talk about their night. I have to be back in the city in five hours. For a Surprise.



More Coming....

Rodeo and Ripper Celebrate Dumb As Mud Day

It's early February and occasionally we have unseasonably warm weather which thaws the surface of the ground in the pasture just enough that it is a sea of mud. I know people say "sea of mud" and they think they know what it means, but until you have lived on a farm that is a construction site, and you have four dogs, teenage and tweenage boys, and various trades/craftsmen and others who are making multiple daily trips to and fro from the barn to the house and the parking area and then back to the barn and the house and the field for feeding, shopping, chores, and because you forgot what you went out there for and other errands, you really can't. Know what it means, I mean. The mud.

But it's not just the ground that is muddy. This time of year because of the holidays being over and the seasons teasing you with warm 60 degree weather one day and blasting you with 50 mph winds and subzero temperatures the next, and because it is a sort of wait and see time before good weather kicks in and outside chores become excuses to play, I find that my thinking gets muddy. Not one to point fingers but, so does yours.

Admit it.

So this morning I wake up and idly think, why don't they make snore strips for dogs? I actually design them in my head, imagine the fortune I would make, write the commercials and retire to Aruba. I spend a few minutes thinking about trying a human snore strip on the Big Spotted Dog. You can imagine the reason. Fortunately, my thyroid medication kicks in before this line of thinking becomes an incident that would require explanation and I remember HEY, today is a BIG DAY!

Ripper (Daughter In Law) and I are moving crapdedoodle. I don't think I need to share the WHY and the WHERE of this crapdedoodle: let's just say that the ebb and flow of my life requires endless piles of trinkets and chachka and doodads and geegaws to be packed up, lugged up and down stairs, in and out of trucks and barns and apartments and townhouses and basements and attics - mine and other people's. I can assure anyone who ever felt that they don't have enough THINGS in their life you just have not said YES often enough or looked hard enough. The more room you have, the more you amass. I do go on the occasional shopping spree, but really, I can tell you that if you just keep your ears perked, you will find yourself the happy (or at least willing) recipient of the byproduct of other people's lives - their flotsam and jetsam, their effluent, their excesses and and failings. And sometimes, they even have really good taste! I like other people's stuff just as much as new stuff and I'm not talking about stealing. Actually I wonder how stupid you have to be, to go to all the trouble of being a thief. There is so much stuff out there for free! I mean, why bother to climb through a window in the middle of the night and risk losing your freedom (or in West Cornmeal Township where I live) risk getting shot in the leg when you can just say Yes, drive up the driveway in your truck and most people will help you load it up.

Anyhow, today Ripper and I are off to bring a motherlode of stuff home and in order to earn it, we are also delivering seven large pieces of lovely craftsmen furniture to a woman who has bought it from the owner. When we said yes to this (Ripper will tell you that I said yes and she had a blackout) we weren't also moving My Son's family into my house, Eldest Grandson did not have a broken hand, and everything seemed possible because I was breathing the fumes of an estate sale. Nothing is ever as easy as I think it's going to be or as tragic and difficult as she feels it is.

Because I had a moment of clarity and realized that I was just not big enough to take an oak entertainment center down three flights of stairs, or even help Ripper do this, I have made arrangements for help. We are picking up two guys at a Mission in town and they are going to help us and we are renting a freaking big truck.

Ripper arrives this morning and I tell her we have help. That we are picking up two as yet Unknown Unfortunates at a men's mission who are going to be our legs and muscles. It's not just easier, it's GOOD KARMA.

Over her head forms a cartoon bubble where frame by frame it is revealed she is thinking that we will pick these guys up and later today will be found on the floor of the vacant house with steak knives sticking out of sucking chest wounds by her husband my son who has been calling our stolen cellphones frantically for hours.

She says, Other women don't do this.

I wave this concern away! I tell her I have decided it will be a great day! It will be FUN, we will get so much done! And, it's sort of like the exercise program we both said we would start around the new year, which is just six short weeks behind us - no time like the present! Then I tell her I will buy her breakfast. She gets in the car.

