and sunrise greets the dawn

Image courtesy Wright and Associates

Society Hill. Cashua. Darlington.

And - just so you blend in and aren't immediately branded as "you ain't from here, are ya?" - that's Cash-euw-ay. Not Cash-eu-uh. Say it soft and let it roll off your tongue like sorghum syrup, smooth as the serene Pee Dee River itself. I haven't really been there yet, but it's on the list.

Society Hill is the little town where the crew goes for a special meal during the Kolb project. It used to be just the way it sounds - and in a matter of speaking, still is. Gracious folk come out laying platters of barbecue, vegetables, cakes and pies down on a table around which gather the scientists, who for one night are treated like family no matter from whence they hail. Most of them are not from the South, and many are young, in their third or fourth year in a University program, and in general have a slightly bemused attitude toward the natives.

Many are older, and have been here many, many times, or now call our state home. They let them stay, as long as they behave and are respectful of their elders, and don't forget that no matter how long they live here, they will never, never be natives, and there are certain subjects therefore that they will never understand and opinions thereon may be tolerated out of respect for a friendship, but will never be shared.

We know ourselves and our idiocyncracies and foibles, and are comfortable with them. Thank you all the same.

I did not attend this meal, but I always hear about it. One of the ladies makes certain my husband's favorite, Key Lime Pie, is on the menu. They all get a taste of the local 'shine, and are expected to render an honest opinion on its vintage as compared to the previous year. They leave with full bellies and humble hearts. The outpouring is a bit overwhelming, for they are essentially strangers and infiltrators, yet the locals treat them with kindness and hospitality usually reserved for family and the closest of friends.

As little as some have, it is still wondrous to know there are places where a handshake is as good and enforceable a contract as a registered document at the courthouse, and the fact that someone looks you in the eye while you speak means that not only will he remember you, but your words as well, even if several months pass by and you do not speak. So I smiled as I listened to the team still expressing gratitude and astonishment at the bounty spread before them earlier in the week. And I was reminded of arms laced over a community well-fed, bustling with purpose, accomplishment, peace, and generosity.

As previously related, I left early the next morning. In the seat of South Carolina auto racing, I stopped to refuel at a corner market. A neatly hand-lettered sign on the pump caught my attention, and I squinted in the reflected sunlight to make it out:

Welcome to the Corner Connection
Due to drive-offs, we ask
that you please pre-pay for
gas after dark. Sorry for your
inconvenience.

The attention paid to politeness and sincerity was as clearly etched in those words as the pleasant expression on the attendant's mouth as I entered the store. A small man with a merry face akin to a hobbit's, he bobbed behind the counter talking smack with a big man in pursuit of a lottery ticket while I paused at the counter display of pre-packaged donuts, bear claws, and other disgustingly sugary substances. There was no way I could eat that stuff, so I moved over to the aisle where the pretzels were stored, forgetting one major facet of small-town life, even as it was drifting into my ears, my eyes roaming inattentively across the shelves.

"Hey there good morning," the clerk spoke to me, savoring the words with a long, sweet essence of kindness in each syllable. I looked up and waved, then ducked my head down again. Uncomfortable with strangers, especially males, I resolved to get something quickly and get out of there. I could eat real food when I got back home, only about an hour away.

"Gimme one of them educational tickets, the green ones," the big man spoke up.

"Yeah? Gitcha in trouble," was the affable reply.

"I don't care."

The clerk continued to greet each customer in like manner: "Good morning, there." "We sure appreciate your business." "Come back now, anytime."

As I type these exclamations now there is no way to communicate the warm hospitality and plain goodness in the man's speech. I heard it, and it cracked my shell. Tentatively, I approached the counter, laying a bottle of orange juice down and a pack of Orbit gum.

"Do you happen to know where I can get a biscuit around here?" I asked. I gestured vaguely down the road in the direction I was headed.

"Why, we got the best biscuits you'll eat right here," was his reply, and I was immediately struck with my stupidity. Of course they did. This was the "Corner Connection," after all, not a big BP Plaza. I'd chosen it specifically because it was NOT a franchise market, and its neat appearance bespoke respectability and pride in honest work. You find these all over the south, if you'll just look, mind you. You out-of-towners ought to broaden your horizons, and try the local fish. But as I was sayin'.

"Do you wanna plain biscuit, nothin' on it?" He gestured toward the back and also along the heated window just to his right, where neat packages containing portable breakfasts waited neatly, exactly --and i do mean exactly as my grandmother made, and a few extended cousins still do, to take along to work for those who must do so in the mornings. I knew in those wax-paper wrapped shells lay the melting-hot goodness of homemade biscuits with scrambled eggs, sausage or bacon, and the hot sauce was sitting right there at my elbow if I cared to embellish it a bit.

"I think I'd just like a plain biscuit, thank you --oh," as I saw him walking toward the kitchen, I faltered.

"'Melda - do we have anymore o' them biscuits back there? Nice lady out here wants a plain one." He fairly danced on the tips of his toes. I knew the woman back there, whoever she was, had been up with the sun like me that morning, only with a purpose of mind that led all the way down to her fingers, and in turning out fifty or so breakfasts, she'd already done a days' work, and was in the midst of scrubbing up. I could not do that to her. Or myself. Sheesh.

I closed my mind against things like cholesterol and fat calories. Today was a day. The end.

"No, no, that's all right." I waved at him, staring at the case and spying the answer I was looking for. "Do you have any sausage ones, made up?"

He turned, smiling. "Sure do." He opened the case and a heavenly smell poured out. Ohmygod. Yum.

He grasped a hefty one and popped it into a little brown bag, handing it over with what I knew to be his trademark smile, tho' I'd never seen him before and likely wouldn't again. "That's the local Weinberg's sausage," he added with satisfaction.

"Well, I love that," I responded. I had no idea, which fact added to the word "local" consummated the decision for me at once.

"Do you? It's good, " he said, nodding as he took a bill from my extended fingers. He rang it up promptly and handed me my change.

"We sure appreciate your business. Come back anytime."

"I'll do that. Have a lovely day." And I went out into the morning, a treasure in my hands and heart. In the car, I opened the paper and bit into the softness of the biscuit, reveling in the spicy flavor of the homemade sausage on my tongue. So good. Moist. To hell with factory-sized hog farms. Waste of resources, pollute the watersheds. This was heaven, and you can't get it from industrial hogs. (I should have stopped at the farm-store when I saw it on the way out of town and picked up several packages for the next time I make cassoulet. Nothing better, and there's more in common between the family Provencal and these Darlington-area farmers than you'd think at first. It's all about taste.) These babies were raised spoiled as hell, living fat and happy off the land until the day they died, and the sweetness of their existence underscored for me the expanded meaning the words, "family business" have for me now.

Just as the word, "primitive" now evokes a mindset evocative of grace and peace, where food and goods and services touched by human hands are still evident, "still in the family" means they haven't let go, haven't sold out, someone still rises every day to greet the dawn expending hours of energy in just doing what they do best, working at an honest trade or purpose, where the sounds of birds calling and cows lowing and the wind in the grasses frame a lifestyle where you can still hear the heartbeat of the earth.

Truly the light is sweet
and a pleasant thing it is
for the eyes to behold the sun.

And I started up my car, and drove home, unabashedly poetic about the fact that I'd just put $20.00 in my gas tank. These days of multiple-miles-per-hour travel like this are ending, drawing to a close, and I am saving up memories to recall for the future. I am where I am supposed to be. It is life-affirming to come into contact with people for whom, in spite of the Internet (and I love it so), in spite of rampant commercialism, in spite of the assimilation of a mass-market cultural freakism by so many other places, there still remain those with whom I share a deep cultural connection, with whom it would be silly to compare notes, because even though we are separated to a vast degree by education and political views, we line up exactly to the nth degree on what matters most.

Community is worth saving - and there are so many communities, even those intrinsically associated as Darlington is with a sport like auto-racing, who remain diversified enough, close enough to the ground and still interlinked with their agricultural roots, that they will be saved, they will endure, they will survive and go forward to the next thing that awaits. The keys to their future lay within their past, and in their vast inner wisdom, they never lost it. Again I have to say it: We will be fine.

