Staying Connected

Justine Musk, a novelist who blogs about the creative process, wrote this very helpful article recently about developing your creative process. When I find the words difficult to write, even thoughts difficult to form, images and music often get me going again, if I'll take the time to tap into them.

Then there are the times when I've creative thoughts aplenty, but no time to set them down. Sometimes I leave myself little notes, or record a memo in my cell phone in an attempt at capturing the impetus while it's fresh, hopefully to preserve it so that it may be applied later. Sometimes this works, other times the fragments mystify me.

Winter is a time when activity slows, when thoughts range over our personal histories, experiences, and we often feel compelled to examine wants and needs. Often these produce something wonderful which presses through the outlet of our mind onto paper or screen. When we capture something whole from within ourselves and share it with the world it is a re-affirmation of the whole experience of living, a reconnection of the mundane with the divine spice of creativity itself.

Enter your inner world with a candle lit against the dark, humming a tune you love, and watch the shadows lift as the prisms catch the beautiful wonder of your own mind. Be at peace, reflect, teach your soul to dance.

A Taste of Things to Come

No words. What do you say to this?

Tell you what. SAY nothing. DO SOMETHING.

JOIN an organization whose mission is to keep farming REAL.

BUY 5 pounds worth of UnCheese

SPREAD THE WORD. GO.

SUPPORT Real Agriculture. It's only your health at stake.

Thought for Today

A friend is someone who sees through you and still enjoys the view

~ Wilma Askinas

Take a look: Link to interview with Phoebe Dorin, who talks about her off-screen relationship with Michael Dunn. Had no idea of the interesting history and friendship between these two semi-famous partners in crime. Made me think; you will too.

21 Things I Learned from Lorelai Gilmore

1. There are very few pains that cannot be cured with a liberal application of Rocky Road ice cream, eyeliner, and martinis.
2. You can run from your troubles, but eventually you’ll run back. Otherwise you’ll never get over them.
3. Laughter is the best medicine.
4. Real love never ends.
5. Good things only get better. Sometimes this happens when you’re not looking.
6. Celebrate birthdays, weddings, and the life of your neighbor’s cat with the same warmth and enthusiasm.
7. The first snowfall of the season is a living, breathing, sacred thing. No matter when it happens, go outside and greet it with effusive joy.
8. Your first duty is to your children. Everything else can wait.
9. Even weirdo freaks have souls.
10. Coffee is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Beer runs a close second. Sorry, Ben.
11. Say you’re sorry as soon as you can, and mean it.
12. Wait. Time heals all wounds.
13. Show up. Look smashing.
14. Be yourself. No one else can pull it off.
15. Appreciate everyone, including obnoxious picky French men, gossipy busybodies, aging drama queens, control freaks with bad toupees, and grouchy hermits. If nothing else they keep life interesting and amusing, and sometimes they are exactly the right person for something very special.
16. Never underestimate the inexpressible importance of the perfect shoes, scarves, and handbags. Also, Hello Kitty. Pink sweaters with ruffles and flowers. Black mini skirts. Tulle. Skinny jeans. And pearls.
17. Movie nights are for eating, philosophy and social commentary. In that order.
18. Your first love will always be special. Your first real love even more so.
19. There are a lot of amazing female role models. After you’ve followed their example for awhile, be one.
20. Take others much more seriously than you take yourself.
21. Read. Often, or not. There’s a lot to be learned from books. But if you don’t read, surround yourself with people who do. Some of that wisdom will rub off.

Humility and a Secure Future

Reading "God Never Blinks." Regina Brett has so much to offer to a world down on its luck, seemingly running out of time, with so much to worry about. With plans scattered like so many specks of dust to places invisible, it's much too easy to forget our basis for faith, and how to reach out and hold on to what has kept us going in the past. Taking one more step forward sometimes feels too damned hard, and hardly worth it. After all, why wake up to one more day of struggle? Isn't it better to just roll over and hit the snooze button? "Forget about life for awhile"?

Why yes, actually. Sometimes that's exactly what we should do.



Life of Agony reminds us exactly what it's like to be worn out and in dire need of escape, maybe with a bit more of an edge than Billy Joel did, but the message is the same. Sometimes we do need to just get it all out in order to forget how bad it all is. And that's okay. But after that, there's something else that's the spiritual and emotional equivalent of clearing the air so we can breathe again.

It's called forgiveness.

Ms. Brett has a bumper sticker that says, "God Bless the Whole World. No Exceptions." She goes on to tell us "Forgive Everybody Everything." I can vouch for the goodness in that. There is nothing anyone's done to me that's worth the spiritual and emotional turmoil of holding a grudge. Nobody's worth eating up my liver over. Nobody gets to be that powerful over me and my life, and as far as I know, nobody really wants to be.

This is not to say nobody's mistreated me. Far from it. Like a lot of people, I'm one of the "walking wounded." But you know what? That just means I've learned a few things. It doesn't mean anyone owes me anything. That honor belongs to - you guessed it - just me.

For about five minutes, it does me good to get angry and rant and spout out all the venom and bile that some peoples' actions incite. But after that, it's good to just put all that away and move on, looking around to see the good things that are still surrounding my world and reminding me that it's never too late to put down that burden and step forward into the light. In fact, if I don't, it's just going to get heavier and heavier the longer I forget to do so.

"Forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past. At first that sounds harsh, but once you let go of what you wanted the past to be, you can start changing the present and create a better future," Ms. Brett writes in Lesson 28. Well, duh. Why didn't I figure that out already? Sometimes we need people to point out the obvious, so we can clear the smudges from our eyes and actually see what we're looking at. You can't move beyond something, or stop being a victim, until you stop calling yourself a loser, and take back your own power over situations. Forgive, and then forget. Choose life, and remove yourself from that pain. Put it down. Let it go.

Here's a gem of real value, and I'm putting it here where I'll remember to come back and read it from time to time:

Humility is perpetual quietness of heart.
It is to have no trouble.
It is never to be fretted or vexed, irritable or sore; to wonder at nothing that is done to me, to feel nothing done against me.
It is to be at rest when nobody praises me, and when I am blamed or despised, it is to have a blessed home in myself where I can go in and shut the door and kneel to my Father in secret and be at peace, as in a deep sea of calmness, when all around and about is seeming trouble.
--Dr. Bob, co-founder of AA and the Twelve-Step Program

Well then. Today is my lucky day. Yours, too! Go out there and forgive somebody. And then treat yourself to a big slice of that pie called Life. There's very little you can do that will more strongly ensure control of your own destiny. And what's more secure than that?

Traveling Light

I find myself sick of traveling, frankly. All I want to do now is curl up with a book, stare outside, look at the window, ponder a bit. Listen to loved ones, think about what they've said, listen some more. This is a major change from past propensities, which was to pick up and go at the merest wisp of a suggestion. Travel meant going beyond the place that I was, seeing new things as much as re-connecting with old ones.

Reading this piece at Salon brought this home recently. This is a wonderful article, well-crafted and superbly worded, the author has the grasp of language that slips into your mind easily. The second-person point of view is difficult to do well, but she does it with single-minded aplomb, leaving no question of her genius. It is taken from a larger work, Stranger Things Happen: Stories, and when I saw this I stopped reading long enough to add to my "To Read" list at Goodreads. It was that good. She was speaking to me, I was sure, or at least someone who had shared my experiences - we were kindred and I followed her down the rabbit-hole with faith that was quite blind. I was expecting a swirling, satisfying finish, where all is right in the end.

Silly me.

As I wrote to my sister when I sent her the article, dear Ms. Link had it right at the outset, she took you along a steep, winding and bloody difficult path, but surely she stopped just short of where the journey really reached its final destination. She knows the fairy-tale path so well! How could she have missed the whole point?

Read the article, mind you, before you travel further, or you're not going to believe me. You'll think I'm making this all up. And read this interview with Kelly Link by Laura Miller, Romance and Other Myths, which is right as rain throughout except for those needling little thrusts both of them make at the insanity that is "true love." Ms. Link and I share some similarities, we have both lived a "peripatetic life," but for pity's sake at some point we all have to settle down sometime. Maybe it's just the propensity of some people to joust at windmills, but it would be a sad world indeed for those of us who crave the warmth of quiet home fires to think that all this patient belief in love is all for naught. Phooey. Inside a voice whispers, "She missed the point."

Yet I still want to read her work, if only just for the repeated satisfaction of re-discovering that this belief in love is really just belief in myself. She's right, of course - the too-hard, misbegotten journey where you press on until your feet are cut to ribbons from all the miss-steps you've made is a bit much. When you get to the end of that trial how do you even know you're there? You're too busy picking glass out of your feet and re-applying eyeliner, wetting your lips, rehearsing what you're going to say so he doesn't get the wrong idea, and trying to remember where you left the keys. It's all drama at that point, and who has the energy for that?

So you clear the air and start over. Throw out the dirty dishes, add to the archaeological treasures in the backyard. Sweep up the shards from the broken mirror, apologize. Let a brief, beautiful memory or a shared glance make you smile. Back up, turn the wheel. Don't go down that path. Refresh your mind in shared laughter, challenge yourself to swallow pride over what was lost through ridiculous circumstances and look how simple things become once you've forgiven him. Forgiven yourself for being so blind and wicked.

There are two, no three, other fictional heroines, very different and yet similar enough to make the comparison in this instance, because their epiphanies are more - shall we say, agreeable. Theirs are stories I can relate to, be satisfied with, because these women and men forgave, and forgot, and in so doing reaped the benefits of what I believe is a more fulfilled existence, because it is shared. I don't have words to say just why this is, but it's true. No man is an island. No woman, either. Jane went back to Rochester. Elizabeth married Darcy. Luke and Lorelai figured it out in spite of everything. I know of a few real-life couples who did this, too. Sara and Richard. Gwen and Gavin. Joan and Robin, whose story in An Unfinished Marriage is remarkably simple, which makes it all the more interesting and applicable.

Truce. Because every day with your partner is practice for how you'll succeed in the real world, and how you treat those closest to you mirrors how you treat yourself.

Love is patient, love is kind. Love does not keep a record of wrongs. Love never ends. Faith, hope, and love - these three, but the greatest of these is Love.

Preserving Summer Harvest

Chutney is a delectable, spicy preserve-like concoction that is made to be served with slowly-roasted beef, chicken, or pork but is also delicious embedded in an omelet or folded into a piquant casserole. Best when the freshest ingredients are used at the height of their summer goodness, it takes time and patience to chop, peel, skin, and dice all the fruits and vegetables that go into it, but when savoring your own prudent industry over a leisurely wintry meal, there’s simply nothing better to recall to mind the warmth and goodness of long summer days.