We go through the Burger King drive thru. I order a croissant sandwich, breakfast potatoes and a small diet coke instead of the coffee that comes with the meal. I believe this is a number three. It is 3.49. Ripper orders a bacon, egg and cheese, breakfast potatoes and a medium coke instead of a coffee. Hers is 4.59. I have to repeat this several times for the woman taking the order, shouting into the little box. She says thank you very much that will be 14.99 please pull around to the first window.

No. No it will not be 14.99. I'm not going to do the actual math, but just rounding the numbers up to the next dollar I can tell it won't be 14.99. It's like 7. Ripper says, That's not RIGHT. Even though Ripper is in the passenger side of my car, the woman in the box hears this and declares, I have to charge you extra for the coffee and cokes. I say, No no, they always just swap that out. And even so, two sodas are not seven dollars.

I careen around the side of the building to the first window where a woman with a Madonna style microphone is holding a bag. I refuse to take it. I say, that total is not right.

She says, yes it is.

I say no, it can not be. Are you gonna charge 15.00 for two sandwiches all day?

She gets unction. Fourteen ninety nine.

As if her unction effects me. I ask for a receipt.

She hands me a receipt that is completely undecipherable. Sure enough the total is 14.99. Ripper is shrieking, seven dollars seven dollars let me see that! and snatches the receipt from me. Since she is convinced she is going to die today, she is upset her last meal is being screwed up in this manner.

There is much arguing back and forth, much tallying up and other BK workers start to cluster in the little tiny window. Everyone has an explanation. They start to argue amongst themselves. No one is making any sense. RIpper and I are forgotten as they turn against each other.

I snatch the receipt back, hand it to the woman holding the bag and stomp on the gas. Just one more restaurant we can never go back to.

We stop for gas and spend fifteen minutes hunting for my wallet in the car. We do find it. Then...

We decide to go pick up the Freaking Big Truck - which is actually just a ten foot cargo van - and THEN get breakfast. I decide we are going to feed the Unknown Unfortunates, too. More good karma (especially since I have found my wallet). We pull into the rental place parking lot and now I can't find my phone. I am looking for my phone because a) Ripper's phone never has a complete charge, b) I do not go anywhere without my phone, c) I have the rental contract stored in my email on my phone. We tear the car apart. I take off my coat. I take off my sweatshirt. I look in the trunk. Ripper starts to call my phone and the vibration is rattling the car like bad dental work but we still can't find it. Finally, Ripper finds it between the seat and the console (in a place I looked over and over) and says, I hate you. Get out of my life. But with affection.

We go in to get the truck paperwork and keys. The people inside have never done this before. It's new to them. They have to call for assistance. The guy who shows up is their son. Dad disappears, Mom and Son get snippy with each other (You aren't logged in. Yes I am. No you are not. You have to be logged in.) Finally son gets the paperwork printed and hands it to me to sign. I hand it back. Mom passively, aggressively, slowly and methodically, folds it into an origami crane and slides it into the envelope. Ripper and I watch this little drama with some understanding - we have sons. But this is not getting us down the road.

I am going to drive the truck. Not many people know this, but I sold little trucks and big trucks for eight years. I can drive anything, any size. I could thread a needle with this truck. It will be a source of shallow pride to me all day. So, I am packing up my stuff from the car which Ripper is going to drive and I can't find my wallet. Or my phone.

I realize if I do this one more time today, I AM going to end up with a steak knife sticking out of a sucking chest wound, but it will be Ripper who did it and no jury will convict her.

We find my wallet and my phone after a few trips back into the truck place, a few more searches of the trunk and under the seats, and a fruitful emptying of the pockets of my coat.

This is when we realize, it is National Dumb as Mud Day.

I peel out of the parking lot with Ripper hot on my bumper and my phone rings. It's Ripper. She says, You are doing great! I think she was checking to see if I still had my phone, but it was sweet of her to notice my skill. Later I realize that she was probably also obsessing that I would drive slowly and over carefully and timidly and then she would be forced into taking the wheel of the truck and that would make HER nervous.

