Fairlington Memories

Michelle's post about her stay in Alexandria, VA reminded me of the year I lived in that area.

That year--November of 1968-November 1969--was the first year of my first marriage, and this was our first home: Fairlington apartments, on the border of Fairfax, Arlington and Alexandria, VA. The complex was built to house defense workers during the war, but when I lived there the buildings were owned by a private company. Imagine paying $93 a month for rent, with all utilities included, and only 2 1/2 miles from the Pentagon!


By the time I lived there, all the units--and there were many of them!--were surrounded by large, full-grown trees, mostly oaks as I recall. Our building at 2943 South Dinwiddie Street, perched on the side of a hill; from our dining area and kitchen windows I could look far down at the road winding its way up to our street. My little dog Gidget (a Jack Russell) and I would watch at the window for my husband's red Volkswagen beetle to come up the hill. She always knew before I did as she could hear the car and would begin whining.

Here is a recent photo of our building, from the internet. 

We lived in the center red brick building, on the second floor, to the right, apartment B-2, if I remember right. Across the hall from us was a lady named Ah How Ching. I remember her well. She and I watched the moon landing together on her TV as I nursed my newborn son. The basement had laundry facilities, and while we were living there several women in other buildings were raped. The rapist was caught--he was one of the trashmen. I didn't know about the rapes until months afterward. I always felt so safe here among the big trees and nice neighbors, but I was only 17 and so naive.


The apartments would be of an enviable size today. Ours had a large living room with a dining nook and the cutest kitchen, about 8 feet square and today would be considered so vintage with its big sink, window and old cabinets. The kitchen floor was ceramic tile, and the bathroom was tile as well. There was a huge bedroom with a big closet. The rest of the floors were hardwood, and the windows were quite large, with nice wood trim. The walls were plaster. Today this would be considered upscale! 

I didn't really know the history of the place when we lived there; I just liked its old-fashionedness, if that makes sense. In many ways it was like the old house I grew up in. I didn't drive at the time I lived there, but I would often take my son and little dog on walks along the tree-lined streets. In some ways, it was an idyllic year--the blush of first love, my first baby, the comfortable apartment, learning to cook and keep house. We bought our first house when I found I was expecting another baby--the apartment had only one bedroom--and I was glad to get out into the country and away from the noise of the city, but I will always remember my year at Fairlington with fondness.

Fairlington was turned into condos in the early 1970's and remains standing today. A historical marker was placed some years ago when the complex was placed on the National Historic Register. 

"Designed in the Colonial Revival style by Kenneth Franzheim and Alan B. Mills and constructed between 1942 and 1944, Fairlington is an early example of successful community planning and large-scale, publicly financed rental housing built for defense workers and their families during World War II. With 3,439 garden apartments, Fairlington was the largest project financed by Defense Homes Corporation (a component of the National Housing Agency) and the nation’s largest apartment complex at that time. The units were renovated and sold as condominiums between 1972 and 1977. The name Fairlington combines Fairfax and Arlington, the counties in which the project was located."

You can read more about Fairlington on Wikipedia.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Hankies, Handbags and Memories

Ironing hankies for the booth this afternoon gave me some quiet thinking time. Ironing really is a zen thing, isn't it, especially when it's something simple like handkerchiefs.

The hankies reminded me of my mother, who always carried them tucked up her sleeve, in her apron pocket or in her purse. Hers were usually scented with Yardley's Lavender, and yes, she always ironed them, at least the ones I remember. As children, hankies were one thing we could afford to buy her for her birthday or Christmas so she was always well supplied. And when our granny taught us to sew during one of her extended visits from England, she started us out with hankies. I admit my first effort was nothing that would win a prize, but I was so proud of it. Eventually we graduated to making dolls clothes and later to using the machine to make skirts and dresses.

But I preferred to buy hankies for my mother rather than give her the clumsy ones I made. The five-and-dime store had such pretty ones, and they were only 19 cents. Printed with wildly colorful bouquets of flowers, they held me mesmerized just looking at them. Then there were the gorgeous flocked floral ones made of see-through nylon that were totally useless but so very elegant. Those were 39 and 49 cents. And the top of the line, the boxes sets of four, folded into fans inside of gold gilt boxes, some with embroidered flowers, others with monograms. Elegance times three, and only $1.19. But for a child of the 50's, that much money in our possession was as rare as having ice cream in winter.

Remembering Mom's hankies in her handbag got me to thinking about how different her purse was from mine. I wrote the other day about the odd collection of things in my handbag when I cleaned it out--everything from a pocketknife to pegboard hooks. Mom's was nothing like mine.

Peeking inside her purse was one of my childhood guilty pleasures. It seemed so grown-up and ladylike, two things I surely was not. Besides a pretty floral (and scented) hankie, there would be a round gold compact with a mirror inside, and a puff for applying the powder. The compact had a lacy etched design and closed with a most satisfying snap. In the same compartment of Mom's purse would be her lipstick, bright red hidden inside a smooth gold tube. So sensual!

Her glasses, a lady Buxton leather wallet (I never dared to touch that), a little vial of some Avon fragrance, tissues, a pen, and a comb inside a little case of its own, and that was it. None of the mishmash of screws, pencils, markers, measuring tape and other junk that occupy my bag. Even the purse itself looked lady-like, a good leather exterior with a gold clasp, and a handle that was NOT a shoulder strap. This bag closed with a lovely, solid snap.

Mom and me, 1988. She was so thrilled with the way I looked that day of my son's wedding. 

I wonder sometimes what my mother must have made of her rough-and-tumble oldest daughter. I wonder what she thought of my skinned knees and elbows, my harem-scarem rollerskating, my headless dolls and broken tea sets, and my choice to be called "Uncle John" in many of games with my siblings. I was a far cry from my English mother's idea of what a young lady should be. I know that my decision to move with my first husband to the "wilds of West Virginia," as she called it, made her very unhappy.

But today she would have been proud of me, as I carefully starched and ironed the handkerchiefs, aprons and other linens for my booths. She would have liked how neatly I folded them and hung them on a little rack for display. She would even have liked a lot of those hankies. As I grow older, I find myself surprised by the ways in which I am like her--my love of flowers and tea and of lace and soft pretty things, my pleasure in babies and china tea cups. So maybe the wild girl grew up to be more like the lady m mother so wanted me to be. I wish she was here to enjoy it; I am sure she would have heaved a sigh of relief that all her teaching was not in vain.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

About This Photo

After writing my last post I looked more closely at this photo. There's a lot about that time in my life here.