Amen, even so come, Lord Jesus.

moonset over the pee dee

We woke this morning in the dark, gathering our things and venturing out into the world to find that frost limned the windows with silver lace. I spent a cozy night in a grain silo converted into a dollhouse, or rather a hunting lodge; four floors of airy living that the longer I stayed the harder I knew it would be to leave.

But I was only a momentary visitor to the Great Pee Dee Heritage Preserve, a once-a-year enticement that gives me fodder for ruminations and prose for long months afterwards. Like any foray into the wild, either modern or anachronistic, here is where I re-learn that my connection to the land is temporal and severe.

Image courtesy Johannes Kolb Archaeological Site Public Outreach

Last evening I drove up from Stateburg, entering the Darlington Historic District just as the sun dropped below the horizon, so that the last few miles of the trip were cloaked in gilded splendor, tracing the tender branches of the newly-budding willows that lined the corridor of the river, silhouetting the great Black Angus cattle as they lumbered toward dinner, the glow of new green grass behind them shouting the advent of spring as much as the fecund scent of orchard blossoms.

The Silo

Husband, the archaeologist, has a valid excuse to stay the entire ten days that the annual event is open: he's working. From all over the southeast dozens of volunteers, students, and faculty descend on the property once inhabited by one Johannes Kolb, a farmer of some success in this community that still derives the bulk of its income from agriculture. The site has been studied for over ten years, and has yielded a wealth of information about its former occupants.


But I do not come to study in any official capacity, I come to absorb and wallow in the good company and newly unearthed information. Archaeologists live simply, but believe in epicurean comforts. And there is always music. They incorporate what they have learned into their evening relaxations, as they turn a warm fire into the means by which reproduction earthen pots are kilned, as close as possible to that used by the makers of the shards dug up during the week. The bits are studied as to form, structure, and composition, and copies are attempted.

Some of them are marvelously useful. Others for some reason or other do not make it through the firing, coming from the ashes with deep cracks or scars, but these are still considered useful for what they yield about the process.


So we sat in the dark after dinner, imbibing our choice of refreshment, and laughed and talked and sang to the two guitars that appeared to accompany the evening's quiet melodies from the tree frogs and waterfowl. As I said, they live simple but rich, and anyone who wanted to suggested a song and whomever knew the words would sing. The musicians created fantastical accompaniment, and the frogs provided rhythmic backnotes.


There is a lesson here: everything we have is all we need. They discussed the pits they'd dug, and assessed their uses as aboriginal refrigerators. They showed me how the pots were formed for differing purposes - some for boiling, some for storage, some for carrying. Some of them know how to make cordage from fibers found in the eastern woodlands, they know what mushrooms to eat and what leaves will treat wounds.

One of them can make fire in his hands. I didn't say with his hands, I said in his hands. That deserves its own post, for now I will leave that to your imagination, so you may feel the wonder of the phenomenon in the same mystery as the children for whom it was created millenia ago, and you may think about from whence come magical legends of such things. They weren't as magical, or as mythical, as you may believe. But I'll give you a hint: the aboriginal was a chemist.

The promethean in me laughs up her sleeve at that.

This is how I know humanity will be fine, no matter what. This is how I can bury my nose in my books, tend to my children, live my life, with only half an ear to the wind, listening to the wails that beset much of the world obsessed with oil and finance and danger. You tend to that if it pleases you. I'll be as far away from that as I can possibly be, heart dancing in accompaniment to the wind that breathes through my soul.

How can you live like that? I ask you.


Today is Good Friday. Let me tell you why it is ALL good: because everything we have is all we need. And there is only so much we can accomplish if we are listening to angry voices, trying to make up for sadness in which we had no hand, and for which the only answer is to pick up and walk away. And be the beacon. It only took me about 3/4 of my life so far to figure that out - Good God, do you think I want to dwell on how much time I wasted? Wouldn't you rather concentrate on what you've learned and may put to good use, enriching your everyday life and that of those you love?

I believe you would. And so would I.


The definition of wealth contines to evolve, and I am today as wealthy as I've ever been, even though dollar-wise I bring in less than 1/4 of what I did five years ago. I measure my wealth in smiles, and laughter, in peaceful moments around a campfire, in viewing miles of lovely arching trees, old oaks, willows, and pine; in quilted pastures through which creeks tumble in tranquil paths, neat farmhouses set back from the road, brick stores, lumber roads, and a deepest-blue veiled purple morn. And I measure it in better health, and seeing less stress in the eyes of my children. My world is a succinct registry of all that matters.


This morning I had a perfect sky of cerulean blue edged in a silken swath of apricot. Last night I took part in community harmony of the happiest sort, and watched artists at work making useful, beautiful things out of river mud. I was warmed by a red-hot purple-gold fire of wood gathered not fifty feet from where it was built, that served a dual purpose both in beauty and utility. I slept in a building that gives new meaning to the words "adaptive reuse."

PeeDee River at flood stage

It cost me exactly $14.43 in gas money. Everything else was free.

If that isn't your definition of a bargain, I'd really like to know it.

But there is more. Tomorrow I'll tell you all about it. But first, go out and greet the sunrise, say good-night to the moon. That is where it begins.

Note: You can read more about the Johannes Kolb site in this article originally published in South Carolina Wildlife Magazine, Life on a Sandy Knoll, by Christopher Judge.

Archaeologists Chris Judge and Jason Smith

dialogue across a chasm

Statement from Bishop Mark Lawrence in response to the recent ENS article on the Presiding Bishop's visit to South Carolina

I have read the recent article from the ENS regarding the Presiding Bishop, The Most Reverend Katherine Jefferts Schori’s visit to the Diocese of South Carolina. It was a gracious and accurate description of much of our time together. Indeed, there was a warm hospitality which we were most intentional in cultivating through our prayers and our hearts. What the article failed to convey, however, is the depth of the theological chasm that lies between many of us in South Carolina (and others within the church for that matter) and the trajectory of so much of the leadership of The Episcopal Church. To explore these cavernous depths is indeed the great work that lies before anyone in leadership today. Along with showing hospitality and witnessing to God’s work among us, the earnest exploring of this chasm was and remains one of our chief objectives.

--The Rt. Rev. Mark Lawrence

Audio Recordings of the Presiding Bishop's Visit to the Diocese of South Carolina

Go You

Yay. Just YAY. So proud of everyone. Acting like adults!

Applause to the Writers. And kudos to the AMPTP, for being human. Always nice in a person, no matter who you are.



Canadian Film & TV Union donates $18K to Actors Fund

And finally, What We've Really All Been Wondering...

the revelation, himself

i haven't checked the entire flist, but in case anyone hasn't seen this, jensen taped a show in aussie-land today, and apparently it went well, according to a fan who was there for the whole thing.

i'm so glad. i just loved reading that.

also. i haven't really noticed or read very much, but at the edges of my eyelashes have discerned a bit of disappointment-laced discussion about how john was portrayed in epi 3.10. i guess some people thought the show was handling john's parenting skills a bit roughly, and i think one person described herself as "bristling," at the thought of john being at fault for dean's self-immolation exercise. as if the show was pointing the finger at john and saying, Bad, Wrong. You Sucked as a Parent, and It's All YOUR Fault, John Winchester.

and i just thought, as an oldest child and a mother, i might add a thought or observation or two to that.

you know? i saw dean's outburst as very late adolescent rebellion, that was suppressed and withheld because of what they did for a living, what their life was like. out of honest respect for his father. because their situation was wholly desperate at times, and when dean thought about and weighed that with his inner thoughts and feelings, they always came up short, so he pushed them back down again. repeatedly. honestly. when his dad was alive, dean never once questioned him. he *was* the good little soldier. and in his own eyes, his own words, look where that got him.

do try to remember: dean is speaking from a backlog of frustration and denial. what comes out under those circumstances usually is the result of bottling up, twisting and churning. it is almost always WORSE than it started out to be, or that the impetus initially may have warranted.