Last August 23rd, dear husband and I managed to put up a very good batch of Peach Chutney that we adapted from a recipe in Linda Ferrari’s classic Canning and Preserving, and I took pictures intending to share the results with folks here at the blog. The local peaches and the peppers from the garden were especially plentiful - and juicy - last year. However, real life being what it is, I never got around to making the blog post. Some people may wonder why I’m bothering to do it now, but I’m of the mind that it really is never too late to recall and make a note of good things like this. Jason & I used to make Chutney a lot; in fact, one of our family jokes was to make this very British preparation in early July, and tongue-in-cheek to call it “Fourth of July Chutney,” ‘cause we’re awesome like that. But I digress.

Being in the kitchen is one of my favorite memories of life with this man, who is much more at home around the stove & countertop than I am. While at times it may have been a little awkward as we worked around each others’ idiosyncrasies (random grumbles and mutual harrumphs notwithstanding), as I look back over the years I feel a warmth rise in my chest remembering the way his hands moved, assuredly and with the skill of long practice, and the delectable meals he’s prepared. So - here ‘tis, a year late, but still kind of wonderful – and I’m not just talking about the tangible results. There’s something magical about working together and producing something fine that goes beyond the immediate; it’s a shared experience that underscores the importance of living in the moment while affirming that even when it’s a bit of a challenge, the future is an opportunity worth preserving. Try it with someone you love.


Peach Chutney

7 lbs. fresh peaches, blanched, skinned and chopped
1 large onion, minced
1 c. dried currants
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 large gingerroot, peeled and finely chopped
Several red, green, and yellow peppers, sliced, seeds removed, and minced
2 c. cider vinegar
2 c. brown sugar
½ c. granulated organic cane sugar
1 tsp. ground peppercorns
2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. whole cloves
½ tsp. ground mace
¾ tsp. ground allspice

Prepare fruit and vegetables carefully. Blend vinegar, sugars, lemon juice, zest, ginger root, and spices in a large heavy pot placed on the stove. Add peaches, onion, currants, and peppers. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring constantly, until slow boil is reached. Lower heat and simmer until thickened to correct consistency.

Ladle into hot, prepared jars, seal, and process for 10 minutes in a water bath. Cool for several hours or overnight and check for complete sealing of jars.

Makes approximately 7-8 pints. Store in a cool, dark place.

Yes Martinsville

I grew up on a beautiful, quiet street in small-town America. It's still small and quiet, but not in quite the same way. Thank goodness it's still beautiful, too.... but for how long is anybody's guess.

Two decades ago, Martinsville Virginia had DuPont, Bassett-Walker, Levi Strauss, Hooker Furniture, Bassett Furniture Industries, and many spin-off manufacturing and shipping firms that were interlaced and inter-dependent for supplies and labor.  Today the county in which Martinsville is located has one of the highest unemployment figures in America at over 20% (at one point it has reached as high as 43%).  The present major employers are listed here, and look at their tiny numbers, and also note the fact that most of them are government and very low-paying service industry jobs. This is horrifying considering Martinsville traditionally has pulled employees from three other counties including one in North Carolina.

The Virginia Museum of Natural History is located in Martinsville, which is an affiliate of the Smithsonian. New College and a significant military technology contractor are located there, but are struggling. There was never much of a housing industry because Martinsville & Henry County's population has remained flat for over two decades. Martinsville has received federal grants and millions in private money has poured in, as attempts to revitalize the economy through restructuring toward technology-based businesses, incentives, and very creative new enterprises have all failed to make a dent in the downward spiral that began in the early 1990s with the closure of Tultex Industries, closely followed by DuPont and the rest. The search for economic options has gone to the grassroots level, as unemployed citizens take their campaign to attract a Google pilot infrastructure project to the town to the Internet, in an attempt to gather support from people who used to live there. Politicians regularly visit the area as it's become the poster child for what's wrong with the economy. Small start-ups and Mom & Pop retailers, cafes, and small-scale service industries are the only game in town, and their turnover is staggering because no one has any money to spend.

Overall all of these efforts are failing to reverse the fact that the town is dying. Take a look. I hardly recognize my hometown in these images. The conclusion at the end of the article is sobering to say the least. The writer implies that as Martinsville has gone, so may the rest of America. I'm certain that's extreme, but it does serve to illustrate the acute changes the export of American manufacturing jobs overseas has brought to at least one community. We are fortunate that here in Sumter County we still have a manufacturing base that is higher than the average.

Link to the New Yorker Article - updated link
Thank you for your time in reading this and looking at the links and article. Please pass this on to whomever you think would be interested in this or could use a reminder of what we work every day to avoid.

ETA: A Martinsville City Councilman counters with some lovely images in this video. Enjoy!
ETA #2: Most of the links in this article have succumbed to time. Here is a link to the George Packer New Yorker article that mentions Martinsville. I'll try to update the links as they are found.

Yes Martinsville

I grew up on a beautiful, quiet street in small-town America. It's still small and quiet, but not in quite the same way. Thank goodness it's still beautiful, too.... but for how long is anybody's guess.

Two decades ago, Martinsville Virginia had DuPont, Bassett-Walker, Levi Strauss, Hooker Furniture, Bassett Furniture Industries, and many spin-off manufacturing and shipping firms that were interlaced and inter-dependent for supplies and labor.  Today the county in which Martinsville is located has one of the highest unemployment figures in America at over 20% (at one point it has reached as high as 43%).  The present major employers are listed here, and look at their tiny numbers, and also note the fact that most of them are government and very low-paying service industry jobs. This is horrifying considering Martinsville traditionally has pulled employees from three other counties including one in North Carolina.