Center left in the photo you can see a building. That was our tobacco barn. We were growing burley tobacco at the time, which has to be hung in a well-ventilated building to dry. It looks like the barn is empty so all the stripping was done by then and the tobacco taken to the auction. We had another barn full on land we were leasing then--tobacco takes a lot of space to dry and packing it in too tight could cause mold.

I believe this photo was taken in February of 1983, when my first husband was working away in Virginia. That winter the boys and I took care of the place, from getting in the firewood to stripping the tobacco and caring for the livestock. I was working full time on a different mail route that winter, and the boys (my four older sons) were 9, 10, 12 and 14. Jon, the twelve-year-old, built a horse shed by himself and we also built a small greenhouse, fenced in 23 acres, laid water lines to the barnlot and got the tobacco seedbed planted. The driveway, as you can see in the photo, was a right mess, deeply rutted so that sometimes we had to walk. The boys routinely walked a mile to the schoolbus anyway, and I often walked out to the mailbox which was also a mile away, so it wasn't much of a hardship to walk the driveway.

That's Jon's pony Goldberry in the photo, although I think by this time he'd sold her to Derek, and had another horse. The cow is either Honey or Daisy, the two Jerseys we were milking at the time. We also had a few head of beef cattle, chickens and depending on the time of year pigs and turkeys.

We had no electricity yet--that didn't come until 1989.

Would I go back to living like that? Yes, with the exception of the tobacco. And nowadays we are even better prepared for it than we were then, in many ways. Our income was unstable since my ex-husband worked construction (and wasn't union so even when he worked the pay wasn't great), and now we have a steady income, free gas, and a nice root cellar built by Larry my second hubby. The house is much nicer too--back then it was barely finished, a cabin really. So even if we took out the electricity and raised stock again, we would still be living a lot more comfortably than we were in those days.

Ah, memories!

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Remembering a Different Time

Me about this time of this story

The weather this week reminds me of a winter some 35 years ago. It was one of those cold, cold, cold spells and I was carrying mail as a substitute for a regular carrier who had retired. This was a rural route that traveled through no towns, only a few unincorporated communities. Most of the route was on one-lane roads, some of them narrow ridge roads with miles between mailboxes.

I loved carrying mail. I didn't mind the sorting and bundling or the long hours on the road alone. I liked the time to think, the rhythm of the driving, and I got really good at gliding my 4WD truck standard-transmission truck into the boxes at just the right place. I was pretty small back then, and it was a full-size pickup, so getting over to the window on the passenger side to put mail in the boxes was almost a contortionist's job. I had a system: I would pop the transmission into neutral and move my left foot to the brake. That allowed me to scoot over on the seat since I didn't need to hold down the clutch. Thankfully the truck (Michael J. Truck, his name was, a silver 1980 Chevy long-bed) had a bench seat. I left the window down most of the time so I didn't have to keep cranking it up and down. This was before power windows were so prevalent, and this truck had no bells and whistles like that. So in winter it was cold, in rain I had to be careful to keep the mail dry, and in dry weather I ate a lot of dust on the dirt and gravel parts of the route--about half of it, actually.

Route 3 was an interesting route. The former carrier trained me on its particulars, like the one lady whose mail he always carried to her door even though that was against regulation--and once a week she'd make hot rolls and have them ready when he came. Or the guy who lived about a half-mile from his mailbox--he'd turn the box sideways on a swivel mount, and when I put mail in it I'd turn it back frontwards. He'd look with binoculars from his house and if the box was straight he knew to come get his mail. This was also the place where I saw my very first cross-dresser, a middle-aged farmer who would dress up just beautifully with pearls, hose and lipstick sometimes and come out to greet me. I had never even known such people existed before. He was a nice man, although I thought the five-o'clock shadow under the makeup looked odd.

One winter morning really sticks in my mind. I was driving through town on my way to work and looked at the bank thermometer. It was -18 degrees, and here I was, going out to drive around for hours in the snow and ice with my windows rolled down. But I was warm, I have to say. I dressed for it. My clothes had to be warm enough, yet flexible enough for all that scooting and stretching on the route.

So I wore panty hose under long johns and jeans over that, 2 pairs of socks--one of them wool--in side boots with felt liners. I wore a long johns top with a flannel shirt, wool sweater and down vest. A toboggan on my head, but no gloves except driving to work because I needed my hands free.

Another thing I remember is putting chains on the truck. Even though it was 4 wheel drive, pulling off on the sloping road shoulder in ice and snow was tricky. So I would put chains on the right side only for parts of the route, and some days chains all around. I never had an accident and never slid into a mailbox although I did a lot of praying and white-knuckle driving sometimes.

Me and my boys and my truck. So young!

I carried mail as a sub for almost five years, often working long stretches full time, and I was sorry to have to let it go. But I was working full-time as a security guard by then and expecting my fifth son, and it was time to let it go. Had it ever been possible to get the job full-time, I am sure I'd have stayed til I retired. But then I would not have gone to college, not have become a storyteller, and probably never have started this blog. 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Harvest Basket

I remember exactly the day this basket came into my life.

I was at a farm auction with my first husband. We'd been living in West Virginia about two years and had finally moved out to our land, and into the house we'd built that was nowhere near finished. Life was exciting, challenging, and most of the time I felt like I'd won the lottery even though we had no electricity, the running water was intermittent and the toilet was at the end of a path up the hill.

I'd been raised in town. When I was very young we lived in the pine woods of Centreville, Virginia, just a random assortment of owner-built small houses in a place where no one wanted to live because the soil didn't perc and there was no city water so everyone had outhouses. When I was five we moved to Manassas, to a large foursquare built around 1914 in a quiet neighborhood that became anything but after our family of six-and eventually 13--children moved in.

We had a vegetable garden and fruit trees, and Mom had her herbs and flowers and did a good bit of canning, but nothing really prepared me for life on this rugged land in West Virginia. Even my first home after I married, didn't do that. It was outside of Manassas on an acre of land and in the country where we could have chickens (I got my first flock when I was 19) and raise a garden didn't prepare me for the life I thought I wanted, a self-sufficient homestead far away from anywhere, and in the mountains.

It was a big learning curve when we moved in--a very big one. But we learned fast and it was all an adventure to me then. Being young makes a person feel they can do anything, doesn't it? Our first winter was a rough one for sure, one of the worst on record in this area, with temperatures down to -30F for weeks. We managed, and it was all pretty exciting, even if rough and tumble to make it through.