dean has been carrying questions about his mother's death that he never, ever asked --since he was four years old. remember, he described john to sam in 3.08 as "a superhero." dean firmly believed that, for way longer than he should have, i think.

in light of all this, i understood his anger at his father completely. it wasn't rational, it was quite irrational, and emotional, and honest. from his POV. imho, john did an awesome job as a parent under the craziest of circumstances and with the same puny arsenal of knowledge about parenting that most ex-Marine males of his age and experience would have. yes, he was obsessed. but he was first and foremost a soldier, who went after the enemy just like he did in the Marines. he saw it as protecting his family, and he truly felt they would never be safe if he didn't "go after that thing." parents are programmed to protect their offspring, it was a matter of honor and doing the right thing from his POV. John had failed in this in being unable to save Mary, and his desperation and obsession with hunting was also a message to Dean not to do the same thing (let your loved one die), because it equalled cowardice and failure as a person. he had no idea what little children needed, other than the one thing he couldn't give them: their Mother. still. look at what he and Mary turned out: SAM and DEAN. what we aren't shown are the quality times he spent with them when he WAS around. we only get to see and know about the fact that often he WASN'T.

think for a minute the parallels between john's years and years of inner self-loathing because he "couldn't save Mary," and so he eventually quite willingly sacrifices his life for his son's; and that of that son not only because his father was gone, but also because "he couldn't save Sam."

the sins of the father are visited upon the sons, and imho it was honest of show to give us this in 3.10.

dean should never have idolized his father the way he did for as long as he did. he should have rebelled a long time ago - and gotten over it. but he didn't. and this is what happens. i think this is another way that Sam was more "normal" than Dean - he rebelled and left. Dean never did, and by staying he was honoring his father and his mother, but he was killing himself inside in several ways that eventually were going to come out, and so much more so after the eternal sacrifices that he felt compelled to make, in order to both continue to carry on the family business and save the life of his brother.

there are so many layers here - i need another post at some other time to go into the "Sam is the only thing you've got" angle. let me rest that for now, and continue on my original train of thought, which was: why did Show give us this "John-hate" scene from Dean?

it wasn't "John-hate," actually. it was subverted honest frustration, fear, and silence, that started when dean was FOUR YEARS OLD. an age when emotions and fears are high in any child, much less one who experienced the horrors that 4-year old Dean Winchester did.

i for one was glad to see dean get it out finally. and it's not unusual, actually, for people at the edge of thirty to finally do this. i remember being told by a therapist that the most common ages for people to experience severe depression and anxiety is 28-29. it's like, this is it, baby. if you didn't do it now, once you put another zero in the ones spot? you're history. you're a mature adult, or supposed to be. and it freaks people right the fuck out.

'cause the truth is: we are never any different, if we are completely honest with ourselves, than we were at age 14, 15, 16. and the issues we build up over the years eventually come to a head and explode, more or less, in our late 20s. we realize, not kids anymore, phooey. time to grow up FUCK THAT. and then we get over it, and go on. that is, those of us who fall in the range of normal do.

those of us --which would include dean --who do not address these feelings of anger and frustration and childish feelings of betrayal that come from recognizing that your parent(s) is/are fallible and human (which is a source of adolescent rebellion) --run the very real risk of doing exactly what dean did: bottling it up into feelings of worthlessness, rebelling physically by being promiscuous and taking a higher level of risks, and feeling themselves becoming cold, dead, empty inside.

surely you all know this. i can't be saying anything new, not to alot of you. those of us who climbed over that age-30 hill have surely experienced some of this parent-shunning, recognizing-they-didn't-know-everything, separation-of-self-image-from-parent stuff. it's worse if we didn't do it as teenagers, but it is very, very necessary for us to discover who we are inside.

don't forget that dean was fighting himself. and that the image a son gets of himself often comes from his father, or adult who served that role on some level. it must be rejected in order for him to find out who he really is.

dean is, essentially, a late bloomer on the adolescent emotional stage.

seriously. tell me you didn't stand up and cheer (at least on the inside) with tears raining down your face when he screamed, 'I DON'T DESERVE TO GO TO HELL!' yeah, sylvia, i was right there with you. (link to sylvia bond's recap at pinkraygun.com)

btw, jensen's acting deserves its own post. this one is for DEAN.

not over yet...

it's not over 'til it's over, y'all.


New York Times on Negotiations Between Writers and Studio Heads

eyeing the soapbox

you all know i am not a pundit. i do not run my mouth (or my fingers) very much about politics. i can't predict the immediate future, only basic trends over time. so i'm never very much good at saying anything useful about mundane things like political primaries.

but after yesterday, i just have to say: YOU GO, GIRL. Here are the numbers. for the first time, we are sending a woman to the convention who has an actual chance of making it.

this is important.

our society has a history of squashing women who do not fit the mold we make for them. hilary, unfortunately, too often for my taste DOES fit that mold. she's a tough, unyielding bitch. good for her. we made her that way. but you know what makes me happiest, and makes me really feel good about liking her?

she didn't forget how to feel, when it mattered. thank you, mrs. clinton, for NOT being too big to cry. you had me worried there for a bit, i was sure you were too much one of the boys to remember how to find your own feelings. here's a hug, and a pat on the back.

congratulations, you earned it.

happiest of holidays

having a nice evening at home with friends tonite, people are milling about and coming in and out. jason cooked a wonderful venison ham, and we had collards, rice, okra & tomatoes, black eyed peas, cornbread, and that was just the main course. before that we had several kinds of appetizers that people had brought, then shucked oysters in the yard, and afterwards, desserts and coffee.

rachael and i had put in the supernatural season 1 dvds to play in rotation, sortof as background for the evening's activities. like subliminal induction, hoping to indoctrinate friends. before too long a couple of people had actually started watching, and then saying, "hey, I know this show. one of the brothers is supposed to maybe go darkside, right?" and then we all had to sit down and watch ...hee! it's like roofies, see.

if i weren't so tired and this was not a mackintosh am certain i'd be writing something erudite and uplifting. as it is, i can only think about how dark the sky is outside, how the stars shine so unspoiled by city lights up on this hill in the middle of nowhere, how we can hear fireworks from a mile or so away, and the friends who'll be spending the night are laughing downstairs to some hysterical story my husband is telling. these are nuggets of life here at Hilltop, the Borough, in Stateburg. if you haven't been here, you should visit. it's a world away from anywhere else, there is no place like it on earth.

Wednesday i start my new job across the street, as parish administrator for Holy Cross. hey, you cannot possibly beat the commute. plus, crunchy things for my brain.

happy new year, everyone.

amen, and amen.

transitional dynamics

feeling the worth this morning of reporting on things that get into the meat of necessary change. so often what is out there is so much fluff, which is why we luddites and deep thinkers must just pass over it or puke. but some people are apparently getting it, even though the vast majority are still either caught up in the sparkly bits, or hiding their collective Gucci-clad heads in the sand.

it will affect us all some day. it affects us now, you know. why do you think we rush so hard to get to the computer & log on to check everything in the morning? is it because we half-way believe it might not be there, maybe sooner than later?

i am not here to convince anyone to do anything other than think. and to do that, you'll have to --ahem --educate yourself. not going to recommend any books, papers, or websites. you have access to blackle and you are a smart person.

zut, alors.... have to slap a certain website on the wrist this morning, howsomever. since when is it more "green" to buy French than Carolina or Virginia wines if you live east of the Mississippi? i ask you. the subject didn't even come up.... the choice as far as they are concerned is, napa or europe. and lo, papa, stop whirling in your proverbial urn. you know it's positively true that if you were alive today you'd be sipping virginia merlot dripped from right up the road at chateau marmoset morissette. or jefferson's meritage, say 2001. that is some yummy stuff. goes with the venison hubby bow-shot last weekend quite well.

meant to include linda's recipe for carolina venison chili and my apple tart recipe this morning. that will have to wait, out of time.

rest easy, papa. and you greenies? wake up and smell the local vintage, for chrissakes.

standing down

I am *not* going to whine about the effect this work stoppage could have on The Show. Stop me if it looks like I'm about to Start. This goes for all future posts until the issues are resolved and the strike is over. (Inside? I'm wibbling alot about this tho', so am certain reminders will be in order.)

