Remember me?

Yep, still here even though I have been woefully absent lately. I have been in a cold weather winter funk, wallowing in my at least quarter-annual existential, I-hate-my-job, what-in-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life crisis. Which, as with any life crisis, entails the serious consideration of drastic consequences. Last time I had one that lasted for about 8 months and, among other things, I seriously considered joining the Peace Corps or quitting my job and taking the vacation payout to travel cross-country with absolutely no thought of tomorrow. In reality, I ended up moving back home to the Shore. See? Drastic.

This time I was considering an organic farm internship. Meaning 40 - 50 hours of hard, physical labor a week for 6 months in exchange for housing, free vegetables and a monthly stipend of $400 - $600. I mean, I’ve considered those before as a future thing, seriously, because Papi and I want a farm someday. “Someday” meaning within the next ten years because we’re now both officially Over Thirty and I swear my body is beginning its downward spiral into decrepitude already. My biological clock is ticking not for babies, but for goats and sheep and basil and arugula and tomatoes and sunflowers and horses. Anyway, firsthand experience like that, while harsh, is the only way to learn what it is really like and to cut the learning curve.

But, you see, while I purposefully have few attachments like a mortgage or furniture, I do still have one significant ball and chain, a gleefully snarky and imperious devil named Credit Card Debt which grew big and strong from substantial nutritious helpings of dissatisfaction, misdirection and lack of discipline. Another story for another time. But suffice it to say, Mr. CCD does not make it easy to quit a job with good pay (albeit only 24 hours a week) and good health insurance, to go to one with virtually no pay, no benefits and the ominous dark cloud of having to immediately find another job on the Eastern Shore of Virginia in November when I came back. As you might guess, in the ruralness here, that ain’t like talkin’ about it.

I’m still reeling, but I think I’m emerging from this episode for now. The warm weather has helped. As did some good news and planning this year’s garden with Papi.

Recent highlights:

1. Yay me! I won a third place Virginia Press Award for my article in the local paper, “Hispanic Soccer League Struggles to Find a Home.” The category? Sports News Writing. Which is so ironic. That article was the only remotely sports-type thing I ever wrote. I am not a sports fan. I know nothing about soccer except that it is called fútbol in Spanish and involves a black and white spotted ball. I have never even seen a game.

The other things I wrote for the News that I was especially proud of—a Valentine’s story about a long-married couple in a nursing home, a Black History month article about an historic Rosenwald (African-American) school in Cape Charles that I wish would be restored, and an article about the local literacy council featuring a 70-year-old great-grandmother who is finally learning how to read so she can participate in church bible study—nothing. Nada. Notice the theme? All very touchy-feely human interest. That’s me. And that’s what I actually set out to write about with the soccer league, but after interviewing a few people it became obvious there was a different story there.

Anyway, I’m thrilled. And I was proud of the soccer story too, but I still can’t help but go “Wha?”

2. The removal of the navel ring that I got nearly 6 years ago and which never healed properly. Or at all. I decided that it was blocking the energy in my third chakra, the solar plexus, the center of personal power and finding one’s unique gifts, fully being who you were meant to be. So now I'm unleashed. Watch out.

3. The best Valentine’s Day ever in which I was surprised with roses and a sweet card containing a long, handwritten declaration of true love. Because, even if I don’t like to make a big deal out of mandated holidays, it’ s always nice to receive unexpected gifts, especially personal, heartfelt ones.

4. The Great Garden Planning Session in which sketches were made. Oh, we have big plans. Big. Larger space, companion planting, new pest management strategies, instructions for how to make manure tea fertilizer. Yes, indeedy. Big plans. Even though, due to a major car repair, I cannot afford to buy seeds until late March.

Sunflowers, tomatoes, basil, Papi and whimsical friend in The Garden, early August, 2006. This year, bigger and more diverse!

Things I love about February

I promise that this will be more positive than my post about January. Although its hard, because it's really. really. cold. And I hate cold. But that's all I'm gonna say about that. Ahem.

Things I love about February.

1.) The air is so crisp that the stars look even brighter than usual, and I always gaze skyward when I take Abby out at night.

2.) My favorite constellation, Orion, is always right there, easy to spot. This is why he is my favorite constellation.

3.) That's all I can do, or I'll start to get negative again.

4.) If we had a fireplace and a clawfoot tub, I could list two more things. But we don't. So I can't.

5.) Valentine's Day is missing on purpose Sarah and Lindsey. Yes, I now have a reason to celebrate it. Every single day. So it doesn't count.

Anyone else?

The Bun-Buns are coming

It was cool this morning but not unbearably frigid since the wind wasn't blowing. Still, I was bundled up for our morning constitutional, wearing my long wool coat, hood pulled tight around my ears and neck. Abby, coatless, was alert. The crisp air makes her frisky.

She's even more beautiful when she's in hunting dog mode. She's a full-blooded English Setter, but a pampered princess of a dog who has never heard a gunshot in the field. (The latter is a significant distinction. When we lived in inner-city Richmond we heard far too many gunshots, especially on July 4 and New Year's Eve when the morons would shoot in the air at midnight.)