The Virginia Museum of Natural History is located in Martinsville, which is an affiliate of the Smithsonian. New College and a significant military technology contractor are located there, but are struggling. There was never much of a housing industry because Martinsville & Henry County's population has remained flat for over two decades. Martinsville has received federal grants and millions in private money has poured in, as attempts to revitalize the economy through restructuring toward technology-based businesses, incentives, and very creative new enterprises have all failed to make a dent in the downward spiral that began in the early 1990s with the closure of Tultex Industries, closely followed by DuPont and the rest. The search for economic options has gone to the grassroots level, as unemployed citizens take their campaign to attract a Google pilot infrastructure project to the town to the Internet, in an attempt to gather support from people who used to live there. Politicians regularly visit the area as it's become the poster child for what's wrong with the economy. Small start-ups and Mom & Pop retailers, cafes, and small-scale service industries are the only game in town, and their turnover is staggering because no one has any money to spend.

Overall all of these efforts are failing to reverse the fact that the town is dying. Take a look. I hardly recognize my hometown in these images. The conclusion at the end of the article is sobering to say the least. The writer implies that as Martinsville has gone, so may the rest of America. I'm certain that's extreme, but it does serve to illustrate the acute changes the export of American manufacturing jobs overseas has brought to at least one community. We are fortunate that here in Sumter County we still have a manufacturing base that is higher than the average.

Link to the New Yorker Article - updated link
Another interesting viewpoint comparing the town of Mt Airy and Martinsville
Thank you for your time in reading this and looking at the links and article. Please pass this on to whomever you think would be interested in this or could use a reminder of what we work every day to avoid.

ETA: A Martinsville City Councilman counters with some lovely images in this video. Enjoy!
ETA #2: Most of the links in this article have succumbed to time. Here is a link to the George Packer New Yorker article that mentions Martinsville. I'll try to update the links as they are found.

"That Day is Coming"

Awhile back I found this article fascinating and thought-provoking. It doesn't actually even have a title, but it attends to the subject of out-or-not-out gay actors with sobering insight.

Gay Actors in the Film Industry - A History Lesson

After you've read that, hop on over to the LA Weekly News and read this amazing interview and article with Hollywood publicist Howard Bragman, who assists gay performers who want to come out to do so in a sane and effective way.

The Secret Lives of Queer Leading Men

Quote from the article:
The publicist hasn’t brought out an A-list, gay male actor — yet. But Bragman says that day is coming, and after the first superstar decides to reveal himself, a fundamental shift in American acceptance of gay leading men may not be far behind. He’s currently working with a famous musician who’s still closeted from the public, but who will come out next year. And the manager of one major movie star approached Bragman a year ago and asked about his client’s possibly going public, but the actor still refuses to pull the trigger.

“I felt a little frustrated with that superstar,” Bragman says in reflection, “because it had to be ‘handled.’ ”

I have a lot to think about these days. Seriously, there has to be a way to engender support for honesty. There just has to.

I hope you all are well and happy out there. Think about this with me, won't you?

The Fox Goes Out on a Chilly Night

Polanski freed from jail.

Not to clutter up the internet with more words when others have said it better, just want to say I agree with this post, and the subsequent comments are worthwhile reading.



Pic links to Awards Daily's list of signatories and mentions ONTD's impertinent discussion. Image ganked from here, also worthwhile reading.

The Fox
The fox went out on a chilly night
and he prayed for the moon to give him light
For he'd many a mile to go that night
Before he reached the town-o
Source: traditional

No one, in the song, really cared about the chickens, because the hungry pups were so cute. And everyone knows that predators survive on victims, it's the way of the world, the natural order of things. Circle of life, all that.

And everyone feels for the fox who got away, and goes to ground with his prize unpunished, even celebrated for this accomplishment. He lives to steal another day. I guess it's really no wonder some idiots out there confuse this with the basic value of art, or something.

There is, of course, a difference.

The fox steals food in order to survive. Roman Polanski steals innocence and dignity for his own self-gratification. Steals? Yes, steals. Present tense. He's stealing it as we speak, because everyone who reads and understands the root of this story and then looks at his smugly unapologetic face will come away from the experience a little smaller, a little less hopeful, maybe even a little more desperate. It makes us feel sick to know how the system failed here. To say nothing of the victims of his past, who every day have to pick up and go on without the innocence and dignity that he tore out of them to satisfy a manipulative desire for erotic power.

Ugh. Spare us from those artists who would seek to paint this with an equally manipulative and selfish brush, and who thus share equally in stripping humanity of its innocence and dignity. This leaves us all as the children of Dickens, Ignorance and Want, with the same certainty of ultimate emptiness... which, in effect, robs us of the Art, as well. As we watch this year's latest incarnation of A Christmas Carol, we might be thinking about that.

SustainFloyd next Weekend

We visited Floyd last month and really can't wait to go back again.