At the same time I am educating myself about the issues, I strongly urge us to show strong support for the striking members of the Writers' Guild, and
especially those who are kind of caught in the middle, at this critical time.

I am especially not going to whine about the effect this could have on any of my own writing aspirations. Everything in good time. All things come to good for those who wait. I joined the WGA-East as an associate, and may my membership fees go to buying Lots of Placards and Hot Coffee for the strikers.

Meanwhile? I have six novels in various stages of completion, one in final re-draft, a book of poetry to finish editing, and there are articles and fanfic to be written. None of this is going to pay for awhile anyway, if ever.

I need a list of struck companies, though - to be sure I don't try to pitch a book or write an online article for or to any entity that is connected to any struck company. At least I think that is what I should do, anyway.

This is somewhat confusing for little me. I mean, I have a book that one day I'd hoped to make into a screenplay that would maybe one day become a movie. I assume I can continue to polish that and try to find a publisher. Right? As long as the screenwriting part isn't dealt with until the strike is over?

Obviously I have alot of work to do in any case. I just want to reiterate my support for the Writers' Guild, and hope and pray for a speedy and authentic end to the unpleasantness. I am on their side, and will stay there.

Addendum: Today is Guy Fawkes Day. Somehow there is more than a little irony in that fact.

Supernatural Article at Helium

My article on the series has been published at Helium. Please click & rate it, thanks!

Link to article

Full text of article is below, in case it disappears:

Spread the Gospel

At Comic-Con '07 this past summer, series creator, writer, and executive producer Eric Kripke related to fans the news that his show, Supernatural, came within a hair's breadth of being cancelled after the Season 2 final episode. While this may not have come as a complete surprise, his words had the effect of galvanizing a dedicated fanbase like a Winchester punch in the gut. "Go forth and spread the Gospel of Supernatural," Kripke exhorted.

"Tell your friends to tell their friends," added Jensen Ackles, who plays Dean Winchester alongside Jared Padalecki as his brother Sam. With a team of writers, directors, producers and technicians that reads like a who's who of the science fiction and horror movie genre, including writer and producer Ben Edlund, who worked with Joss Whedon on Angel and the short-lived but critically-acclaimed series, Firefly; Kim Manners and John Shiban, director and writer, respectively, from the X-Files; talented writers Sera Gamble and Raelle Tucker; and Robert Singer, producer and director, who was the executive producer of Lois & Clark: the New Adventures of Superman, as well as producing Cujo, Independence Day, and the TV series Dracula, the team charges forth each week with a heart-stopping, stomach-churning, breathtaking ride with the Winchester boys through the back roads of American myth.

Joined by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, who guest-stars periodically as their father John Winchester; Jim Beaver, who plays veteran demon hunter Bobby Singer; Samantha Ferris as the dedicated and street-wise Ellen Harvelle, Sam and Dean not only take up the challenge of saving innocents from things that go bump in the night, but battle evil in the form of demons, poltergeists, vengeful spirits and horrifying mythical creatures that spring from modern urban legend and ancient religious lore from all over the world. None of this is paying work, you understand. The boys live under the radar as best they can, on credit card fraud and hustling pool. It's all part of the hero/anti-hero premise, much like that described in Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. With humor and heady passion, the brothers' journey is a headlong rush into the unknown and unpredictable, where they struggle with almost as many internal demons as those "real" ones sent from the depths of hell. Goaded at first by revenge over their mother's and Sam's fiance's deaths at the hands of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Sam and Dean followed their father through the American countryside, tracking signs of demonic activity and gathering clues from cryptic messages left on cell phones and in the pages of the journal he left behind. The demonic plague on their family threatens to consume them, as first Sam and then John Winchester fall victim to otherworldly possession.

But here's where Supernatural shows itself to be something more than a mere story: the ties that bind the Winchester family seem to be stronger than death itself. Be it the saving of souls through exorcism or the selling of their own to Satan's ilk, nothing, no sacrifice is too great for this family. And the angst! Oh, the angst. Enough honest-to-goodness real-life conflicted soul-torturing for the most die-hard Oprah fan, this show skillfully walks a fine line between "no chick-flick moments" and the unfathomable yet irresistible enigma of true martyrs. Sam and Dean are at times typical bickering siblings, who band together at the moment of truth to become larger-than-life warriors at the gates of hell, soldiers who will stop at nothing to protect the innocent and those whom they love.

Dean's is a tortured soul; the streetwise elder brother who describes his first kill at age sixteen in detached yet somehow awe-struck terms. He is hedonistic, a smart-alecky wisecracker, whose love for his brother knows no bounds. Unbelievably at times, his tears will flow in honest hope, love and occasionally regret. He is a man of extremes, a risk-taker who moves with calculated precision. Sam, who left law school, raised mostly by his elder brother as Dad was off hunting demons, researches cases on the 'net and stays away from the frivolous pleasures sought after by Dean, for fear of hurting or causing another death either by tragedy or association. Both are formidable fighters and their well-choreographed teamwork in planning and execution are just plain awesome to watch.

The brotherly banter abounds and the two are not above making practical jokes on each other, but nowhere on television will you find a more devoted, intractable and firmly cemented relationship between two characters. The chemistry between Ackles and Padalecki as Dean and Sam is palpable. These two talented actors have created a phenomenon that has inspired one of the more explosive and dedicated fandoms in recent years, causing stats on the Hey Neilsen website to rise 7000% in 24 hours when notices shot through the boards at the CW, LiveJournal, TwoP, and many others to go out and show support for "their show." In addition, the fandom has used websites, email campaigns, and even a charity fundraising initiative, all to broadcast "the Gospel of Supernatural" to the masses.

Their daily lives a whirlwind, few quiet moments exist for these two outside of motel rooms and their beloved '67 black Chevy Impala, a legacy left to Dean by their father that is often described as the "third character" on the show. The car's expansive trunk holds an arsenal of ghost and evil-fighting equipment. Listening to Dean's classic rock cassette tape collection, the brothers travel steadfastly from town to town in search of their next "gig." They pick up clues from newspapers and local tips, then follow them resolutely and skillfully to the ultimate confrontation: be it a Reaper summoned and controlled by a warped member of a religious flock, a genie hulking in an abandoned warehouse greedily sucking the life from its victims, or trying to help a disturbed young man with paranormal capabilities, counteracting the latest threats from an overzealous FBI agent called Henrickson, or even a rabid demon-hunter who is convinced that Sam is the anti-Christ, the brothers thread the needle to find solutions that will hurt the fewest innocents while confronting the demons in their own psyches. This season brings even more challenges in the form of a demon named Ruby who claims to be able to help save Dean from his crossroads deal, and Bela, a mercenary who is in the market for stolen goods -- including some of the artifacts and talismans the Winchesters must use in order to win in the fight to save mankind in the coming Apocalypse.

It's a thrilling, often shocking bloodbath when these two let go in a battle to conquer evil. It's just as heart-stoppingly inspiring when Dean cuts down a victim who has been left to die, saves a drowning child, or Sam places a calming hand on Dean's chest after an especially stultifying close call. When these two get onto a metaphysical level and confront issues of their own self-worth and destiny, it's nothing less than a lesson in the purely redeeming alchemy of human empathy. Each vowed to stop at nothing in order to save the presumably doomed other: Dean having sold his soul and left with one year to live, Sam being possibly the heir to a kingdom of which he wants no part. Each has his own lessons to learn, his own wisdom to share, and demon asses to kick. In this time of waning consumption of fossil fuels and the yawning threat of the end of the American dream, in the face of fear, despair, and the sure knowledge of impending doom, there is in the American psyche an unwillingness to give in to all of this. So perhaps the best thing about Supernatural is the emphasis it places on the preservation of hope, love, and ideals. There are still wide open highways to roam together in a kick-ass muscle car. Saving lives. Hunting things. The family business.