Now because it is NDAMD (see above) and because everything seems to be moving in slow motion, when I call my contact at the Mission to tell him that I am on my way, he tells me I have missed breakfast by half an hour. I don't get why this is important. Was I supposed to eat at the Mission? He says nooooo, but the guys show up, eat and take off about their business (?) and will not be back til 11 to line up for lunch. Okay then. Ripper and I are going to eat breakfast first and kill and hour or two, and then pick up the guys.

We eat at MacDonalds where something very similar to the Burger King Breakfast we order before totals just over 7 dollars. Hmmm. Ripper even has extra potatoes. After a nice, leisurely and reasonably priced breakfast, we moozy (I don't know how to spell that) over to a lighting store and poke around. Then it's time to drive to the mission.

We park and go up to the building, which is an old store front. The door is locked (it's not time to go in for lunch yet) but there is a dapper gentleman standing on the sidewalk, complete with snazzy hat, dress shoes and suit coat. He's very tall and he looks healthy. He asks if he can assist us. I tell him I am here to offer a few hours of work moving furniture. I am paying cash. He hods out his hand and says, Hello, my name is Robert. I will be happy to do it. I say, I really need two guys. We turn in unison and look at an older guy sitting on a bench, clearly not the man beef we are looking for. Now I am worried about offending him, though he doesn't really look all the interested. Robert says, let's go inside and maybe they have someone else for you. He raps on the door, they open up, a cheerful woman named Patty takes in the situation. Robert ducks outside again and reappears with a strong younger man in tow. This is Otis, and he can help! It's that easy. We get in the car, hunt for my wallet and phone again, and head back to Macdonald's where we left the truck. As we pull away from the curb, a young woman waves at the car and mouthes WHERE ARE YOU GOING? This is Otis' significant other. His cellphone rings and it's her. They have a discussion about what he is doing, what he is earning, and how long he will be gone. She's grilling him pretty good. When he hangs up, I ask him if he needs a note from me for the day? We laugh and hi-five each other and basically rejoice in the common themes of people's lives.

We pick up the truck and I pair up with Robert (we are close in age) and Otis climbs into the car with Jaime (the truck won't hold four people). I set the gps - a thing of wonder to Robert, who asks if it works if you are hitching - and off we go.

Robert and I settle into an easy conversation. We are both Hillary democrats who voted for Obama. Robert shares that he studied political science in college and finds this an exciting time to be living. He tells me he is a veteran. He played basketball for the Air force all over Europe and then tried out for the Denver Nuggets. He injured his knee and can't play any more. That his mother died six years ago and she was his best friend. He finds he does not have anyone to call with good news any more. He never had children. His favorite place in the world is Belgium. At New Years.

He asks about me and I give him the encapsulated Rodeo story.

Ripper calls and says she is hungry. So is Otis.

Robert says he has coupons for MacDonald's and pulls them out of his wallet. Ripper says she can't eat at the same fast food restaurant twice in one day. I decide I want Robert to hold on to his coupons, I'm buying so we go to Wendy's. We order everything they want.

Eating and driving, we get to the house and Robert and Otis load up the big, difficult furniture easily and energetically. They think of better ways to do things and Otis is particularily good at the spacial relationships that are required to load the truck.

We drive over to the delivery site and unload the furniture. The woman receiving the furniture gives Otis and Robert forty dollars each which they really appreciate. Then, we go back to the vacant house and in minutes load it up again with the items we are keeping. We all work together at this and it goes really fast. To our endless amusement, Otis' woman calls every fifteen minutes to see where he is. I keep wondering what she thinks is happening. And how does she pay for those calls?