From friend Fred's blog:

After a successful assembly at the foot of Buffalo Mountain for a drizzly-foggy October 10th “350 climate action”, SustainFloyd now looks ahead to the first community festival of its kind in the county, the SplitRail Eco-Fair, to celebrate ecologically-sustainable aspects of agriculture, arts, commerce, education and life together in vibrant community in a changing world.fragmentsfromfloyd.com, Fragments From Floyd, Oct 2009
Read the rest here

YouTube video of Buffalo Mountain assembly

Really wish I could go, but probably won't make it. It's a rather busy time for me right now - but my heart is there, and I have high hopes for a great weekend for those who can!

Because We Do

The last thing Sam said to his brother Dean at the end of last night's episode (5.04) was, "Because we don't have a choice." But the line that was silently transmitted through the look Dean returned to him was, "No, Sam. It's because we do."

Sam and Dean's journey is all about choice.

Free will sustains the human condition. To succomb to the temptation of blindly following rules imposed by others in order to feel safe, in the right, or morally superior is to give in to the power rush that enables people to do horrific things to one another.

To protect from those who have given in to that temptation is the free choice of those who would seek to also protect the right to choose for all mankind. And that is the sustainable lesson here.



This season is difficult to say the very least. It's the end of the journey, the downhill run. We know where they're going, what we aren't certain is all the twists and turns it will take to get there. But if where we've been with the Winchesters is anything to go on, they're not going without me. I'm so there, hanging on with all my might.

Amen, and even so come.

Check out my friend Marla's excellent Supernatural episode 5.04 recap post at Eclipse Magazine

Rearview Mirror

Well, chickas. It seems that the long and lonely road traveled by the Winchester boys is about to come full circle - again.

I've read with some amusement (a very few of) the proliferation of squee-filled posts and reviews for this past episode, 5.03 Free to Be You and Me chanting the song of the angel - you know, that walking dead thing filled with the spectre of some holier-than-thou ghost.

Good God, Y'all. This is so missing the point. Sorry to break it to some of you, but he's just a vessel. And really, BuddyTV? REALLY? What show have you been watching if you didn't see that coming back - oh, I dunno, halfway thru Season One? Jeebus. If you're looking for a review of this third episode in the fifth season of the greatest show on television that isn't really about website hits and places the side characters firmly in their places, on the sidelines, you've come to the right place.

This, as I really don't have to remind most of you out there, is a show about Sam and Dean.

Firstly, how quickly they forget. There's dearest faithful Bobby, who is literally sidelined for the foreseeable future, having given his body for his son - because family don't end with blood, boy. No, I'm not saying Bobby is really Dean's long-lost Papa. It's just a reference, just a reminder, that in this War that began at the inception of humanity there will always be sacrifices, some of which are very hard to live with because they happen to those closest to us, sometimes to people we don't know how we'll go on without. It's good to see that Bobby hasn't lost his spark, though, and I look forward to seeing him continue to give guidance and even kick Sam and Dean's asses from a vantage point that could actually offer him the chance to see, hear, and maybe even do things that he may have missed from his former standing position. No, really. Watch and see.


Secondly, this loser!Angel. You do realize, that the only reason he's here is to offer some back-up to the boys, and give Jensen & Jared a chance to take a much-needed rest from being two leads in an extremely action-packed, intense fantasy drama. The guys are otherwise going to be completely worn out before their time.

Hmm. I'm sorry he's so annoying, Dean. But is it him or the fact that you'd really rather be doing this by yourself? Yeah, I thought so.

Think of Castiel as a piece of useful furniture. You don't really bond with the furniture. He's provided them with knowledge and cool skeletal tattoos but don't for a second think it's not for his own purposes. He's just as confused as anyone else who can't see both sides of an issue. And don't forget that Dean still has yet to find out just who it was who freed Sam from Bobby's panic room to go kill Lilith and thence allow Lucifer to rise. I really can't wait for when that happens.

But Dean and Sam have parted for the time being, and it's a conscious, deliberate break-up. The brothers had to do this in order to find their way back together. It's in the normal realm of deeply bonded relationships. Dean and Sam need to find out just who each of them is, exactly, and it's much like when Sam went off to Stanford. They were apart for over 2 1/2 years according to the rumors. Think how much each of them grew into his own during that time.

Think how much that's happened in just one episode.



O hai thur, WIAWSNB scene with Sam-as-Dean. Again.

Which brings me to each of them individually: I'll take Sam first. Because UNF. Jesus Padalecki knocked it out of the park, didn't he? From tearful recognition of not!Jess with his still-curious doubt of her mission tinged with genuine love and regret to gutsy, dirty grappling with two desperate hunters from his own side of the team (you know, the confused side), Jared played the gamut of emotional scale with perfection. If anyone is left who thinks this actor can't play just about any type of role he's given, please just watch this episode. Jared has come into his own, and I won't lessen his accomplishment by tangentially referencing his co-star here. Jared makes Sam a living, breathing soul.

And tell me you didn't stand up and cheer when he spat out the demon blood force-fed to him by the two hunters. If you didn't, go back and watch it again. And don't miss the point this time.

See there? The end of 4.20 The Rapture, re-visited. Only he won this time.

This moment was an epiphany for Sam. It is analogous to the one Dean had in 3.10 Dream a Little Dream of Me, when he angrily acknowledges in his fight with himself that the load his father put on him in forcing him to raise his brother and deny so many of his own emotional needs was more than any kid should have had to bear.

It was humanity, rising from the apocalypse.