And I, an avowed environmentalist and social activist who not too long ago totally eschewed television, plan to be right there with them every step of the way. Somewhere bound up in all of the work that the show's creators do, there is the timeless theme of humanity's search for what is good, right, and honorable in all of us, perhaps especially the not-so-perfect. And that is an important and worthy thing for television to be doing nowadays. So yes, I'm spreading the Gospel of Supernatural, one of the finest pieces of collaborative art to brighten the universe in a long, long time.

Susannah Eanes writes, dances, bakes bread, tends a flock of heirloom chickens, is mother to five living with her archaeologist husband on an eighteenth century plantation in rural Carolina, and is a total Dean Girl.

Veritas

Men hate passion, any great passion. Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

I defy the tyranny of precedent. Clara Barton.

I am faced with an exposition of the most ridiculous kind. It is almost as if, by turning round and round upon myself, within myself, I am finding out the true nature of the world at large. Fie! It is an old shoe, a bastard, losing daily whatever dignity it has gained at its own behest. I am well to be rid of it.

The world itself is an oasis that draws us out of ourselves, to interact and play nicely with our neighbors. I am all about community, of course. Enjoying friends and family is one of the greatest joys on earth. And here is the rub, see. An oasis is only that which stands out in the middle of the wasteland, providing nourishment and the opportunity for rest for weary travelers. An oasis! Yes, there I’ll be bound.

And miss the boat entirely, of course.

Why linger at an oasis? Why settle, why drink, why sleep? If life is a journey, hadn’t we better get on with it? Saddle up the camels, do something, for heaven’s sake. Or if life is a banquet, should we at least find a place that has good food? God. Get me away from these mongrels, who do nothing more than clasp and smile and make us all feel so damned good.

Take me somewhere I can hear myself think. I have work to do.

I am a promethean, which means I take my work seriously not as art, but of the fact of its usefulness, probably more so than many. It is the work itself that is the point, and nothing that comes after. And I have no opinion at all on whether or not the work is successful, only that it is good, and says what I want it to say. Otherwise, why do it? Why produce, unless to express oneself? If I were going to express another’s opinion, or mimic another’s work, what reason would I have to exist? I do honor by the fact of my existence in bringing my own view to the forefront. Which, I realize, is basically what Ayn Rand said, in billions and billions of words.

That being said, too often the world itself gets in the way. Why? Because I am shy, introspective, and withdrawn by nature. I listen too often to others and quiet my voice. I write what people want to hear, I know pleasant turns of phrase, am witty, clever, and so I am quite repugnant to myself. I mimic so well the acclaimed voices. Eventually I must stop, it will be my undoing. The roar in my ears does not go away when I lift my hands from the keyboard to cover them. I shout at those nearby; I am shouting at myself. Only when I write does my real voice speak. You will almost never hear it from my lips. That is the way of things, perhaps it makes me who I am. I no longer apologize for being several things at once, I am who I am. That cannot change, or who would be me? What of worth would I have to offer; again, why else should I exist?

I know things, things that I left out of the most recent work. I am a miner of the soul; I will go and put them back in. It was wrong to take them out –I am happy now that someone pointed it out to me. As if to say, “Why did you not –“ and “It would have been better if you had –“ when all along I truly believed no one would have understood had I done so. I am glad to put them back. They will complete the work as I originally envisioned. I sigh a deep sigh of completion, and gratitude.

This past week was a vacation for me and the children. We went home to the mountains, to the blue sky and clear air of Virginia. We visited post-card towns and had tea & cakes with the vicar –okay, he was imaginary, but we had them outside on the lawn behind the library not fifteen feet from where I first made out with the father of one of them when I was about thirteen years old –and no I did not mention it! That would have been gross. To continue painting the pastoral scene, we shopped and walked and took miles of pictures. We bought fabric at Schoolhouse Fabrics to make new fall dresses for the girls & me, and a cool grey shirt for my son. We lived and breathed and sang and tromped down to Asheville to take in Biltmore and the highlands in all their pre-fall glory. And about halfway through it, while walking along atop a century-old rock wall in Rocky Mount, Virginia, my youngest said to me, “Mommy, it feels like we are in a movie.”

And I said to her, “That is passion, dearest.”

“What’s passion? I thought what happened to Christ was The Passion.”

“Yeah, that’s passion, too. Passion is when you love something so hard it becomes real.”
She giggled, skipping ahead. “Oh, I get it. Like how I love my turtles when I talk to them.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Get me down, Mommy.”

I held out my arms to her and she jumped, landing neatly on the cracked sidewalk. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” And hugged her tight.

She walked on ahead of me, and eventually climbed back up to walk along the top of the wall. “It still feels like we are in a movie,” she said presently.

“That is good, I’m glad.”

“I like it.”

“You should. In fact, that is the best. You should feel that way every single day. Don’t ever lose that feeling, OK? Don’t settle for anything less.”

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t feel this way hardly ever.”

“You hold onto it. It makes you strong. Don’t ever lose it.” And I laughed with her.


The work will be a beacon, when it is finished. Again. This I know. And yes, it is all about me. I am the only one left to tell. It is my mind, my entrance upon the world’s stage. I gather up the bits of straw from the threshing floor – the fleeting bits that fall from my fingers in the times when I must compulsively be writing something about passion, for the voices will not stop – and toss them skyward. They fall on happy faces who lick their lips and feed upon them, devouring the little bits of my heart I’d sewn in so carefully. I am happy to do that, their happiness makes me smile.

But there will be more in the morning. So watch, and see. It is practicum for the larger work, it flexes my working muscles and makes me concentrate on plot and character and making something totally imagined real.

Soon I must leave the oasis. It is discipline, yet it is too much in the world. When I have completed it, it will be time for surgery on the original work. The one that has followed me around for the better part of two decades. That has received two lovely long letters of encouragement from now two editors who press me to add voices to it, find an agent, and submit to, as one put it, “a larger publisher with a more literary (quieter, less pop-fiction-readership-oriented) audience.” This is the work that defines my vision of experience and reality between the perfectly imperfect man and woman. That rocks my boat. That frustrates me no end because I just don’t want to give up and feel all the things working in this mine field makes me feel. And so I take the coward’s way out, and try to make it a popular read. I got what I deserved.

I received the go-ahead to basically be true to myself, my vision, and write what I know. What good does it do within me, when it is obvious that the work would be so much better with it out?
And so I will do. That accomplishment will give me the peace I affirm is the only true peace, in the end. That is the point of my existence.

For nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere
--John Donne, Aire and Angels

Wild Grape Jam

My recipe, found & posted courtesy of RaeSofSunshine!


Wild Grape Jam
Recipe by Susannah Eanes
Yield: 4 12-oz jars jam, or approx. 6 half-pints

11 cups whole grapes (abt. 3-1/2 lbs.)

You will also need:
A stockpot and/or water-bath canner
Ladle
2 cups water
Sieve
Prepared Jars
4-1/2 cups sugar
Large, wide-lipped bowl (like a salad bowl)
Prepared Lids & Rims

Wash grapes, pick stems & leaves, wash again thoroughly but gently. Divide into two equal portions. Put half of grapes in large, heavy stockpot. Peel skins from other half, reserve skins, put pulp into stock pot with other half of grapes. Cook on medium temperature about 12-15 minutes until soft and skins start to split on their own. Grapes should mash very easily. Remove from heat.

Put grapes through sieve, reserving all pulp and juice. You should get about 3 cups. Discard cooked skins and seeds. Put pulp mixture back into stockpot with reserved skins and water. Bring to boil on med-high heat setting. Add sugar. Bring to boil again on medium-high heat setting (if the stove setting is too high, the jelly will stick and burn before it cooks properly). Stir frequently and test often for jelly consistency. I set atimer and be sure to check it at least once every 7-10 minutes, and stand over it once the temperature reaches 215 degrees.

Cook until mixture reaches 220 degrees and maintains this temperature for at least 5 minutes. This should take anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes. One way to be sure jelly stage has been reached is to observe mixture as it drips off a metal spoon, it should form little sheets as the drops run together off the edge. Watch to be sure two or three drops are combining into one sheet.