On the way back to the Mission, Robert tells me that he had an apartment till two months ago, when he got laid off. They fired his whole shift. He's not worried. Something else will turn up. Maybe he will go to Florida to see an old girlfriend. He's thinking it might be time to settle down. Or get a camper and drive around the country. He says he's on Singlenet.com, too. He's Robert405. Okay.....he also says that he has a job interview the next day, but he can skip it and come out to the farm to help us unload. I tell him I don't think that will be necessary, we have family to help us unload. He looks out the window and says, I can skip that interview. He tells me that Otis is not really homeless. He doesn't know why he comes to the shelter.

Ripper and I decide telepathically to pay these men twice what we had originally said we would, because they made the day so easy. They are very happy, wave to us enthusiastically when we drop them back at the Mission. Call us ANY OLD TIME!

We drive the truck home, glad we have it for another day and don't have to unload it tonight. We are bushed. We sit and talk and Ripper tells me that Otis is thinking about going back to college, that his mother is a stock broker. Ripper says she talked to his mother when she called - Otis wanted her to say hello. She said that Mom was very articulate. She says Otis told her he voted for McCain because he thought McCain would do what was important, and wouldn't care about being popular. She says he told her he isn't homeless, that he and his significant other and her two kids live with another family in an apartment. He comes down to the mission because all his friends are there. His Sig Other likes the social life. Neither of them have jobs right now.

Ripper and I are sitting in my lovely home, bought with so much hard work. She says, I felt sort of guilty. We have so much.

I said, I know.

Ripper says, How do they get to be homeless, with no jobs, Rodeo?

I know she means she has met incompetent idiots just today who were not as efficient or thoughtful or as hard working. It is a puzzle, but I think about the job interview that can be missed, the injury, the death of a beloved parent. I think about relationships with insecure, needy people. About bad luck and bad decisions and bad habits. I think about National Dumb as Mud day. I tell Ripper that what keeps us from being in their situation is luck and things that can turn in a second and that we are but the width of a human hair away from going down that road most days of our lives. We just don't know it. it's the difference between saying Yes and No to the right and wrong things at the right and wrong times. It's the intervention of Angels and Shadows. I guess the answer might lay in our prayers. Robert told me that every night he thanks the Lord for another day. I told him that every night I thank the Lord that I am not cold or hungry.

I believe in Magic, Again

It is 1958. I am standing on the lawn of my home in Springfield, PA. It's late winter - one of those mornings where the grass feels brittle under your feet, but the air has a different, fresher feel and smell. The signs of spring are there, but you have to look really closely, listen really well, close to the ground. It's a morning that is not just about what it is, but what it will become. Poised. About. Ready.

A noise from a tree distracts me from inspecting ice crystals on the grass. I lay down on the earth, face up, feeling the miles of soil and stone and rock and lava and whatever else I can imagine is the center holding me up. Above me is an equal amount of sky and clouds and planets and stars. And for a moment, the last one I remember, I am the center of the universe.

Life happens after that. A series of events and admonishments and personalities and work that are designed to chip away at that feeling. Love and passion and need and all the elements of responsibilities and leading a productive life of service and maturity conspire to make sure I understand what my place is in the scheme of things. I am a knife on a whetstone, run by the ceaseless pounding of things going forward, goals being reached, agendas fleshing out. But always, always there is the memory of that morning, of that knowing what it is like at the center.

Good news. Good things happen. Happy times. Comfort, surprises, Wonderful tastes and warm blankets on cold nights. Hot showers. Babies. Kisses. Smiles and gifts. Just in the nick of time sometimes, sometimes greeted with gratitude, sometimes overlooked in the crush of bad things.

Bad news. Bad things happen. Hopes that are dashed, regardless of the amount of effort put in. Unfair things. Cruel things. Accidents. Loss. Long faces talk in whispers. Closed doors. Stones in shoes. Broken plumbing. Debts. Sometimes the phone rings, sometimes the certified letter arrives, sometimes Young Policemen show up at the door with news that is so unfathomable it is like they are speaking a language I don't understand. Bad things always leave their mark.