Spring came, and with it came the farm auctions. I remember this one in particular because I coveted almost every single thing they were selling--the fenceposts, the pile of oak boards, the wagons and trailers and plows and high-wheel cultivators and kitchenware and quilts and on and on. I knew that this was a sale of a bygone lifestyle, really, things necessary for the very life I wanted to live.

We still had some money from the sale of our house in Virginia at this point, and I bought a lot of stuff. My husband squirmed every time my hand went up in the air. We took home two truckloads plus one of the small trailers from the sale, also loaded full.

Today I still have several things from that sale. The apple butter kettle, the trailer, some old tools, a yellow Lipton's teapot. The fenceposts built our first goat fence and the lumber built the first chicken house and woodshed. I still have some of the crocks and probably a lot of the hundreds of canning jars too.

And I still have this old basket, worn and broken but still here because I refuse to part with it. I used it almost daily for a good while, repaired the rim with some oak splits I'd made myself in a basket-making class, and preserved its finish with orange shellack a time or two. I quit taking it to the garden when the bottom got weak and used to to store potatoes and onions in the kitchen, then later for magazines in the living room. Finally it became too fragile to use, and I hung it from the rafters in the kitchen, where it's been for at least the last 25 years.

Today I looked up and saw that the handle had pulled loose from the rim. It is too weak even to hang by its handle any more. So I took it down and carefully maneuvered the handle back into place.

I'll give it a good washing, and then it will go to rest on top of a cabinet where there is no strain on that handle hand-carved to fit beneath the rim so many years ago by some unknown hand at that farm on the top of Chestnut Ridge.

 Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Truth Is...

My friends and stellar musicians Doug and Telisha Williams put out a fantastic CD last year called Wild Ponies (that is also the name of their band). One song on it intrigued me with its title and topic. "The Truth Is" is Telisha's list of things people might not suspect about her, a sort of meme in song.

Her song inspired me to start making my own list. So here is my list of little-known truths about this granny:

1. I hate to throw away soap. You know that little bitty piece when a bar is almost used up, or the last dribbles of detergent, dishwashing liquid, or shampoo? I can't toss them. I'll squeeze the little piece onto a new bar; I add water to the bottles of soaps so that every little bit is drained out. Ridiculous, isn't it?

2. Truth is, I have an almost irresistable urge to reach out and stroke that satiny, velvety, nubbly, or otherwise totally tactile fabric you're wearing. Even if you're a perfect stranger.

3. Women are supposed to be nuts about chocolate, but the truth is I can take it or leave. As I've gotten older, fruit and other flavors have more appeal.

4. Someone crying will always have me fighting tears.

5. The truth is, I can be unforgiving. I give a person a lot of chances but once a line has been crossed, that's pretty much it for me. I will be polite and friendly but never a friend again. Once trust is lost, there's no getting it back.

6. I feel guilty most of the time that I am not accomplishing much with my time. Time on the computer--is that really working? Messing around with booths and antiques, is that really working? My inner puritan is always scolding me to do real work, something productive. Be quiet, Puritan!

7. The truth is, at one time I didn't like babies. I know what you're thinking. "What! You, Granny Sue, with so many sons and grandchildren?" But after being big sister to nine younger siblings and spending my teenage years helping to care for them and then becoming a mother myself at 17, I was tired of babies by the time I was 30.

Fortunately that stage wore off before I had my last son at 35 and the grandchildren started arriving when I was 38. Now I adore babies--although I am still not a fan of changing diapers.

8. Aging continues to surprise me. So many things no one ever told me! Who knew that all of a sudden my right thumb would suddenly start sending sharp twinges to my pain center? Who knew that I would become more assertive when I felt something wasn't right or that service was poor? Who knew that it would feel better to get out of bed that to sleep in, because the aches and pains of the night go away with movement? Who knew that I would be speaking to a group and suddenly realize that they were all born in THIS century and things like the great storm of 1993, the crashing of the Berlin Wall, and even Bill Clinton were all before their time?

9. To tell the truth, I never thought I could sing. All my life I thought singing was for other people. Then I discovered the old ballads when I was 50, and found my voice.

10. Although I am telling truths here, the real truth is that there is much that I do not yet know about myself, even at 62 years old. And that is what keeps life challenging and ever surprising.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Listening to Mom

Mom, always the English lady. 

"Marigolds are pretty, but they have a terrible smell."

"That Lucy and Desi, they're so common. I don't want you girls watching that show."

"Tea must always be served in an English teacup, dear, with a saucer. And milk and sugar. And brewed in a teapot."

"Depression glass is just cheap glass."

"China made in Japan is no good. Not worth wasting money on."

"Wrap that baby up! Poor little thing is freezing."

That was my mother talking. Her opinions, lightly and carelessly dropped, shaped my view of the world, of housekeeping, gardening, and child-rearing. I followed her rules and her lead,  and only recently realized how much she influenced my own likes and dislikes.

My English granny, Naomi Florence Hagger, who was visiting us in Centreville, VA, on her 60th birthday when this photo was taken. Granny's tastes and opinions probably had just as strong an influence on my mother as Mom's did on me. 

Take silver for example. Mom loved silver. Looking back, I bet she would have adored having a real silver tea service but that never came to be. She also like brass and copper, and there were certain pieces that we kept on display in the house for years, polishing them for the holidays. Two crystal decanters sat on either end of the buffet in our dining room; one held port, the other sherry. I do not remember anyone ever drinking those dark red liquids, but I do recall washing up the decanters along with all the other sparkling serving dishes for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter.

This was taken at our second home, in Manassas, on the occasion of Mom and Dad's 35th wedding anniversary. I do believe this is the on;y photo I've ever seen of her drinking anything but tea!

It was surprising to realize when she passed away how many of her likes and dislikes she passed on to her daughters. We all love crystal, silver and flowery English teacups. We all grow flowers, have an apron tucked away somewhere in our kitchens, and most of us still drink tea with milk and sugar. For a long time I did not watch the Lucy show or the Mary Tyler Moore show either ("Common," Mom sniffed). To this day I cannot watch movies with violence or children being hurt, and I'm a fan of happy endings.

Mom with her siblings, gathered around her mother, probably sometime in the early 1980's

I was surprised when I found that I actually liked the smell of marigolds, and of a bruised tomato leaf, another scent my mother did not enjoy. And I left the delicate English teacups in favor of the more substantial and, I think, just as pretty German-made cups and saucers. I have never been a big fan of pale pink and green Depression glass, but when I found I really liked the pale yellow version, I felt guilty for years!