When jelly stage is reached, remove from heat and pour into large, wide-lipped ceramic bowl (like a big salad bowl). Cool for five minutes, then ladle into prepared, hot jars. Wipe rims and seal. Process in water-bath canner for 10 minutes. Remove and cool on towels. Check to be sure lids have sealed.

Enjoy!

The Link Exchange

Wanna exchange links? I'd be flattered. Drop a comment here with your email - all are screened so no one will see it but me - and describe your site. Don't forget to provide the URL so I can check out and see how awesome you are!

Here are a few icons I've made for people to use to link to a bit of earth.

   


If they don't suit your site, please feel free to resize, make your own, provide a text-only link, or maybe we can work together to come up with something.

Thank you for your interest! I'll get back to you soon.

joy in the morning

i'm really visual lately, so i'm just going to share a few images of what we did sunday morning.... (click on images for larger version if you want).

This is my friend...


Scuppernongs



Thompsons



they'll go to make the best grape jam in the universe. come & share some with us!

non timebo mala

Coming of Age in the Family Renaissance:
An Emerging Cultural Reality

“Who of us could endure a world… without the divine folly of honor, without the senseless passion for knowledge outreaching the flaming bounds of the possible, without ideals the essence of which is that they can never be achieved?” –Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

“I want to speak about bodies changed into new forms. You gods, since you are the ones who alter them and all other things, inspire my attempt, and spin out a continuous thread of words from the world’s first origins to my own time…” –Ovid, Metamorphoses


Blink quickly and they will pass you by. It's time I came into being with my own connections, and lo and behold! I like it. Alot.

Some parents --it seems to me an inordinate number of them, actually --look forward with trepidation to the years when their children become teenagers. Having already raised one, maybe I'm a bit relaxed on the subject. Or maybe it's just obvious that my children (15, 13, 11) are only continuing to unfold into the caring, creative, all-out wonderful creatures they always were, only more so. Every day brings a new step toward enlightenment, as much for me as for them.


evolution
i find bright young minds
unspoiled and open
beyond limits imposed
by successive
generational layers,
accepting as a matter of course
all the differences they find
in humanity.
wasting no time on particulars
never turning it over and over
and over in their minds ad nauseum
pointing out and categorizing
nuances
better appreciated
celebrated
loved.
more established minds
often described as wordly wise
often see nothing in differences,
or refuse to accept them when they do,
may even belittle them
say they don't matter
and are more likely to immediately find
a pigeonhole or tightly lidded box into which they resolutely attempt to make one fit otherwise they cannot see what is even there much less the wisdom.
the world evolves
or we die.
that, in truth,
is something
of which acceptance
has no part.

--susannah eanes

my dad --eternally youthful and questioning --used to say:
if you have to ask, you wouldn't understand the answer.
in some ways, i'm finding out how wise he was. i am hearing the echoes of his longing, his epistles, his passion, in the words i read written and hear said by my children. who are the main youth in my life.
someone mentioned recently, how the generation who came of age in the 1960s, was supposedly more "with it" than the youth of today. and then went on to make the predictable comparisons with his generation and angst-filled young moderns.

i soooo beg to differ. it is well known, and one of the observations of our times, that the 1960s generation sold out to wall street, walmart, and mundane life a long time ago.
in other words, turned their back on your youth, and walked away.
and, imho, this person hit the nail on the head when he wrote, "I see the music some of these folks (including the 40ish crowd) are listening to, and it might as well be another planet as far as I can tell.. with some exceptions. "

he might as well have said, "I can't hear the music..."

neither could my dad. and it's sad, really, because it just means neither of them cares enough about other people to really give a damn, and LISTEN. as if, it's not worth anything that they might come up with in their own minds: to hell with youth. the hubris is real, and all-pervasive.
that, my friend, is obvious. when my older daughter was listening to Nine Inch Nails almost a decade ago and watching movies like The Crow and Donnie Darko, I couldn't hear the music either. I just "saw" men being tortured and violence and darkness.
But when I listen to my very oldest daughter, as well as her sister and the younger 3, because I now suspend judgment and keep holding them up as examples of light, unspoiled, fresh from God --because that is what they are --I found it was fear of the unknown, and fear of going back, of losing myself, that stopped me from hearing the message of all of the above, and so very much more.
i rediscovered pieces of myself i had rejected when i was as young as 9, and had left behind completely by age 14. and the rest of my youth was totally destroyed by age 19. so now i feel like, hell yeah, i've gone back and embraced that young, questioning, innocent young girl. 'cause she was a good person who deserved to live. she had enough violence in her life to cause her to run away from herself, avoid any mention of violence or follow true passion in her life.
but... thanks to my youthful companions, and those like them --who are all around, thank god, i am finding that exploring humanity in all its forms instead of running away from what scares me or alarms me or at one time would have been put away in the "inappropriate" box has allowed me to climb up on top of it and crow.
Now I hear the music. And I put alot of it on my MySpace page.
J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan in the original form said basically the same thing.

It's a universal idea. Not dead, not even resurrected. Just enduring.

tears & laughter

those of you who know me are more than likely aware that i get choked up about certain things. for instance, i can not watch the part of sound of music where maria comes back to the von trapp children, striding across the lawn, her silvery voice picking up the notes to "my favorite things," just as they become unable to sing for sadness from missing her. my face was a blindingly wet marshmallow when we left the theater after "bridge to terabithia." for goodness sakes! they shouldn't make such movies. my armor gets all cracked.

but then again, thank god they do.

don't get me wrong. i am perfectly sensible when situations require it, i don't get all silly in an emergency and can drive on through the darkest rain. it's just that since reaching adulthood i feel the tug and pull on the strings that hold the shades closed over my vulnerable sensibilities, and can't always ignore the lump in my throat --sometimes it's happiness, sometimes heartache. and over the years i've decided it's not necessarily a bad thing. i do not turn away from strong feelings, i've learned to take them and mine their depths for meaning and insight. and sometimes, the feeling turns into a beacon, that upon further exploration brings me to a place where i find a poem, a story, or even the beginnings of something more, a new understanding of what it means to be human in this century, on this earth.

a recent story told to me by a myspace friend resulted in this very thing. you know, we are an extremely cerebral, emotional, and tactile culture, and yet we move at the speed of light. we want everything we experience to have meaning. when we find something that speaks to us, someone or even a character in a book or television show, we make it a part of ourselves. it is part of how we grow into who we are meant to be, whoever that is. we take ownership of that and cultivate it like a relationship. and because of the depths to which technology can take us, it is even possible to reach out and claim for a brief span of time --a breath in the wilderness of our emotions --an affirmation that another person shares our thoughts, our opinions, our feelings, our triumphs and even our worries. it is possible to know someone almost better than our own families by typing back and forth over a keyboard. i myself have cultivated friendships this way, i can vouch for the fact that they can be profound, indeed. it is possible to put your heart out there, talk about your very deepest hopes, wishes, whatever, and never even know the last name of the person to whom you are speaking. it's not wierd, it's not detrimental, and it's not dishonest. in the past, because these feelings were never explored in a safe or positive way, many people became addicted to drugs, sank into depression, abused alcohol, or worse.

today, we can do something really fine: we can keep our masks over our identities, and yet put certain things out there for the world to see. we experience something i call "hiding in plain sight." only the important stuff remains hidden, so that the other important stuff might be shared, and hopefully understood by someone else. and hey, sometimes we learn something glorious and wonderful this way. so don't knock it. let it stand on its own. be respectful of the mystery. it's important.

but to continue with my reaction to the story recently told me by my friend: if the person on the other end happens to be well-known, a person hounded by fans and paparazzi because of his or her line of work, what can happen? are those people able to get the same satisfaction and life-affirming confirmation of a shared, somewhat anonymous online friendship? sometimes. but it's dangerous. by the very nature of their work, which involves imagination, fantasy, and belief in something larger than life, by being accessible they are more likely to be the targets of obsession. which makes the fact of any shared experience like this that much more valuable.