I am not unaware of the balance. Every year at New Years, I take stock. This involves cleaning out of my head, heart and house of things I do not want to take into the New Year and going to Beliefnet.com and taking the spirituality quiz. It's like taking my spiritual temperature. A series of questions designed to gauge your fit with hundreds of world religions, spiritual beliefs or theories, when you finish answering them it tallies up your answers and matches you up with some body of faith that most closely resembles your mindset.

I never even get close to Catholicism, Judaism or Muslim. Never. I remember the shock of not even registering within fifty points of Protestant although I attended Presbyterian Church much of my childhood. I was sort of relieved at not having to say "I am a Presbyterian" any more when asked, because it never seemed quite right, given my belief that there were ghosts and spirits in trees and that dreams had meaning, and tarot cards could help you figure out tough situations,that animals talk and showed up to help you, and that you did what you could but at some point there was just a force or entity beyond the understanding of a human brain or experience that sort of controlled things but chaotically, and that had no explanation. A mishmosh of goobledygook that can only be described as magic.

I took the test in the quiet moments of midnight, the New Years after Charles died. Something changed in my score.
Something imperceptible to me, but showing up in my answers.
I scored an organized religion.
I no longer believed in magic.

I entered the darkest period of my life. I no longer cared about the balance of good things to bad things. Everything was a bad thing. My sunny personality was just something I put on, not something I believed. I said the same things, I offered the same encouragement, I don't think I am fooling myself when I tell you that I think I pretty much fooled everyone else - I think they believed I was just a little depressed, a little overwhelmed, a little beaten down. I would get over it.

Only I knew that I had stopped the struggle to stay in the center, to see the balance and was just accepting that it was all bad. That it had always been bad. That I was a fool who had never seen the whole picture. The memory of being the beloved center of the universe was just a childhood fantasy like the other ones of being Annie Oakley or Cinderella.

A friend at work noticed a chink in my happy armour one day and sent me a link to a fluffy, whimsical email newsletter that she said helped her through some bad times. I thought, what the hell. So I signed up. They started coming and I would read them first thing in the morning. Honestly, the happy, affectionate notes from the Universe initally got on my nerves. The depth of my sadness and loss of faith was so deep, they were like throwing snowballs at a bonfire.

Seriously. You can't stop crying when you are alone in the car, but you get "Baby steps spark miracles, Shirley.

Miracles do not spark baby steps.
Ungawa,
The Universe"

Or:

"When in doubt, Shirley, show up early. Think less. Feel more. Ask once. Give thanks often. Expect the best. Appreciate everything. Never give up. Make it fun. Lead. Invent. Regroup. Wink. Chill. Smile. And live as if your success was inevitable, and so it shall be.
Happy global domination,
The Universe"

Yeah, I needed that crap.

But I kept reading them, every morning.

I also kept doing things. Mechanically, but doing things. I like to respond to Haro Queries - if you haven't signed up, go do it now, it's over there in the sidebar under Help A Reporter - everyone is an expert at something, and it is fun to actually get some acknowledgement. I had extraordinary success at this, having every pitch I wrote accepted, getting quoted in The New York Times, USA today, Grands, Grandparents.com, Inflight Magazine, the list goes on and on. Just google me. Reporters were showing up at my house, photographers in tow, for articles in Ladies Home Journal and First For Women magazine. My son kept saying "What the hell, Mom?" I know - it's freaky! Especially considering that I didn't believe I was the darling daughter of the All Knowing any longer. God didn't have a plan for me, he was busy elsewhere. I was on my own.

Apparently, though I did not know it at the time, the battle over my soul was heating up.

A couple of weeks ago, a query shows up on Haro that goes like this:



33) Summary: Need Celebs/Ordinary People For TV Pilot

Category: Travel

Name: YYYYYY YYYYYYYY

Email: XXXXXXXXX@XXXXXXX

Title: Publisher

Media Outlet/Publication: XTRORD.com

Anonymous? No

Have you ever wanted to fly a jet or ride in a Float on Mardi Gras? Write us a paragraph and tell us why we should pick you.