My sisters and I in 1991, at my brother John's wedding. As usual, the photographer had a rough time getting us organized.

My tastes began to become my own when I left Virginia and moved to the mountains of West Virginia. I became intrigued by handmade art-pottery, quilts, and baskets filled my home. I wore jeans and seldom put on makeup (Mom put hers on daily, and "freshened up" with new lipstick and a clean apron just before Dad came home from work). My mother visited my mountain home only rarely, and for the first few visits was visibly upset at the hard path her oldest daughter had chosen. I did not think it difficult at all--to me it was all a great adventure, a challenge to learn how to provide for ourselves in this then-remote place.

Mom and I, 1988, at my son Jon's wedding. (and I thought I was fat then! Geez,)

Over the years my tastes gentled; Mom was surprised on her last visit here in 2003 to find air conditioning, lace curtains and a more civilized way of life--at least to her way of thinking. I went from minimalist to an eclectic, comfortable style that includes all of the things I love in a glorious mishmash that is still orderly--unlike my mother, I do not want "everything out where I can see it, dear." I still recall how quickly she could trash a place, scattering belongings hither and thither, filling a dresser top with makeup, medicines, lotions and creams and completely covering a countertop in less than 10 minutes. She was happiest with a comfortable clutter, as she called it. I can deal with clutter for a limited time but then it has to get organized and cleaned up.

Dad in the comfortable clutter of Mom's kitchen. Note the teapot (aluminum, she liked those kind best for some reason), the spooner, magnets on the fridge, tablecloth, etc. There was seldom any clear space on the counters of her kitchen but she cooked easily without it, an accomplishment that always amazed me.

Every now and again, I'll start to say something, and I'll hear my mother talking again. I have to smile because even though she's been gone for eight years, her opinions live on in her daughter's subconscious mind. It makes me wonder if I influenced my sons in the same way. Is it this way with all mothers? Do you still hear your mother's opinions coming out of your mouth?

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Coincidence, Serendipity, or Meant to Be?

We were driving to Marietta one day last week, talking about our plans for the week and listening to the radio, when I suddenly realized that Larry was heading towards Ravenswood and had forgotten where we were going. We were about three miles out of our way, no big deal. We just turned around and backtracked to the interstate. But was there another reason, one we weren't aware of, that caused us to miss the turn-off? I have often wondered about the impact of sudden decisions or accidental changes in plans, about what we might have missed or unexpectedly experienced.

In 2001 I made a last-minute decision take a longer route home because I wanted to look at a ball field my son had asked about, one that he thought had a place where he could practice pitching. I found the place and had pulled into the turn lane when a truck that had been a good ways behind me suddenly accelerated and tried to pass, hitting my car and spinning it around; he slammed it again and sent it careening off the road and into a driveway, after breaking off a gas line. His truck slammed into a tree; he was going so fast his truck was crushed and he died instantly. I was lucky; I slammed my head into the door post and came very close to passing out, but managed to remain conscious. I was seeing double when I jumped out of my battered car and ran to the other driver, but one look told me there was nothing I could do. I will not ever forget that moment.

I still wonder, what if I had left five seconds earlier? What if I had not tried to pull off the road to have a better look? What if the man who hit me had stayed at the convenience store a few seconds longer? What if he started to pass and then realized that it was a no passing zone, and pulled back in? What if, what if, what if. All the what ifs in the world cannot change something that has already happened. It took years for me to get past the flashing memories of that evening, and years for the sore place on my head to go away. Even now I dread driving on that road and fortunately I no longer have to go anywhere near it.

But to return to our mistake last week, when we forgot where we were going and had to turn around: those few minutes made us a little later on our journey, no big deal. But we were passing a truck loaded with concrete block when we noticed that one block had come loose and was fractions of an inch away from flying off the truck. Had that one block come loose, many others would surely have followed as the tight stacking would have been compromised. And a loose concrete block bouncing down the interstate could easily have bounced right through a windshield and killed or seriously injured someone.

We were able to signal to the truck driver that there was a problem with his load. He nodded and, praises be, pulled off the road. Potential tragedy averted. So again I wonder, if we had not made that wrong turn, would we have seen the truck and the loose block? Or would it have come loose and hurtled into an oncoming car? Was that truck the reason for our wrong turn? Or was it, like my accident all those years ago, just a coincidence of timing?


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Random 5 Friday: Senses

I found A Rural Journal through Michelle at It's a Small Town Life, and thought it sounded like a good idea. My days are often filled with randomness, which I quite like; it suits me.

So here are my five random things, posted first on Facebook as separate posts at the end of yesterday's journey to pick up more things from the estate sale.

Overheard: "We used to live in a house, then we painted it blue and we sold it. One there was a snake in the dining room and we called Papaw and he came over and bonked it on the head and smooshed it and it was dead." Rose, who was 5 and knew what the Recyclable symbol on the bottom of her Wendy's cup meant.

Seen: a man discing a field with a team, horse and mule. We stopped and chatted. Pics and post coming soon on my blog. I love this state.

Touched: old oak washstand, well cared for, polished, and filled with Workbasket magazines, needles, photos, and tiny, cold metal tins of pins.

Smelled: the sweet scent of lilac and honeysuckle everywhere today as we traveled once again to Oak Hill. In my photo above, a lavender azalea blooms in the wild on a hillside overlooking the Kanawha River, evidence that a home once occupied that steep but lovely spot.

Taste: cold cold chardonnay after a day of hard labor, moving, lifting, loading and unloading furniture. Time to chill and fell good about today's work. One more load tomorrow, and we're done.

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Sick Days and Work Days

I've been pretty well stuck in the house for four days now, and I have to admit I don't mind. When I feel bad I just want to hole up like a hurt dog and wait for it to go away. Today I feel the bug dragging its tailfeathers out of my head so the end is in sight.

I can still get things done when I'm not well; that's the advantage of being self-employed. Yesterday I completed my sales tax filing for the state, sorted a mountain of paper, planned a program, wrote three poems, wrote my blog, read half of a book, shipped some eBay sales, prepared a contract for a school performance in April, and worked on plans for an upcoming ghost stories workshop in March. I also watched a silly movie (Bringing Up Baby with Hepburn and Grant, so funny), pet the cats (a lot!), researched a couple pieces of old glass and did a little housework. There were also birds to watch, a hubby to discuss plans with and two dogs who wanted some attention too.