after hearing the story of one such relationship that had to end when fans became scary, i was moved to write something. you can read it here. i'll keep the identity and situation secret for what i hope are obvious reasons. it's the feeling and validation that i believe are important.

that, and i hope perhaps someone out there may learn a lesson, and realize that famous people ARE people. not objects there for your possession. they're not perfect or insensible, any more than you or i. so be respectful. have some class.

evolve, damnit.

the poem is called, "hiding in plain sight" and is, or will be, up on my website in a day or two. you can find it under the poetry page.
http://www.susannaheanes.com/

venus in retrograde

funny little thing happened on the way to virginia.

some background: years ago, i married my best friend. it didn't last. we had 2 lovely girls together. he doesn't acknowledge them or speak to any of us. it's for the best, believe me. after all the lies and the hurt and unbelievable unfairness, it's been relegated to the "scope for a novel" file and bedded down.

dollars spent on therapy are sometimes very well spent. because of him, i developed a shell thick enough to have survived some pretty horrible things, even afterward. in retrospect, i could almost say i'm grateful for the lesson. almost.

never let it be said that the gods do not possess a divine sense of humor.

said ex and i have not spoken much in the impending decades... i wish i could say exactly why, but it just boils down to awkwardness, broken dreams, maybe a little too much honesty, but i don't regret it. the quiet has been peaceful, even blissful at times. it is hard to be married to someone who knows you better than god himself.

but getting back to the funny thing on the way to virginia.

karma is a wonderful thing: you never know when you will have to rely on help from those whom you've screwed.

my oldest daughter and i --the one he fathered and i gave up for adoption when i was much too young to be a mother and he has to this day never acknowledged, even tho' she is a full sister to our other daughter who was born while we were married --and is a dead ringer for him --were driving up the interstate as it began to rain. the clouds had been gathering for some time but thankfully traffic was unusually light. as we neared an overpass i noticed a truck, with a flat-bed trailer, on the side of the road. it was somewhat near a landmark truck stop but absolutely nothing else. the truck caught my eye for just a moment, and i started to look away when i noticed a tall, thin, blond-headed male walking up the steep hill away from the truck toward the overpass. as we passed he raised his cell phone to his ear.

"that's p******," i said to my daughter, who turned to look.

she sniffed. "no way," she answered, shaking her head in her sensible way. "that's impossible. you can't see who that is from this distance."

i shrugged. it was several thousand feet, to be sure. and it was raining. "no, i can't. but it's him."

we hadn't seen him in several years, except i had glimpsed him momentarily at his mother's funeral several months back, which we'd attended with my daughter, who was particularly close to her grandmother and was pretty broken up about it.

but i knew it was him. you see, i have known that person since the sixth grade. and we were close, at one time. we --well, suffice it to say i was certain.

i said, "i'm going back. it's him."

r****** said, "well, ok, like, you could do like in the messin' with sasquatch commercial, you know, make him run a little bit. that would be amusing." we laughed.

"yes, it would," i agreed. and we laughed again. but i knew that i wouldn't do that. no, the opposite would be far more adventurous.

it was a ways to the next exit, so i had to drive a bit before i could turn around. but about 10 minutes later we pulled off the exit near the truck stop. i knew he'd be headed for that. but would he let us help him? would he even acknowledge us? i had to know. it was raining harder now. r. still wasn't convinced it would be him, she was going on the fact that he lives four states away now and what were the chances, really, that he and i would be on the same road at the same time in the rain and his truck would break down at almost the exact minute i'd be passing by? it was highly unlikely. i agreed with her. still, i knew it was him.

we pulled to the top of the exit, which turns out on an old, unimproved gravel road down to the truck stop. he was walking down that road, having gone up the hill, over the overpass, and turned right. walking. hurriedly. phone to ear. he turned to look as we pulled up, just across the road. i blinked my lights at him and he raised his hand politely, nodding and pointing down the road to the truck stop, motioning me on and indicating he was fine. i waved and rolled down my window.

"don't you want a ride?" i laughed at him.

he said, "i'll call you back," and clicked the phone shut. grinned. i pulled across the road and opened the door. before i could change my mind i just went on old times, the times that should be preserved. the good memories. before it got ugly.

i said, "you need some help, don't you? we are nice people, you should let us help you."

part of the problem always was his ridiculously suspicious nature. once i had known how to break through that. like i was nineteen again i held out my arms and said, "no one is watching. no one will know. only her," i gestured over my shoulder at our daughter, the one he wouldn't acknowledge, although i know that at one time he'd drawn a broken heart with her birth date and time in the middle of it. i held that image in my mind and hugged him, quickly, before he could back away.

he needed it. and so did i. it is more blessed to give than to receive. it is.

one thing i had learned over the years is to grab things and then let them go, quick, before they can bite you. to do the right thing before you think about it too much and chicken out. he was alone, and god only knew how many years it had been since he'd been hugged by someone he could trust. he lives in a walled-off fortress among situations of his own making. his mother had died convulsing in his arms, not too long ago. his shell is thick --but he knows me. and deep down, he knows i only want the best for him --when i remember the little boy i knew in sixth grade, and the awesome young man he grew into. i loved that young man. i always will.... even though he left him behind and became someone else, long ago. as did i.

i turned to him and said, "i finished my book. the one i started in alabama."

he looked confused. "book?"

"you don't remember. i was writing a book --several books --and i began in alabama. in enterprise, when we were there."

"oh. well, that's great. congratulations."

"one of them is about fred."

"fred? that book needs to be written. i always said that."

"yes. me, too. you do remember."

he was grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head. remembering the good times.

"but you know," i continued. "most of what i know about fred is hearsay. i wasn't there for most of it. it was before my time."

"well, you know what happened."

"only because someone told me. i do remember hanging outside a window, upside down and not knowing if it was you or fred holding me by my ankles." he laughed, nodding at the memory.

i looked at him. "it was fred, wasn't it?"

he nodded again, still laughing. "you made him stop," i finished. "you saved me. i could have broken my head."

"yes," he said, barely audibly, still grinning down at me. he is so tall.

we laughed and chatted and i introduced him to r******. he leaned into the car, hand extended in a friendly, courteous manner. "hi, I'm p******," he said. she smiled and shook her head in wonder, thinking, "i know who you are, you a******. and you know who i am, too." but she smiled, and played along as courteously as he.

i don't know why he kept up the charade but at least we could laugh at it. we gave him a ride down to the truck stop and stayed with him while he figured out what to do. at one point he even considered going up to the ville with us, since we were all headed that way. but later he decided he needed to stay with his truck, since he was on a "tight schedule," and he didn't know how long it would take to fix the truck. he was always on a tight schedule. indeed, i don't think he knows how to live any other way.

he's a curious combination of laid-back and uptight, sensible and full of shit, observant and blind. he didn't seem to have changed much, if at all. but it didn't creep me out - i knew exactly what to expect. somehow that can be comforting, when you know there are no surprises.

r & i laughed all the way up the road after we left him, after taking him back to his truck to get a few things, and then back to the truck stop to wait for the towing vehicle. he laughed too, a bit. he was incomparably polite, even affable.

i looked at him from the rear-view mirror. "you know, we are nice. you should talk to us."

"i can see that," he replied, nodding and smiling. i pulled into the parking space. we were back at the truck stop, and it was time for him to get out and go about his business. i shook my head. the present was back, palpable, in the car with us. camaraderie was fading back into the dimness, and i struggled to make it real, to catch at the threads of time that were dwindling away, breathless, like smoke escaping thru the open window.