This is how I responded:


Name: Shirley Landis Van Scoyk
Age: 55
Hometown: Honey Brook, PA
How To Reach You:XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX
Your Story: (a paragraph about yourself and why you've always
wanted to have this experience)

First of all, let me just say that if you are looking for ordinary, I am your girl. I am a short round outgoing cheerful grandmother/widow who lives on a farm in PA and works as a Realtor. But I have this one... little.... weakness..... Mardi Gras!

I have been to Mardi Gras four times. I have a dog named NOLA. I have a coconut from Zulu, but not a spear. I have thirty five pounds of beads in my bedroom closet, and three boas. I have a shoe from Endymion. I have dressed in my pajamas and screamed when the Rex King went by. I have begged, Throw me something, Mister! I have taken tons of pictures from the ground but I have always secretly wanted to throw beads to the crowd.
I have always wanted to know what it is like to see the crowd from UP THERE - to decide who to throw beads to, what method works the best - there is a science to the begging, and I want to know it, see it, live it, from behind the masks. I wanted to send you some pictures, but I don't know if you would accept attachments.

I have friends who live in NOLA who can put me up and I will fly there myself. I can be ready to go at the end of Feb.

PICK ME< PICK ME< PICK ME, Life - throw me something Mister!!!!!!!!!!"

And they answered. Yes.

And then, I renigged.

Yes. Read this:

"Alan: I am so sorry, but I have to withdraw my pitch for Mardi Gras. After I sent you the email saying I have a place to stay, yady yady yady, I realized I do have a work conflict with the dates. I thought I better write you as soon as possible, and I hope that whomever gets this opportunity really appreciates it and that it works out for you. Shucks, I am bummed but it can't be helped.

Shirley VanScoyk"

Liar, liar pants on fire.

I told everyone - Lisa and her Dad who would put me up and put up with me graciously and actually like they were excited, my Daughter In Law and my friends, that yes, I wanted to go, but really I had to be an adult, I had things to do, dogs to feed, money to save, it was time I just started saying no to myself and these crazy, impractical notions of fun and different and cherry on the top experiences. The dark side won.

But the bright side was not ready to give up.

The guy called, we talked, I said NO NO, he said please please. He emailed. He upped the ante.

His email:

"Hi Shirley --

So I've been sick as a dog for the last week and consequently haven't gotten around to replacing you in our TV show's Mardi Gras segment. We've switched to the star-studded Orpheus (Harry Connick Jr.s krewe) parade on Monday night and we'll be attending the ball afterwards, which should make it just that much more fun!

Before I move to the next name on my list, I thought I'd check in with you one more time. For our purposes, you'd only need to be there by Saturday night, we'll shoot Sunday and Monday, and you could fly home Fat Tuesday to minimize the time you'd be away from work...

So, whatd'ya say? Lemme know ASAP!

Thanks!"

Okay, I'm shallow. The name Harry Connick Jr. turned it all around for me.

Also I am also a complete sucker for a man who is begging - just ask my two husbands, my son, my grandsons and my old boyfriends.


On Friday I made a few phone calls about my animal care concerns, worked it out in minutes and guess what, called the guy and said yes. Happy Happy Happy. Mostly. And I also got a positive response from another query I wrote - I sent this wonderful woman Pam The Cremains Tour when she requested funeral/celebrant stories and she was so receptive and kind and appreciative that I was overwhelmed, but in a good way this time. A remarkable turn of events - later to be seen as a metaphor of historic proportions, sort of like.....The Battle of Midway or Gettysburg. I start looking at Ball Gowns on the internet, checking out the Orpheus site. You know - Orpheus, one of the handful of Greek heroes to visit the Underworld and return; even in Hades his song and lyre did not lose their power.

But the Universe does not like it when you minimize its work to a human scale. Once it gets started, you have got to stand there and wait for it to swallow you up and show you once again that you are the chocolate-y, chewy center of the Universal Tootsie Roll.