So downtime is not necessarily idle time; it's just different. It has given me time to catch up on some things that I'd back-burnered and that's a good thing. I still have a ways to go to be caught up,  but I really don't want to stay sick just to do that! So I will have to keep my focus on these chores I totally dislike for a while longer. February will be, I can see, my paperwork month.

I'm also considering how to reorganize my work space one more time. One cause of the paper backlog is that my eBay stuff blocks my access to my file cabinets. There just isn't enough room in an 8x10 room to run two small businesses, especially if one of them requires a lot of storage space. I am not sure what I can do to improve the situation, but I must do something because my left-brain self hates disorganization, and that is the best word to describe my current work space. (Being a left-handed person, I usually operate in my right brain which seems to need chaos to be creative, but I am somewhat ambidextrous and a Gemini to boot so my two sides are at constant war with each other.) I will be doing a lot of thinking and planning this month, and March will probably be when I actually start making changes. The paper mountain is enough of a challenge for this month.

I've had time to read some books I bought and shelved, thinking I'd get around to them eventually. Eventually apparently has just arrived. First on the list was The Witch of Hooker Hollow and More Folklore by Vernon O. Griffin, a book I bought used online and really enjoyed (I got lucky and got it for a reasonable price but it's fairly rare apparently). Such strange tales of death omens, witches, and old-time remedies, along with some funny fishing tales and other reminiscences of a boy growing up in the mountains. Another one I'm reading is Belled Buzzards, Hucksters, and Grieving Specters: Appalachian Tales Strange, True, and Legendary by Gary Carden and Nina Anderson (it's a lot more available and affordable). Just the title will tell you this book is right up my alley. Both are giving me food for thought as I prepare for the ghost stories workshop in March.

When employed outside of home I used to chafe at not being able to go to work and do my job. Now when I'm sick, I stay home--and still do my job. I like this better, although I find it a little surprising that in order to get a break from work, I sometimes just need to leave home; in the past this was a sanctuary from work. It is still my sanctuary, although it's a little different now. But some time on the porch, or reading by the fireplace in the log room or messing about in my kitchen restores my inner peace and gets me ready to once again climb the mountainous to-do lists.

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Storyteller

The school visit today was all that I wanted it to be: well planned, well received, a joyful, thoughtful sharing of stories and songs with over 500 children, parents and teachers. Days like this affirm what I do. During those weeks when I have no storytelling work I turn my focus to other things, sometimes researching stories, other times working on my antiques booths or working around home. When a performance comes up after a long hiatus, I often think, "Why do I do this? Would it not be easier to just be like other people and clean house and putter in my gardens instead of going out there to tell stories to strangers?"

Each time, I come home realizing that those who were once unknown are strangers no more. I come home filled with the wonder of the impact of a tale told and a song simply sung. I am humbled by the reaction to the stories, and to me, the storyteller. I realize over and over again the importance of sharing stories, of reminding people of the deep pleasure of listening, of the teachings in the old tales. I come home revitalized and determined to continue this once vaulted profession of storytelling--a profession that over the years lost its command of public interest as different forms of media developed and replaced it in the homes and hearts of people.

And yet...when I say "I am a storyteller," when I explain what a storyteller is (so many do not know and think it is only reading to little children), when I say that the stories I tell live in my mind and not on paper, when I sing the ages-old songs and see the delight and sometimes deep emotion induced in my listeners, I feel once again the power in my blood, in my voice.

I am a storyteller. I tell stories. I follow the ancient path of bards, griots, seanachies, and elders. This is who I am, this is what I do.



Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

When I Learned to Cook

Do you remember when you first learned to cook?

If you are like me, the learning took place over quite a few years, beginning as a child of about nine when my sister Judy and I began experimenting with making desserts. We had helped our mother make Christmas cookies and fruitcake but that summer we wanted to try cooking all by ourselves. We made Floating Islands first as I recall, a thin, pale yellow custard with a dob of meringue floating on top and sprinkled with nutmeg. We then learned to make meringues, whipping eggs whites and sugar to stiff peaks, adding vanilla and food coloring and baking them to a golden brown. We went on to make cakes, scones and cookies before we became teenagers and our training took a new turn: cooking meals for our very large family of 13 children.

By the time I was a teenager, Mom had begun to have some serious health issues. When I was in eighth grade, she had to be in the hospital for a six-week stay. It was up to Judy and me to take care of the house and do the cooking. We managed it by taking off from school, alternately missing days so that while one was in school, the other was home, cleaning, doing laundry and cooking. When the rest of the family came home, they had work to do too: bringing in and putting away laundry, washing dishes, and helping get dinner on the table.

Today such absence from school would not be tolerated but back then in the 1960's no one objected much. We kept our grades up, making the honor roll so I suppose there was no reason for concern. I remember that I missed over 40 days of school that year as I learned instead some complicated home management.

When I married at 17, I thought I knew how to cook but I soon discovered that cooking for 15 and cooking for two are vastly different. My recipes were mostly inexpensive, hearty, and used very little meat because meat was expensive and Mom had taught us to make the most of any meat we used. My first husband, on the other hand, was Texas-raised and thought a meal meant meat, potatoes and an optional vegetable. I learned to broil steaks, fry chicken and bake potatoes. I tried making my first pies, using a piecrust mix and instant pudding, and found a recipe for something called Bavarian that used Cool Whip and Jello. I puttered around my tiny pre-World War II apartment in Fairlington, Virginia and loved the view from its window, overlooking huge oaks and the winding road up which my husband would travel on his way home.

After a year of marriage and the birth of our first son we found a little house we could afford to buy. We had $1500 to put down--can you imagine doing that today? The kitchen in this house was even more basic than the apartment kitchen, although it was a little larger. This house was a log cabin that had been covered on the exterior with smooth stucco, and on the inside with poorly installed drywall. We tore our the drywall to expose the round logs, put up a few shelves, painted the homemade cabinets, put in a dutch door that opened in the middle to swing open at the top while the bottom stayed closed. That was about the extent of our renovations to the kitchen but I loved that kitchen too--it opened out onto a porch that ran the length of the back of the house, and overlooked the Occoquan River far below. In winter I could see the water sparkling through the trees between my house and the water; in spring the water could still be glimpsed through young green trees but in summer I only had the memory of seeing the water. ( The photo at left was taken in December 1973--I was holding baby Aaron, and Derek is beside me; Jon on the left and oldest son George on the right, ex-hubby in background. On the mantle is the coffee grinder I still use today, and we still have the old crock too).

