10,000 new pets

 

 

 

 

this was a love affair that started two years ago, at the davidson county fair. armed with boiled peanuts and the notion that there was nowhere more magical to be on a friday night than with dirt on our shoes and a country song wafting through the denim short-clad crowd.

the local honeybee association had an exhibit. set up between the homemade pot holders and the wedding cake decorating contest, the latter of which was behind a glass cabinet, fruit flies trapped behind the pane.

we saw the queen bee, proudly marked with a crimson dot. a scarlet letter of a different sort, i suppose. we saw the not-so-ironically named female worker bees, and the drones. and the delicate, back-and-forth dance of intelligence they all did, working together more harmoniously than most adults with fully developed brains and college degrees tend to do.

and we stewed about it for years. thought about the possibility of setting up a hive of our own behind the little cottage, beside the blueberry bush where they could forage all day for nectar, traveling to the bespeckled shrub the same way we did every time we grilled out. we let two summers go by. we tended a garden. nanno passed away. we moved into his home and tore up the carpet to reveal the glorious hardwoods. i graduated and we put down pine needles.

then last friday, we finally installed a hive of our own. ten thousand new pets buzz about in the yard. and we're learning. robert situated the queen between the frames, pressing her between the wood for support, failing to create a platform made of nails as we learned in the documentary we watched one night as the snow fell. we fretted about her for a week until it was finally time to check on the hive yesterday and she was safe and sound, released from her candy cage and fluttering about near the honeycomb.

last night, at an hour more attuned to morning, we were beginning to drag ourselves to bed, when we remembered the storm about to barrel through. robert wanted to go strap down the hive to make sure it didn't fall down from the promised winds.

i sat on my knees in my nightgown, pressed against our headboard as i peered out our back bedroom window, watching as he finagled a flashlight with one hand and a tie with another, safeguarding the girls against mama nature.

we protect the things we love, and the people too. no matter how long it takes us to find and realize each other.

a new yard and time

wall of hymns over our sofa

it's supposed to be seventy this weekend, but right now it's misty and cloudy in my corner of carolina. it's so gloomy out that the owl who perches on the old swing outside my bedroom window, the one i nicknamed peter, was nowhere to be found when i rose this morning and stretched against the pane.

though we've been here almost a month and half, i haven't really gone out into the backyard for the blanket of chill that has laid itself across these grounds. but i remember it. one hot evening in summer when i was in middle school, i sat cross-legged on the grass and found about 10 four-leaf clovers. i pressed them into my bible and ran in to tell my parents. now they are crumbled stems between the pages, traces that remind me of all that was good and beautiful about being young, and all that is sweet and sacred about being here, in this same house, so many moons later.

but tomorrow, we will go back there. past the place where the see-saw used to be. the rusty one nanno salvaged from the church yard sale. i will decorate the old shed with christmas lights and dust off the picnic benches. we will pick out a spot for our honeybees and dig our hands into the earth to prepare it for our garden. today reminds me that winter is still here in all her frosted glory. but springtime is quick on her heels, bearing clover and crocuses, bare legs and painted toes. and hopefully, the return of peter.

my ducks in a row

robert and i snuck away to the mountains this weekend, my sweet parents in tow. to see one of my best friends in the whole world marry a man who choked up at the mere mention of her name at the alter. to wake up early and take walks around the lake and stay up way too late drinking mcdonald's coffee at midnight. and the lake! what a beauty. i don't think i've ever seen so many ducks.

and upon seeing these waterfowl, i started thinking. and maybe it was the way the sun was hitting the middle of the water just so, or the cross sitting on the hill within eyeshot, or maybe just looking ahead of me and seeing mama and dad cross over the bridge, his arm around her shoulder because that's just where it fits, but i started thinking about getting my ducks in  a row. getting things organized and cleaned up around the house after a weekend away. getting my homework done ahead of time. getting the e-mails sent and the Bible read and the phone call returned within a reasonable hour.