No, he didn't need the feather to fly. But the seeds of doubt that were planted in him from the moment he knew he'd been fed demon blood as an infant had fertile soil in which to take root, made lush and rich after Ruby's betrayal. Sam didn't know what the blood would do to him. He only knew he wanted it out of him. His body, his choice. In flinging what was forced on him away and acting to defend the innocent Lindsay, Sam was reclaiming his actual birthright as a fully formed human being. Not devil spawn, not his mother's heartbreak, his brother's responsibility, or his daddy's failure.


Hey there, it's Sam's bleeding heart shirt again. That's a clue.

Now Dean. It's easy to miss the boat completely on Dean in this episode. Before I go too far with this analysis, though, let's examine the function of the two angels we saw here: Raphael and Castiel.

Ostensibly, they are brothers (Cas refers to all angels as his brothers, remember), if not in actuality, certainly in past relationships - both fighting for the same team, formerly trusting each other and working together. Quickly, because I'm sure most of you missed it: Raphael, the seemingly stronger angel, killed his brother Castiel, who rose again and came after him because Raph had information Cas wanted, namely the location of God. Or so Cas believed. Ah, because we believe... but I digress (if only slightly).

This would be a roach motel for angels. What else do you think is going on here?

When Cas and Dean trap Raphael, question him and then leave him in the ring of fire, please God - tell me you did not miss the oh-so-very-obvious replaying of the entire scene in Bloodlust where Sam and Dean leave Gordon in the abandoned cabin to stew in his own juice for awhile, and consider the results of his actions. Helloooo, show hit you over the head that it was coming, weren't you watching?



If you did miss it, please go watch episode 2.03 again. Because you're going to miss other things that are coming up soon and then you're going to be completely b'zuhed after that. I saw some pretty out-of-touch analysis of that scene because people missed that. Hi, the dialogue in parts is almost word-for-word. I suppose I should say it again: Show tells, and then it tells us again, and then it tells us it told us, and then it tells us it told us AGAIN. Sheesh.

Hokay. Where was I? Oh, the telling us it told us already. I saw people missed the point of Raphael's "Waaaah! I'm so tired!" soliloquy, too. Okay, maybe you need to watch the entire second season again. RAPHAEL = DEAN. CASTIEL = SAM. In this particular instance. Don't hold that as gospel as we go forward in the season, because if Sam and Dean can play each other and trade places, you know damn well the angels can do the same thing, too.


But back to Dean. I save him for last because this really wasn't his episode, but he is my favorite. I love Sam with the burning passion of a thousand lustful gods, but Dean is - well, I can't describe my love for Dean so that's how I know it's a leetle bit stronger. But right now? Dean needs that serious beat-down he promised Sam in 4.22. Only, he's not gonna get it until he faces his worst demons (again): his own self. That's in an upcoming episode, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. Dean had an epiphany, too, this time. It was perhaps a bit more obvious than Sam's, but it was pretty damn significant.



Again, Castiel was only a part of the furniture here. He was the vessel, the catalyst for Dean to realize something. When show faked you out and made you think it was forgetting its own canon (because please god Kripke, you didn't really forget that angels don't have sex, did you? Clearly you did not. Ahaha.) and Dean takes Castiel to the brothel (because Dean knows the lat-longs for those things in absolutely every state in the Union, duh) the whole point of that was, to get Dean over himself. While Jensen's half-hearted attempt at a belly laugh as the two characters exited the brothel after Cas totally creeps that poor girl rtf out sounded more like bad gas than an honest exclamation of utter amusement, I choose to think it's more because it's physically been so damn long since Dean did laugh, like he claims. He's rusty. But that amazed chuckle was the sign that something had cracked open inside our intrepid warrior, Dean Winchester. It was the sound of the butterfly leaving his chrysalis.


At that moment, Dean sat up, stretched his emotional wings, and flew free of the responsibility he had carried since the age of four: that of taking care of Sam. From here on, Dean is living his own life, free of that emotional baggage. He finally recognized that he's an individual, and it's not so damn bad to live on your own and take care of yourself. Bravo, Dean. Good job.


Yeah, I know what you're thinking. And you'd be right. It's not the same. But it's not time yet. The river of Sam and Dean is an oxbow right now. Be patient. All rivers straighten out eventually.

So. To recap: In this episode Free to Be You and Me, what did that mean, exactly? Sam accepted his loss and reclaimed his humanity, and Dean learned and accepted the fact that he is an individual. Dean hunting with a disadvantaged idiot savant who blurts intelligences at odd moments and can't button his own collar may feed the fantasies of a certain set of unenlightened minions but it doesn't mean Dean has replaced Sam. In fact, it's quite obvious that Dean's only way of having fun with Castiel is to either make fun of him with obscure pop-culture references or by putting him in impossible situations (where our Sam, btw, would have been right at home). When Cas is in the room, it's easy to ignore him by looking at something far more interesting - like the ceiling, the floor, or the walls. You can listen to what he says as he parrots things past characters or one of the boys has said to each other, you can thank him for his obscure skeletal talisman-tattoos. He's semi-useful like that. But don't be looking for him to replace brother for brother.

In this universe, only what is real stands the remotest chance of survival.


Don't be looking for any of this to happen, either. Much as it may be fun to think about. And really nice job, Mark Pelligrino. I approve of this casting.