Monday morning. This am. First thing I do is roll over, grab my blackberry and read what emails have come in over night. There it is - the Universe Calling.

And this morning it says:

"I don't like to make predictions, but the way things are going, Shirley, I wouldn't be at all surprised if this year you have a ball, go to a ball... and put the pics up on Facebook.
You are so poised for the time of your life -
The Universe"

Okay, Universe, you win.

Oh Sleepless Night

(To The Tune of Oh Holy Night)

Oh, Sleepless Night
The VanScoyks they are barfing
It is the night when they all got the flu

Long lay the bug even with the hand washing
Til it appeared and our tummies felt it's wrath

A thrill of hope, at 4am Jeremy is rejoicing
For yonder breaks a new and spew-less mourn!

FALL ON YOUR KNEES
O hear our anquished voices

Oh night of slime!
Oh, night the washer ran
Oh, night of slime
Ooooooooh, night of slime

Led by the nightlight, down the hall careening
With growling bellies, by the toliet we stand
O'er the laundry, a bulb is softly glowing
As Nana washes chunks out of a blanket by hand
The mother of the brood lay thus in lowly danger
Of throwing up in her queen size bed.
Brad knows her need, her weakness is no stranger
Behold the pot, before it lowly bend!
Hold her hair, down the drain please send!

Truly we must love one another
To clean up this mess and do it in peace
The fever will break, but now we are sick all together
In the morning this oppression will cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
When the cramping passes and sips of water we retain
Cola is the cure! Then, ever, ever praise we,
In our bellies it will remain!
In our bellies it will remain!


Merry Christmas, Everybody! I cherish each and every one of you for the way you brighten my life. Thank you- The heart is mine, the fingerprints are yours.

Shirley

The Blue Sky Farm Christmas Letter

It's that time of year when people I haven't seen for a long time (and with good reason) feel the need to connect and send me Christmas Letters. Always folded in quarters in lavish Christmas cards, opening them sends shivers down my spine. They seem to come in categories: TMI and Full Out Bragging.

TMI (Too Much Information) is usually a list of funerals, surgeries and divorces. Full Out Bragging is a recitation of graduations, awards, births, and trips. There is a hybrid (TMI/FOB) which is bordering on emotional abuse.

I've never sent a Christmas letter not just because I don't like getting them, but also because Rodeo's Christmas Letter would go something like this:


Hey, everybody, sorry this is late.

It's been a busy year here at Blue Sky Farm. No, the addition is not done. No, we don't know when it will be done. No, the kid's house has not sold. No, we don't know when it will be sold. Yes, that is our bucket truck, no it's not rented, we bought it.

The boys have each grown five inches and keep their school work secret from their parents and me, so we don't know what grades they are in or if they have won any awards. They get on a school bus everyday, but they could be part of a secret gov't program.

I have only been to the emergency room three times this year: vertigo, teeth through my lip and a truly near death prescription mix up. We do have two weeks to go til the New Year.



Trips: Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Lost and Found in New York City, TWO trips back to New York with Anita for "the View", Road Trip with Gail to Arizona (pictured, with our candy necklaces), each wonderful and fabulous in it's own way!

However, who could forget the Summer Stay-Cations - one for me, one for the dogs. And for Nola, Petey and Daisy, winter stay-cation looks pretty similar to summer stay-cation.


Sadly missed: Earl and Josh W.

Things Acquired: Lucille (pictured), Nellie, Rita, Nathan, Two Yet to be Named Chicks, Fencing, Manure Spreader, Gas Fire Place.


Things Lost: FIVE HUGE DUMPSTERS FULL OF CRAPDEDOODLE, thousands of dollars in commissions due to the market, three chickens to either the bobcat or the red tail hawk.

Hey, wait. This has been sort of cathartic. Maybe that's why they send those letters.

Out my window, the snow is falling, the wind is howling but I am toasty and warm, as are all my friends and family and animals. Merry Christmas to all and may this coming year bring you the blessings of creature comfort.