the things i could accomplish if all my ducks would just line themselves up, pretty as can be.  but it's up to me to corral them. to wrangle them in line. and sometimes, like today, i'd honestly just rather let them play. let my mind wander, and my hair fall and the music sound. because ducks look nice in a row, but wouldn't you much rather see them splashing around in the water? i know i would.

scenes from a country cottage: the squirrels find the corn

 

i was about to go for a walk yesterday, when the late summer sun cut the prettiest glow across the yard and i had to run back inside for my camera. the dog days ended yesterday and there is a new whisper of cool in the air, so faint you have to strain to feel it, but it is certainly ahead. as i walked around, i noticed the corn shavings and peelings and pieces littering the ground. it seems the friendly squirrels who patrol our trees have discovered the glorious, delicious cornfield that flanks our cottage. the other morning, i stood silent in the laundry room and watched as one hopped up on the old well with his treasure, then nibbled and devoured a tiny little ear, leaving just dust and old kernels as he scurried away.

squirrels were the bane of my sweet nanno's dedicated attempts to build a bird feeder on the lamppost by the front of his house. they would climb and swing to get to the top, taunting the babies that lived inside. he built a little silver disc to keep them out, and we never saw them again. but this week, i'm thankful for the little creatures. for bringing me a moment of laughter, a reprieve of silliness. a moment to remind me that this world is really not about me, but about all of us living our day-in, day-out lives, eating, socializing and running. from the biggest to the littlest of us.

catch some light and you'll be all right

 

 

i spend my day looking at a computer screen, breaking only to pour a hot cup of coffee or take a walk around the building, my headphones drowning out the highway traffic. and i look at the parking lot. and people in restaurants. and the pin oaks in front of the house. the clothesline. the stove. at night, it's the blue buzz of the television that draws me close.

but on saturday, i looked up.

and saw an explosion of rose in the sky. a few spots of amber. we took a walk like we do every night and i couldn't get over the sheer beauty of it all.

later that evening, we took a blanket outside. to that far corner of the yard beside the blueberry bush, where we can't see or hear the road. and we talked like teens and looked up at the stars, the sky again a wonderous shade of ebony.

this morning i looked up and said a prayer of thanksgiving. for a clear lane on the highway (a blessing every time).

i've become determined to make this a habit, this upward glancing. to remind me of prayer. and of nature. and of consistency. because the sky is always there, whether i acknowledge it or not. and if paintings like this are always above me, it just seems silly to ignore them.

a harvest in summer

 

the weekend was hot, yet again. a heavy fog forming, forming, forming until sinking its heavy boots deep into the summer grass, covering the ground with humidity. with no breeze, the leaves on the limbs just sit stagnant, quivering only when a bird or squirrel hops from branch to branch.

but the upside about the heat? the tomatoes have ripened. they are deep and red and sweet as candy. we stood in the middle of the day and ate them by the vine as the sun beat against my bare shoulders and feet. if there's going to be no relief from the hours of sweating and seeking air condition, at least there is fruit. or vegetable? either way, i'm not complaining.

because soon enough, fall will come marching in, and winter quick on its heels. and we will don our cardigans and jeans with moccasins and wrap scarves around our chilly necks. and we'll look at that spot beside the corn and the muscadines, diminished by then to a dirt square. and we'll remember the bounty of summer. and ache for the days when nine o'clock still meant dusky light and mornings arrived with birds and rooms bathed in yellow.

from clara to frances: a letter

when i read my first lines of neruda poetry, i thought i'd found the reflection of my truest self. i would lie awake in the middle of midnight and write lines in my old leather journal. so pretty were the words and so deep their sentiment that i even named my sweet puppy after the poet.

but then i came across this letter last week. from a woman named clara to my grandmother, frances. written at the height of their womanhood, when they both worked at the u.s. postal service and were living on their on in washington, d.c. truth be told, the letter is a bit gossipy, in the most polite way possible. there are spatterings of "i'm not sure what she told you" and "i think it only fair that you hear this from my side of the fence too."

but a few paragraphs down, clara begins describing her dream life. what truly makes her happy. and though time and space and seventy years separate us, i felt my heart sink to my stomach when i read her thoughts that so mirror my own.