Screencaps by Marishna


Useful links:
SupernaturalWiki page for this episode
All Supernatural episodes are available for download at Amazon - Checkit! No watermarks, and in HD, too!
Previous metas at susannaheanes' LJ

Carry On

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely...” --Emerson

Open House, by Elizabeth Berg

Open House by Elizabeth Berg
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I liked it. I felt brave for picking it up, bringing it home, because my husband had just told me he wanted a divorce, and the central character of the book is going through a similarly served entree, and I just felt like I wanted to see what it would be like when someone you really love leaves you. Live it vicariously, see if I was brave enough. Because I was seriously considering jumping off a bridge, and I wanted to see how someone might go through it and actually come out on the other side.Mind you, if hubby hadn't said it, I probably would not have picked up this book. But he did, and I felt woefully unarmed, unable, unwilling to go through all that. So I read the book.I loved the characters, with all their flaws that are not too cliche, too predictable. I love that she made some difficult decisions, fell flat on her face, picked herself up again, tried harder.I love that the person she falls in love with about 3/4 of the way through this book is not perfect.I love that she refuses to be alone as much as possible, by renting her home to a wonderful diversity of human beings, and that when she must be alone, she cries and lives through it. I needed that grounding, that soulful peace.This book is probably not for everyone. This weekend, my husband said he was sorry, that he took it back - and it wasn't too late; I only lived for five days with this grief and worry.Long enough to read this book, and to know that it is not a human failing to want more. And that life is a river, that we all want the same things: to be wanted, to reflect on things and find understanding in another person.

View all my reviews

Creative Minds

Hai guise.

I'm posting here - for a change - because what I have to say fits more in line with what I'd originally set up this blog in order to do: comment on the state of the world at large, and maybe social, geographical, economic and environmental things specifically.

I was asked this morning by my boss to read an article by Richard Florida (The Rise of the Creative Class), published in The Atlantic, entitled, "How the Crash will Reshape America." Our little town of Sumter, SC is participating in Earth Day's "Spotlight Conversations," which is kind of a big deal.

As I read, I found my lips curling as I imagined Jim Kunstler's reaction to the article. Seriously, I wanna toss those two in a room and just listen to what happens. It could be kind of explosively awesome.

Even more awesome would be if Osha Davidson chimed in and gave his 45 cents worth.

hee.

NEW SPN TONITE. At some point I really still need to write that blog post about how the Impala is awesome and may actually save the Universe. No, really.

Also - I never blogged about election day in Horatio, South Carolina. I really am fail.

Learn. Remember. Pass it On.

THE ULTIMATE SILENCE
October 12, 1998



Listen to the mustn'ts, child.
Listen to the don'ts.
Listen to the shouldn'ts,
The impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never haves,
Then listen close to me ...
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.

~ Shel Silverstein

Ten years ago, Matthew Shepard was murdered for being homosexual.

What will you do to end the silence?

Click here to post this on your own page or weblog

the plural of impetus

...is supposedly "impetuses." this sounds ungracious to me; not something a southern lady would say in public. but i digress.

Development in Flood Plains Continued after '93 Floods

I just have to underscore the stupidity of purchasing property in - or even near - flood plains, and am very sorry to actually have to say it. People seem to think that it's perfectly fine "because the government approved it," or something equally ignorant. No one realizes - or acknowledges - the fact that the government approves whatever developers (aka private property owners) ask them to approve. It is anyone's god-given right to develop privately-owned property in the United States. Meaning, that line on the map? Actually means nothing. FEMA cannot keep up with how quickly it moves. Picture a sponge, representing the ground, and a massive steel plate being pushed down in the middle of it, representing development (which, for you unimaginative ones and non-scientists, means increased impervious surface. I'm sorry - that would be a big word. It means paving and rooftops where rain cannot percolate into the ground). Water can't seep thru the steel plate. Therefore, what does it do?

Maybe you smart ones might try this experiment at home. Maybe the light will go on. This should not take a degree in hydrology to figure out.

Somehow, however, I doubt it will seep in for most of you, if you pardon the pun. People are just too dense where their land investments are concerned, especially if the particular investment in question represents HOME. But this is why I don't listen to the reports of distressed, displaced property owners any more. I do, however, have a high measure of condolence for those people who purchased their property well out of a flood plain 30 or more years ago, and now find themselves being flooded out because of increased development around them. If you're one of those people? I'm right beside you, loading up my word-cannon, wanting to blast the living daylights out of those greedy-assed creeps. Yeah.

Sorry, I'm a conservationist and a rebel at heart. And I like to shoot things that need shooting. Sometimes shooting relieves the stress that built up over a decade and a half of trying to convince people that building there wouldn't work out in the long run. I talked myself blue in the face, and people laughed and said, "You're crazy."

So yeah - I'm laughing now.

You property owners who purchased property in the past five or ten years or so, thinking you had all the rights in the world to go on imagining that you were safe or the government would protect you because your property was approved? And bitched and complained because the locality or bank made you purchase flood insurance, and the stupid government employee that you hounded down at the building permit office actually did his or her job and refused to write the letter you requested so you could save a measly few hundred dollars a year on your homeowners insurance? Hey, FUCK YOU. I'm fiddling while your proverbial property rights get washed out to sea, baby. Hahahahahahahahaha.

If I had a dollar for every individual who stormed out of my office because I refused to write that letter, lying so that they could close on their house by noon that day, I'd be able to take a vacation in Cancun on the savings. But I don't. Not that I wasn't offered all manner of return favors, and plied with everything from lottery tickets to free lunches to write that letter.