"here. write down my phone number. you can contact me anytime," he shuffled through the calendar he carried, wrote the number down carefully, bending his head to the task. i saw him again in math class, diligently writing numbers on a page. he looked up. smiled, and shut the book. opened the door, and was gone.

i know that the past rises up before us whenever we are there to re-create it. it is still as tangible as it was every hour that we lived it.

but i also know, just as certainly, that i'll never hear from him. that as soon as we were gone one of two things happened: either he forgot us completely, or his paranoia kicked in and he worried all night long about repercussions from talking to me, which in his mind could range anywhere from the wrong people (who? i wonder) finding out he actually accepted my help (like he had any choice? he was in the middle of nowhere without transportation and it was raining!) to my running my mouth to godknowswhat. and that, my friends, is not my problem.

it's his.

the nice thing about divorce is, their problems are no longer your problems. their craziness is no longer your craziness. their issues are not your issues.

but you can still give them a hand up when they need it --and then move on.

that day our daughter got to meet her biological father for the first time, and that has to be some closure for both of them. only the three of us know just what that meant, and i'm not going to share that here. the point is, as i said: karma is a really cool thing. you never know just when you'll get the chance to kill the one person with kindness who was unforgiveably bad to you once --and that it will make you giddy with joy, and laughter. and for just one minute, time stops, rolls back, and people are alive again all around who have been dead for years.

that's a pretty cool occurrence, all in all. i'd recommend it to anyone.

midsummer finds

these were taken by my hubby atop a mountain in my home state of virginia, at the cumberland gap, specifically. will be traveling this week for a visit with relatives and to be revitalized by all the old familiar places. it'll be cooler there, a welcome respite from the heat.

here in sc, the air is still and hot as we await yet another afternoon thunderstorm. there is a hum in the air, a quickening that heightens the senses, hovers, and yet refuses to alight. it spears the calm. in the garden the bees advance like gleaners gathering beads of tranquility, spiriting into hidden pockets and disappearing under limp, curling leaves. they beg for the storm to bring its cooling effervescence, life-giving sweetness to the packed bare earth.

i move about between the buildings from early morning to late afternoon, attending to various duties, weaving wishes together to make something artful. if only for myself. as i wait, the summer beckons: don't stay in, come out, come out, the winter will be here before you know it, and you hate cold weather. i stand still, letting the countless archaic souls of this place wind throughout my heart and mind, encompassing all manner of thieving rhythms and timeless nightmares etched in rhymes down the winding paths, white with dust, my brow wrinkled to heaven. the place is timeless. it whispers platitudes in my ear, telling me "all in good time, my dear. all in good time."

finding peace amid rapidly truncating options

Hanging out on the porch with oldest daughter Rachael, June 2007

...in other words, watching your big fat world shrink. there is a parallel for what has happened in my own life over the past few years or so and what is happening in the world at large. this is so often the case that i have ceased to wonder at it, and only rarely stop to comment on the phenomenon.

the health is not good. it is a result of long ago choices that were ill-conceived and momentarily self-serving. while the popular culture of my youth espoused chemical pleasures and lack of remorse, my own experience was a grueling dedication to succeed physically and mentally but with no more thought than anyone of what might be happening within my own body, that would later require a reckoning.

the same might be said of our earth. long ago, or maybe not so long ago, the world began spinning on its axis at a much faster rate. or so it seemed. we reached out across miles of wilderness to grasp at whatever we wanted. if we saw it we calculated its effect on us and made the decision to go after profit as a matter of course. we did not stop to visit other options. profit equalled progress. students of history and social systems foretold the nasty outcomes and estimated the length of time we had left to adjust our behavior to avoid them. we as a society of individuals largely ignored them, save for a few feel-good celebrations of our existence and the good of sharing the seemingly unstoppable wealth here on dear mother earth.


Delivering a water quality report to Rural Water Board Members, Barbour County, Alabama, 1987. At the time weighing about 90 lbs., funny how piling on the layers of clothing hides that so well... typical trick of the anorexic, along with wearing things that fit too loosely.

it does not matter that those of us who were aware of impending climate and societal changes that would be brought about by over-reaching on so many levels knew they were coming and tried to do something about that. we will reap what we all have sown. and that's ok in my book. it is fine to be challenged, perhaps especially by ourselves. we who foretold --if we were all that smart --should be out in the forefront, continuing to feed back to those who struggle to understand just how we are supposed to continue to function in the face of a shrinking planet's growth pains the hows and wherefores of our continued existence. we should not cease to be scientists just because it's starting to get downright wicked and hot up there in the crow's nest, and because the mists of doubt and distaste that are rolling in obscure the horizon that was clear not so very long ago. we now see what we foresaw --what makes that so difficult to discern? we must now see beyond that horizon, and press on to the future that awaits.

i welcome that extreme of categorical oblivion. it is true that some of us see bliss in the hardest press of faith. to us the journey is the most pleasant option --to hell with the outcomes. when we find ourselves struggling with the present, we know that if we look up and outward, we will find the present disintegrating and our future ahead of us once more. continued effort will only yield a difference. it is up to us to choose whether to press on, or to succomb to our own ineptitude and lack of vision.

to apply this to myself is my own personal challenge. the damage wrought in youth by ignorance and inattention to my health at times just kicks my ass. lupus is a disintegrating disease. i refuse to acknowledge the damage without a hefty dose of envisioning renewal. that philosophy is largely what has kept me going forward... and has kept me largely able to deal with this drug-free. the time may soon come when i will have to consider those options. i am searching for ways to continue to avoid them, and am presently considering a somewhat radical change in my activity pattern.
Age 26, 87 lbs. and hanging over the edge. Note the loose-fitting clothing trick.

so for now, more palatable to me than drugs is facing my propensity to overdo and undereat. for the past ten years i have avoided strenuous exercise because of the rush of adrenaline and appetite suppression that accompanies it. i know these are learned psychological reactions, not normal ones, but apparently these do not go away even after years of therapy and healthy eating. in past years whenever i have picked up ballet and modern dance exercise the weight always plummets. this was the trick i used in youth that kept me hovering between 88 and 93 lbs until i was over 30. and my doctors eventually convinced me that "you can kill yourself alot quicker by not eating than by overeating. you need to get used to what you consider fat --and embrace it." so i did, so that hopefully my children would still have a mother when they graduated from college. i haven't weighed myself in over a decade, since i threw away the scales. and my husband, the gourmet, assures that i eat wholesome, regular meals regularly, watching constantly for signs of avoidance like ribs and hip bones that look more like sticks and plowshares than the inner supports for a human being. with his help i have been able to survive and care for my children.

Precious moments

but i am heavier and softer than i can possibly stand --even with all the mental tricks I can utilize --or can reconcile even given my warped sense of what is and is not "fat," and i believe the stress on my legs and the circulation problems that are being exhibited must be aggravated by the extra weight and lack of muscle tone. ok, we are probably talking about less than 10 pounds here. to some that is laughable. but i am a tiny person, and the niggling suspicion driven by daily pain is, shouldn't i do something? and perhaps it isn't the weight so much as the tone. my arms feel like pudding, my legs are starting to look like my 75-year-old mother's --fine for her, untenable for me. surely a moderate amount of exercise, beyond the walking and stretching that i allow myself to do, would help. so the question now is, how to find middle ground? it is easier to understand how to solve the world's consumption problems than my own. i find i have no knowledge whatsoever of what constitutes middle ground in an exercise regimen. this is exacerbated by the fact that when i work out, i have no sense of time or stress. i am carried aloft by the chemicals my own body generates that are akin to a dose of methamphetamine for an addict. i know when that happens i will swallow it whole and press on until i can feel nothing but the light and air that surrounds me. and so it is only afterwards that i may realize i went too far, and by then the damage has been done. this happened so much in the past that i can ill afford to do any more damage, and so i stopped exercising, rather than collapse one day before my kids were grown and still needed me.
Dance class, 1983.

so my prayer today is for middle ground. i don't believe this is the answer for the earth --i believe that concerted effort toward conservation and cutting back on economic fortitude is the only thing that will stem the tide of environmental backlash. but i could be wrong... in that, too, the answer may be "everything in moderation," as it seems to be in my own life, and so often is the case. then again, the answer could be in the definition of what constitutes "middle ground." perhaps that might be found by looking at the earth overall --in which case, extreme measures should still be taken by the most developed countries, so that the overall result the world over is moderation, buffering, slowing down to a less dizzying pattern of growth, renewal, and faith in the future --reaching toward the light, yet never losing conscious contact with our feet upon the ground.