that's the funny thing about being a woman, i suppose. the fashions change (or do they?) and hairstyles go from big to feathered to flat to big again, and technology finds its way, every decade, to sneak into our homes and lives and rearrange the way we do dishes, fold laundry and relax in the afternoons. we are different colors and shapes and personalities. but every so often, we find that in some ways, we are so very similar. perhaps we don't all love living in the country. i know some very fabulous women who make entire cities light up. but that need to communicate--whether by telegraph, typewritten letter, phone call, e-mail or facebook chat, remains.

i'm just glad my grandma had the wherewithal to save such a treasure. little did she know i would unearth it from an old album whose plastic pages had long decayed. and i hope clara, wherever she is, is sitting on a rocking chair looking up at the birds, her head thrown back laughing, her drama resolved.

A REPEAT EXPERIENCE

there's this odd little thing about me. a quirky little catch in an otherwise normal, standard personality.

i really, really, for the life of me, can't read any book or watch any movie more than once without getting utterly, despicably bored. when i devour something for the first time, i do it headfirst and slowly. deliberately. it took me months to get through extremely loud and incredibly close. i paused and rewound "the last kiss" a million times before finishing it.

these experiences-these deep dives into culture and escape and hollywood and different worlds, they are all so much for me, that to do it again somehow diminishes the first time.
but i think i've found an experience i wouldn't mind repeating.

we're driving from our little town in north carolina all the way across this beautiful country to canon beach, oregon this october. to see it again. the second time in less than three years. the first time we saw it, we got there at sunset and ran down under a thicket, and emerged on the shore as the sky was in flames of amber and haystack rock was looming in the distance, touching the heavens. my breath literally escaped me.

it's too far. it's illogical and costly and time consuming to go there again. you people who live in the northwest are so, so blessed to call such a gorgeous place home.

but we're going. mostly because i want to see it again, and partly because i want to see mount rushmore, and this way we can do both.

what about you? what could you read, listen to, watch or see again?

scenes from a country cottage: a sunny weekend

after a week of sharp inhales, short breaths, tight ponytails and pressed pants,

finally, an exhale. a deep, bellowing exhale.

with suppers under the pin oaks and clothes on the line and harvest from the garden.

a renewed appreciation for life in the country. beside the cornfield and the tractor shed. living out these honey-slow days, storing them up for when the phones won't stop ringing and the people won't stop talking and the clock won't stop spinning madly on.

we're building a time capsule, he and i.
of slow glances and early suppers and late night swinging on the porch .
burying it deep beneath clean sheets and warm earth
digging it up again when we're tired and have lost appreciation for this little town we never left
remembering these days
remember your blue collar?
what about my dirty feet, wet with clay from the morning?
ah yes, now it's coming back to me.

a plentiful harvest

 

 

we wanted to leave the vegetables as long as we could. tucked sweetly in the shades of the giant squash leaves, and the cucumber trellises that sprawl across the lawn. but at the urging of our grandparents, who told us they would get pithy and hard to eat if we let them grow past their capacity, we went back to the garden this weekend, our shoes wet with june twilight, and snipped off the first harvest.

we're saving a majority of the bounty to grill this weekend. with a little olive oil and some flank steak. but as soon as we got into the kitchen, we couldn't resist the urge to peel and cut in half one of the cucumbers and devour it over the sink. i'll always remember that night. weighing them on my grandpa's old scale and arranging them in pretty piles on the counter.

for some reason, i thought the cucumber would taste weird. like socks. or cardboard. i just couldn't, for the life of me, believe we could create real food. but as the sweet water ran down our chins, and the tiny room filled with the scent (and i immediately recalled my middle school obsession with bath and body works' cucmber melon shower gel), i realized we did it. from dirt and mulch and a few tiny seedlings came up from the earth true-to-life produce. oh, summer of 2012. you have redeemed yourself. and proven yourself a flightly little thing. 

to build a garden, part one

 

we needed to stake our claim on the ground. to mix the dirt between our fingers and remind ourselves from where we came. the urge to plant a garden hit us only a week ago, on a walk down a little path near our house. we passed the bridge over the old creek and it just hit me: the need to grow something.