FEMA is not the bad guy. But you government-reform assholes have certaily ensured it is pretty much unable to do the job it was formed to do: Protect property values, water quality, and habitat. You idiots whittled away at government regulation until it is no more than a dancing puppet, unable to do anything but be an ineffective shadow tracing the lines of its original purpose. Don't whine to me, Argentina. You made your bed by insisting we allow you to develop that property to its "highest and best use," god DAMN that term, so now you get to lie down in it, and splash around with the ducks.

The only thing FEMA actually does anyway is approve your ability to purchase government-subsidized flood insurance should you be stupid enough to purchase property in a mapped flood-prone area. FEMA cannot prevent you from building there... they shove that responsibility off to the states, who in turn shove it off onto the localities, who blithely ignore it. It's actually illegal under federal law for participants in the National Flood Insurance program to issue building permits in certain flood-prone areas, for all kinds of excellent reasons that ensure property rights in the long run are preserved. But the administrative wherewithall for ensuring that gets enforced is placed with individuals who have a vested interest in seeing that it is NOT enforced: Tax Assessors and County Administrators, whose directive from the people who hired them (politicians) is: INCREASE THE TAX BASE AND TO HELL WITH GOVERNMENT REGULATIONS.

Who in their right mind thinks about the long run? People are human. The long run means nothing, except when it becomes the short run.

So no, I really, really don't even care about all the millions of dollars worth of property damage out there. You get the government you deserve; your karma, baby. As a geographer, I find it unbelievable that people can't see that water coming years before it gets there. As a person raised under the ideals of common sense, I still can't believe it.

You don't have to be a geographer to understand that when you cover the ground with buildings, pavement, and roads - the water can't seep into the ground. It collects in the low places. And the more you cover the ground, the fewer places it has to collect. It fills the low places, and then creeps up to less low places. Soon, what used to not be designated "flood zone," eventually qualifies, baby. It gets Wet. THIS IS COMMON SENSE.

Or, you could look at it this way: God is Punishing You for Your Ignorant Stupidity. The End is Near. The Apocalypse is Imminent.

I love how these people are always the same mouths who yammered for me to approve their goddamned flood-prone building lots. As if Christianity itself depended upon their getting that return on their investment.

Heh.

Either way you look at it - apocalypse or science, Shit Happens. We can't go on deranging drainage systems and drying up habitat and paving over flood plain and think God Won't Get Pissed Off Eventually. Or the earth will eventually take back what is hers.

Here's some bottom-line advice: Don't Build There. Buy a park bench and sit on it and enjoy the sunset. Bring your fishing rod, and a cooler of beers. Pitch a goddamned tent. But DON'T BUILD A HOUSE. A few localities that participate in the National Flood Insurance Program do actually refuse building permits for structures that meet certain criteria in mapped flood-prone areas. The reason I say "a few" is because out of the multiplicity of localities and regional governments that I personally have experience working for and/or with across the southern US, most administrators 1) do not understand the requirements for participation and 2) do not give a flying flip about them. Tax assessors routinely push to have building permits issued wherever and whenever they are requested, in order to increase the value of property, in order that taxes may be collected.

I really, really look forward to this day. Except a part of me doesn't actually believe it will happen. Soothsayers Rule #1: The future will be like nothing you have imagined, but when you get there, you will realize it is exactly what you expected.

Prometheans hate spelling things out. But apparently, you asked for it. And I have no doubt, will continue ignoring it. And humanity will survive, in spite of our angst.

Or not.

Blithe Cassandra, that would be me. I've done my duty in warning you, now I'll go back to what I prefer to do with my free time, which is sitting up here in my 18th century house high above the flood plain, writing porn about Jensen Ackles.

La,
S

i can hear: The Black Crowes, Wiser Time
it's my party & i'm: in your face
lost or found: down by the river
stats: sunny & breezy with a touch of headache

Interview with the Bishop

Church Times has unlocked this previously locked interview with Gene Robinson, the openly gay Episcopal bishop for the Diocese of New Hampshire.

I found it interesting and provocative. I've long thought it was a shame the issues had to come to this juncture. I encourage you to read, and ponder. Most importantly, he says to please keep communication lines open. That is the material point.

Earth Day 2008

Image source unknown
Do what you can. Live as you must. Be the Beacon.

"The Star Thrower," A Sermon, The Very Rev. Samuel T. Lloyd III, National Cathedral, Spotlight on Global Warming 2006

Here are a few links to peeps on my sidebar who are doin' it right, or at least doing their best:

Resources:
Awakening Earth: Voluntary Simplicity
Blackle: A Black Google
Chick in the Country
Eat Wild! Your source for Local Grass-fed Foods
James Howard Kunstler
Leonardo di Caprio's Eco Site
Osha Gray Davidson
The Sustainable Communities Network
Treehugger
Urban Agrarian


Passions, Causes, Crusades:
Compassion in World Farming
Congaree Land Trust

Measure your ecological impact at www.conservation.org/ecofootprint!
Earthjustice
Earthskills
Environmental Defense
Environmental Law Institute
International Conservation Caucus Foundation
The Land Institute's Prairie Writer's Circle
Local Harvest
Southern Environmental Law Center
STOP Factory Farming
The Trust for Public Land
Valley Conservation Council


Blogs of Note:
Fragments from Floyd
Method: People Against Dirty
Mossback Meadow
Nature: The Wildlife Blog
Near Sea Naturals Blog
No Impact Man
Working for Change: Working Assets blog

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