After the birth of our second son less than a year after we moved, I began to experiment more with cooking. One beautiful spring day I took out a book that had been a wedding present, Fine Old Old New England Recipes, and found a recipe for bean soup. Believe it or not, I do not remember ever having eaten any kind of bean soup except split pea. I followed the recipe and made the soup. The heavenly aroma filled the kitchen and spilled out the door into the soft spring air. That same day, I attempted my first fruit pie--apple. This time I did not use packaged pie crust mix--my cookbook had a recipe for making pastry and a recipe for Deep Dish Apple Pie.

Both recipes worked. When my husband came home I spread a cloth over a table on the porch and we ate our dinner where we could smell the sweet blossoms on our plum tree (that never had any plums) and enjoy the greening of the world around us. I remember the spicy sweet smell of the pie and the rich heartiness of the soup.

I also remember how very happy I was on that day in my kitchen, wearing my apron and following the recipes so carefully as I mixed and rolled and chopped and baked. I remember the pretty curtains I had hand-sewn, fluttering in the breeze coming in the kitchen window. But mostly I remember the feeling of supreme satisfaction at having successfully made such good food all by myself. I was hooked at the moment on cooking from scratch and I have never left that path. It was no historic day; no one but me probably remembers the pie or the soup and yet it is one that stays in my memory as golden moment, a treasured memory of scents and sights and contentment.

That is how I learned to cook. How about you? Do you remember your early cooking experiences?


Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

What's Typical?

What's a typical day for me, now that I'm retired?

That's not an easy question to answer. Each day is different and each is full of so many activities it's hard to say what's typical.

Last Friday I went to yard sales. I came back with a lot of things I'll be listing online. And I found a lovely old bed and dresser set for the log room that isn't even built yet. (Ummm, I already have all the furniture I need for it now, and Larry says don't buy any more. Okay, okay. He's right--but we did need the bed and dresser and these were such a good deal.) When I got home it was canning time. Peaches for the rest of the day. Fun. Really. In the evening we visited some friends and I helped her with her tomatoes.

Saturday and Sunday I canned, but we took a little break Saturday evening to go to a local auction. Nothing exciting there except the cute little boy who sat beside me. He was a miracle child, his mother said, born at 25 weeks and has already had 3 major surgeries--and he's only 7. He was so well-behaved he was a pleasure to sit with.

Larry spent his weekend fixing my car (replacing the big belt before it broke) and mowing our son's grass and our grass, as well as digging on the footer for the log room. He's got it finished and will be ordering sand, gravel, cement and block for the foundation this week.

Yesterday I worked on routine housework in the morning. After canning all weekend I needed to catch up. So it was laundry and cleaning up clutter, sorting paperwork, and making a grocery list for today. Then I got to work on preparing some promotional letters for mailing. I also needed to respond to emails and clean out the spam emails.

Next was eBay. I had packages to prepare for shipping, items to list, and general catchup work there. Then more of the same with my book sales on Amazon (not as much work to do there), and then write my blog and catch up on Facebook. By then it was time to cook dinner and spend a little time with Larry. After dinner I worked on more promotional letters and got my mailings and list ready for today.

This morning I did some quick housework, researched gas refrigerators and then left for town. Grocery shopping, library, post office, bank--the usual stops. Now I'm home and back at work on eBay since they are offering a "listing sale" and I can list items for a penny and I can't miss this opportunity. This evening I'm heading to Parkersburg with a friend to attend a program about ghosts.

Tomorrow I will be cleaning house and cooking because one of my sisters is coming to visit! I know we'll get into something fun while she's here. Then on the weekend more family is coming in for the holiday, so I see a cookout or two on the horizon, and maybe a big country breakfast crowd too.

So that's how it's been recently. I've been up early to enjoy the cool, fall-like mornings, and stop often when hanging my laundry to listen to the sounds of birds and bugs and no human noise at all. It's peaceful. In the evenings we sit out on the yard swing or on the patio and play with the dogs before we head in--Larry to watch a movie, me to do whatever I'm into that night. Bedtime comes around 11pm for me, earlier for Larry.

The days are certainly full. I realized the other day that I never had any adjustment difficulties at all. No longing to go off to work, no missing the routine, no wishing I could sit in an air-conditioned office instead of sweating over a canner. I wondered if I would feel any of those things--once in my past I worked full time for a brief period as a mail carrier, and when it was over I was at a loss for a week or more. This time, there wasn't even a hiccup of longing.

It's Funny How Plans Can Change

We planned to visit #4 son and his family, #5 son, and #1 grandson today. We had it all laid out: get up late (8:00 am is late for us), go to the Downtowner for breakfast, make a leisurely drive to Fairmont, WV, probably stopping at that huge antique mall on Route 50. Spend a glorious day with this part of our family, finally delivering Christmas gifts to some of them, then drive home sometime around dark to arrive here at 9 or 10pm so we could enjoy some time by the fire.

That was the plan and it went well until about, oh, 8:30am. That's when the phone rang.

"You don't want to come up here. The kids are sick with that throwing up-diarrhea thing that's going around."

She was right; we didn't want to be anywhere near that vicious virus. We've already seen its fury on several friends and family close by. Unh-unh. Not me--I do not want anything that glues me to the floor in front of the toilet for a day or so.

So what to do with a suddenly empty day? There are so many places we have talked about visiting: Cabin Creek, site of many battles in the coal-mining unionization war and where Larry's father grew up; Matewan in the southern part of the state, another place where the mine war raged and site of the murder of sheriff Sid Hatfield on the courthouse steps (if you have never seen the movie called Matewan, I highly recommend it); Welch, once thriving metropolis and later all but a ghost town--but making a comeback I have heard.

Then there is Olcott, where my husband grew up--I want to see exactly where everything was in his childhood in this mining camp--the company store, the tipple, all of that. He still has a few family members there, and most of them I've never met.

Or we could drive to Whipple to look at the company store building; or to Hominy Falls where some miners were rescued in what seemed a miracle years ago. We could go to the Ritchie Mines, where natural asphalt was discovered and was shipped all over the world; or Volcano, that oil-boom town that's all but a ghost town today.

So many places to see and history to discover, all within a few hours' drive. But they all remained on the to-do list today. Such trips take a little planning and thinking about what we want to do and see when we get there, and we were unprepared for all of them.