in the few days that followed, we shoveled, tilled, mixed and planted. our knees were black with compost and our gloves sweaty. we planted way too many vegetables, and too close together. we've yet to come up with a good watering schedule. we're keeping away critters with tin pans tied to a stick. we are novices, in the simplest sense. rising early and going out in the dark with a flashlight to check on them.

and even if none of them produces, i'll remember this may. this season of change. this laboring with my love. and even when grass grows back over that little 10 by 10 square, i'll look at it and know. that things and people die. but sometimes they grow too. and it's the cycle of  both that keeps us pushing on.

springtime calls her childen

 

there's a meadow that runs beside and behind our little cottage. every spring, the wildflowers start popping up. we were back there last night, working on the garden, and i couldn't help but pick a few. look! i told robert, free flowers! you'd pay a bunch for these at the store! i can't get past the fact that these little flowers are dancing in the back of our house, just ripe for the picking. i've been putting them in little bud vases and mason jars all throughout the house. my only caveat? after about a day, the daisies taken on a slightly pungent odor. thus, i've now got jars of wildflowers sitting on my front porch. as long as we get to enjoy them one way or the other, all is well.

i think God sends the wildflowers to remind us of the beauty in the little things. in digging through red clay to start a garden. bending down in grass shin-high just to pick a renegade daisy. lying on our backs on a blanket in the back yard, watching the sun turn to moon behind the pin oaks. spring is the perfect season for such things. a breeze of time between winter and summer, where all the earth joins in a brief but beautiful exclamation of color.

p.s. there's still time to enter the Mixed Tape Project! your comment is your submission into the giveaway, so be sure to enter! ALL songs are welcome. that's what makes the collection so special.

i wanna grow something wild and unruly

 via

yesterday, robert and i were walking out by the muscadines and we spotted a pretty little plot of land that would be just right for a vegetable garden. it's near the tree but not under it, so the shade distribution is great. there are gardens up and down our little country road and i just love seeing the little seedlings sprout their pretty faces up toward the carolina sky.

during the summer, when my cousin and i were little, my mama would always take a picture of us in front of the cornfields, measuring how tall we were against how tall the stalks were stretching. she would label the picture "children of the corn," which was kind of funny.

so to all you rooftop planters, you country farmers, you urban sowers, what are your best gardening tips? we're starting from vegetable transplants, as we haven't had too much luck with our baby peppers we started from seeds in little plastic cups. tonight, we're tilling the land. just a little 10x10 square. in hopes that the family of squirrels and renegade deer that prance around out back won't become privy to our little plans.

thank you!

scenes from a country cottage: meet the cast

gray clouds have shrouded our corner of carolina this week. but yesterday afternoon was different. there's a sweet sip of time before dusk when the sun dances across the back field. when my prayer tree stretches to meet the setting sun and the blades of green lean and fall, only to rise back up and sigh into the ground with each whisper of a breeze. meet the cast of characters that inhabit this little place!

 

 

 

 

 

1. Miss Geranium has been exceptionally lovely this week. she spent a few days in the laundry room for fear of frost, but the return of warm winds means she can display her blooms for all roadside onlookers.

2. late afternoon sun splayed across the shed.

3. muscadine vines and a dirt path. two of my favorite things.

4. ivy twisting itself around the back of the shed like no one's watching.

5. tools of the trade.

6. poor Mr. Clothesline lost one of his lines after a downpour last autumn. one day we'll replace them. nothing smells better than laundry from the line, and nothing makes me feel sweeter than hanging it up there.

7. one of my favorite little apple trees. all bony and bare.

8. oh hi Mr. Strawberry Plant! too bad your berries are really small and odd looking. you're still fun though.

9. Miss Azalea fights for her last breath of spring.

10. Mr. and Mrs. Myers ham it up before a symphony concert.

it's not a huge cast, but we're a pretty tight bunch. living out our days and evenings on this little plot of land. between the church and my childhood home. building a life where the green grass grows.