We went to Plan B, which was no plan at all, but a do-as-you-go thing--breakfast with friends as planned, then a visit to the local library where we got an unofficial tour of the new (outstanding) addition, a long browse at Goodwill (with excellent results, although Larry got completely bored long before I was ready to leave), wash the car, pick up feed for the chickens, and visit some friends on our way home.

I was supposed to spend the rest of the day working on proposals, stories, editing, and work like that. Instead, I had picked up a new biography of Edgar Allan Poe at the library and I sat down in front of the fire with a mug of hazelnut coffee and started my book.

Now I feel guilty. A whole day. I could have done so many productive things. I could have checked things off the to-do list and added them to the to-done list. I could have cooked, cleaned, written, planned, edited, done laundry, paid bills. Instead the day is pretty much over and I've read 60 pages, printed a few things online for a proposal, and now I'm blathering on this blog.

Sigh.

You'd think I'd grow up, take myself sternly in hand and do the grown-up thing of Using My Time Wisely.

I suppose I will continue to be an unwise fool. But it has been a lovely, lovely day.

Last Year's Goals and Resolutions--How Did I Do?

Not too well, unfortunately. I was an ambitious one when I made the list! Let's see the results:

2009 Resolutions and Goals

Personal:
1. Lose another 5 pounds. I lost 5 last year, and if I’m careful I won’t gain it back before Spring. I need to lose another 5. Didn't lose, but didn't gain.

2. Start an Ebay store and an Amazon used book store. I have stuff I never use. I have books I don’t need. I can make money, at least a little bit. I just need to get it going. I didn't do this, although I did get my new CD on CDBaby, and learned how to put PayPal buttons on my blog so I made a little progress.

4. Read at least one book a week. Nope. I started well, but then as storytelling and gardening picked up, I went back to my old habit of reading for research and not for pleasure.

5. Take a walk at least once a week. I did walk more than in past years, and took short walks almost daily at work, but not a good weekly walk.

Home and Farm:
1. pay more attention to replanting so we use more fresh food. We did this, with really good results.

2. raise more chickens and turkeys. 25 chickens, 10 turkeys so we can be more meat self-sufficient. Done, although we ended up with only 5 turkeys.

3. get more deer in the freezer. Boy did we do this one! We have plenty for ourselves and a few other people.

4. be more careful—don’t cut down plants that have cost us money, and don’t waste just to “clean up.” Weeds are better than wasted money or food. This one was Larry's and he did so-so. He cut down the new blueberry bushes--again. But the cherry tree we planted survived. He's dangerous with a weedeater.

5. build a new greenhouse. Done. We bought a simple to set up portable greenhouse and raised almost all our plants this year.

6. find a log building to move. No luck here, although we've looked.

7. wassail the apple trees! Done, and what fun it was!

Writing goals:
1. send three children’s stories to publishers. Did not do, although I started editing three stories. Wait, I take that back! I did send three to a contest--does that count?

2. submit one item per month for publication. No--I submitted more than in past years, though.

3. write more—go back to the “Wednesday night” routine. It worked. Did not do, darn it. This year maybe?

4. finish 2 of the started stories. Finished one; it won second place in the WV Writers' contest.

6. create another book of poetry. Did not do, but am talking to a publisher about one. Does that count?

Storytelling goals:
1. Produce a booklet of my programs to send out to libraries and schools. I have many programs I can do, but I don’t have them in a coherent package complete with pricing. Get it together, and start sending to one county at a time. Use this to replace the newsletter. It will be more useful, and the blog is taking over for the newsletter anyway. I did part of this. I completed the booklet of programs for libraries and sent it to 45 libraries in the state. The result was more storytelling work for libraries this past summer than any other year.

2. Finish my CD, plan another one of children’s stories. Done.

3. Develop at least 3 new stories. Done.

4. Learn three new ballads. Done.

There you have it--some successes, some failures, some in between. There are many things we did that were not on the list; priorities change as the year goes on, so what seemed important at one point was bumped by something more pressing or opportune.

Now that I've reviewed my list, it's time to write this year's goals. What to put on it? That's food for thought today.

How about you? Do you make a New Year's list of what you want to accomplish? Connie at WV Fur and Root wrote an introspective post about her efforts over the past two years; like my lists, hers are a mixed review of what happened and what didn't. But if we did not try and did not allow ourselves to change our priorities, the list would become a burden and not an inspiration for progress. So we try and try again, and occasionally along that path we have some success.

Rain

More rain today, pouring like an angry river from the sky. The creeks are bank-full, grass is almost too soaked to grow but weeds are gloriously tall. Everyone is worrying about their gardens because the soil is too wet to work and the weeds are getting a strong start.

There are good things that come with a rainy day. A chance for Larry to focus on cleaning up inside the house. Time to plant fruit trees that just arrived in the mail (2 apple, 2 plum, 1 apricot). Time to pay a little more attention to the dogs. Time to call a few people and catch up on news. And as the evening is blanketed with fog, time to read a book, cover to cover.

I could do other things, of course, and actually had good intentions. I would cut out 50 finger puppets for upcoming programs. I went to the closet for the felt--and remembered that I gave all my leftovers to the local library last summer. So much for being productive! I could have tackled a lot of other things waiting for my attention, too, like:

• paid the bills. That would make some other people happy.
• sorted the piles of mail on my office table.
• put away books I've pulled out recently for research.
• dusted (Larry will clean, but he hates to dust)
• hung up my clean laundry.
• hemmed the new summer pants I bought last January, figuring I'd have plenty of time to work on them before summer.

I suppose I'd better pray for another rainy night tomorrow so I can check some of these things off my list. But for tonight, it was pure pleasure to stretch out on the couch and read.

What a Mess!

My office is destroyed and I can't blame anyone but myself. This is what happens when I do too many different kinds of programs and it's Spring and I really just want to be outside and in the gardens and not inside putting things away.

What's the mess?

Well, look:

Craft supplies for 2 different crafts and books to prepare for bird stories for Migration Celebration are in one suitcase and the cart. The other suitcase holds the props for my Appalachian Sampler program--mining items ,quilts, bonnet, turpentine, scrip, etc The spiral binder was out because I needed to make more ghost story books. The box and the pile on the table are recent mail, new books and magazines. The other box is from the new CD player I bought after I broke the one I took to Ohio for the ballads program.
The desk is overflowing with mail that needs to be sorted. A bag of books and a quilt from the Appalachian program still need to be put away.
Stuff from my storybag that I won't be using today at Vandalia are on the computer desk, along with a bear puppet and the birthday gift for my oldest son that I was supposed to take to family reunion, but now will have to mail. The Flatwoods Monster was a gift from my good friend Jason and he is where he is supposed to be!
Books from recent research for blogposts, notes and folders jam the other end of the computer table.

And the suitcase full of ballad books from the Ohio workshop isn't even in these photos. Neither is the puppet stage from the Ripley workshops or the sound system plugged in to charge for today. Or the fingerpuppet craft I'm working on in the log room for Vandalia and for summer programs.

I offer a lot of different programs and workshops and each one has its own requirements. It keeps me busier as a storyteller to have such a range of possible presentations, but it's also a lot to keep up with. If I was a more organized person, I'd put everything away as soon as I got home. Instead, I head out to the garden, write on my blog, respond to email, hang out on the patio with my hubby, talk to sons and friends on the phone--or just go to bed if, like Thursday night, it's almost midnight when I get in.

So each program's remainders have piled up over the past month and I have no one to blame but me. There is only one thing I can do:

Close the door.

Ten Things

I was thinking today, when I wrote on Facebook about black cherry yogurt, that there are many things that make my days easier--easier in the sense that they relax me, make the time pass well, or give that extra little flip of joy. These are family-related or people related necessarily--those are givens. These are the other things, like the black cherry yogurt Larry packs in my lunch, that make me say "Life is good."



What would be the top ten of these? Here's my list:

1. Really good coffee, preferable hazelnut. And tea, Earl Grey, in English teacups.

2. Eggs for breakfast. I like them best fried, but soft-boiled is great, and coddled is awesome.

3. The smell of rain, especially rain that starts soft and easy.

4. A good book on tape. The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency books relax me and bring my stress level down about 50 notches. The reader's voice in these books is perfect, and the easy, slow way of life in Botswana as Mma Ramotswe goes about solving life's small problems reminds me not to take things so seriously.

5. Old ballads well sung.

6. Time on the yard swing that was the porch swing that we bought when I was 8 months pregnant with my youngest son (that would have been July 1986).

7. Watching birds in the gardens. Not straining to see what they are, or using binoculars. Just watching them fly and sing and dig for worms.

8. Driving two-lane or one-lane roads, seeing people doing their daily routines--working in gardens, getting the mail, hanging laundry.

9. My soft white cotton nightgown that has holes in it but is so comfortable for sleeping.

10. Rocking chairs.

What's on your list?

An Ordinary Day

Here's what happens: I have too many things I want to write about.

It's like this many days--the variety of events of the day clamor to be written, but there is no time to record it all. I have to decide, and often something gets lost in the shuffle and never gets written.

Today is a good example:

Up and out early for work because I have a meeting with the maintenance guys to discuss things like hard hats, gloves, safety glasses, etc. Before leaving, rapid-fire instructions to poor suffering husband about what to plant today. Will he remember all that? Probably not, but I didn't get home until 10 last night so there was no time to discuss the gardens or plans. Show him the asparagus roots and how to plant. Will he get it done? Maybe, but there's a lot to do in the gardens today. The hardest thing I do all day: get in my car and leave for work.


On the ridge the sun coming up over mist-filled valleys below stops me, and I take a few pictures. Still early, I drive on.


Then further down the road the morning dew in the rising sun stops me again. More pictures. Still a little early--but have to get gas. Get to work 10 minutes early instead of 30 as planned. Oh well. Some things are worth stopping for (gas isn't one, but the car just doesn't go well without it).

At work, after the meeting: elevator decides not to stop on the first floor anymore. Call the repair guy. Weird old sprayed on insulation is falling in the boiler room--get samples to send to a lab for asbestos testing. Toilet stopped up (first of the day, there will be more). Get maintenance on to that. AC isn't working because a circuit board blew over the weekend. Repair guys get it replaced. Everyone is happy. Work on cooling tower documents and have a final (I think) draft. I now know more about them than I ever expected, but still worry that I haven't got it right. Work on shelter-in-place procedures. Plan more bloodborne pathogens and MSDS training for tomorrow. Review all the strange security incidents of the weekend with our head security guy and decide further actions. Call back about new bookmobile schematics and logo. Am horrified to learn of the killing of a former employee by her daughter. How sad is that? It was on my mind all day.

Derek (son #3) called to tell me he is being deployed in 2 weeks to the flooded regions in southern West Virginia. At least he'll be at the family reunion this weekend, and they will let him come home for his son's high school graduation. He needs to weld the frame of his son's truck--it's literally breaking in two.

On the way home, stop at funeral home. An older neighbor passed away over the weekend. The huge parking lot is filled, so many people to honor this quiet, gentle man. He will be missed.



On the way home, stop to take pictures of trilliums and maidenhair ferns on the roadbank. Wild things seem to pay little attention to our comings and goings. They continue to bloom and grow where they land. Stop to see Derek at a neighbor's house where he is welding. Promise the neighbor's wife tomato plants and some pepper plants. We have many left over plants this year. Riches!


More pictures coming across the ridge of the sun slanting down over the road. So pretty it just stops you, you know?

At home, get tomato and pepper plants, send Larry down the road with them. First he shows me the goldenseal roots he found today--yellow root, he calls it, a powerful wild medicine. And the bee boxes that arrived via UPS for the bees that are arriving this weekend. The UPS guys hate our driveway, I'm sure, but they come anyway.

After Larry leaves, I get on the phone and call storytellers, writers, poets, trying to fill the last slot in the WV State Folk Festival Oral Traditions tent schedule. No luck for an hour, after about a dozen calls, but I at least catch up on my friends. Finally, a yes! From someone I should have thought of in the first place. Then on to the computer, to think about what to write tonight.

What I really wanted to write about tonight was life, its hurried passing and leaving. Its richness. I wanted to write about goldenseal, about a husband who treks through the hills seeking the elusive plant, about what goldenseal looks like and what it's used for. I wanted to write about the neighbors who turned out in droves to honor their good friend. I wanted to tell you about the family reunion and the beautiful plants my sister is bringing, and about the plants I want to bring if I have time to dig them.

I want to write about so many things, but only succeed in telling you a little bit about each one--and yet each is a story in itself. Sometimes people say they envy our slow pace of life. I understand why it seems that way--when people come to visit, we slow down. Visitors are important, to be enjoyed. Other things drop away. Daily life, especially in Spring, is hectic as we try to plant and mow and plan and clean and still get me to work on time.

There is one thing I make time for every day: writing. Even though I never have enough time to write all the things I want to write about.