Abby innately knows how to point and has been doing it since she was a puppy. Once prey is spotted (bird, rabbit or favorite toy), she instantly snaps into "the zone." Tail up, nose out, paw raised, she stands perfectly still except for a twitching nose. Her eyes are locked on her target, but with heavy drooping lids that paradoxically make her appear intensely stoned. It is possible to steal her gaze, perhaps by waving one's arms madly, but only for a breath. The big brown eyeballs give you, the flailing freak, a sideways glace, but you are not a small defenseless creature, and therefore of no consequence to her now. They click back into place. Slowly, methodically, she begins to creep forward. One carefully placed paw after another in an exaggerated tip-toe. Once locked into "the zone" she will not waver until either she, or her prey, makes a run for it.

This is the best illustration of "the zone" that I have on camera, although it is not a true point. But she is definitely in a staring contest.

English Setters are technically bird dogs, but Abby is not that particular, and in fact, birds are probably on the bottom of her list. She seems to prefer things that will freeze when they spot her and engage with her in a staring contest. Bunnies, squirrels, cats--they're all fair game, although the only thing she's ever caught was a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.

This morning, because she was feeling so energetic, we walked out into a nearby field for a change of pace. She was zigzagging on the leash in front of me, nose never leaving the ground. She had just settled into the hunched squat of her business when an adult eastern cottontail rabbit took off not two feet in front of her nose. Neither of us had seen it sitting there and it scared the pea-waddin' out of both of us. (Luckily, Abby was already in position.) Even though she was caught off guard, she still tried to give chase. But caught mid-poo as she was, it turned out to be more of an undignified pivoting stumble and she was left, frustrated, staring intently and wistfully, in the rabbit's dust.

Which completely cracked me up. Until I thought about it. We were blissfully rabbit-free in 2006, our first year on the property and our first year gardening. However, we have much bigger plans for the garden this year and they definitely don't include greenery-munching bun-buns. Apparently those big plans will now have to expand to include a fence.

The "protein pill" of the animal kingdom according to VADGIF which says that

"they are perhaps the most heavily preyed upon game species in Virginia.

In most years, 80% or more of adult cottontails are killed." But not by Abbycadabra.

Lost in Translation, the Spanish version

Even before I met Papi, I wanted to learn Spanish. French is really my first love, but since I am not living in a cosmopolitan city, and won’t be moving to Paris anytime soon, I figured that with Spanish at least I’d have more opportunities to actually use it. And then I met Papi and it seemed perfectly serendipitous.

Unfortunately, I am not particularly disciplined in my study habits. So I decided to practice something a French-speaking native Romanian former pen-pal called “voluntary immersion,” whereby one chooses Spanish over English whenever the former language is available. For instance, I listen to Spanish music (Ojos de Brujo is a particular favorite) and practice “active listening” whenever Papi’s on the phone (strictly to learn, I assure you).

Also, I changed the language on our answering machine and now happily trill along when our message mami announces that our mensaje is “borrrrrrrrrrrado.” Really, it’s only spelled with 2 r’s—the extra ones are for emphasis and to provide a more accurate representation of my need to dramatically exaggerate the trill in order to do it which makes me feel rather like a transvestite drag queen diva. Je, je, je ! (That’s the Spanish spelling of light-hearted laughter.)

I am pretending that this will bring me fluency through osmosis. At any rate, it can’t hurt and I am picking up a few words here and there. Like on my cell phone where, from the first screen, I can choose to view either the Menú or Contactos. It makes me feel smart and worldly.

The non-English speaking members of Papi’s family (which would be ALL OF THEM except for his sister and brother-in-law) have been very encouraging of my efforts. His father and cousin in Cuba are now my pen-pals and answering the phone with a mostly non-English speaking mother-in-law on the other end forces one to try and use the language. In phone conversations and during our December trip to Florida, she and her friends would giggle delightedly as if at a precocious two-year-old whenever I surprised them with something beyond “Como estas?”

But, as I have mentioned, I have some difficulty processing information received aurally. I am terrible with names and new words in general until I write them down. Once I have seen them, and can picture them in my mind, then and only then do they have a chance of sticking.

Alternatively, I can be taught through the process of mortification.

While in Florida, we visited Papi’s mother’s aunt, tía Laura. Papi shows me a picture of her recently deceased husband, taken nearly 50 years ago when he was a young and dapper policeman in Cuba. Papi tells me his name and I repeat it. Then I turn to tía Laura.

“Muy guapo, (very handsome)” I say.

She and Papi’s mother look at each other, pleased. “Oh, guapo!” they say and titter together. I am proud of myself.

Laura makes me Cuban coffee (I am addicted) and I get to say, “Me gusta mucho café cubano.” Again, yay me! I am speaking Spanish! To real Spanish-speaking people! I am so cool!

Afterwards, on the way home, I make converstation. "So, when did Chulo come to the U.S.," I innocently query.

This time there was no giggling. Only a nervous sort of "heh, heh, heh." (Or, I suppose, jej, jej, jej.)

Uh-oh.

Apparently, because I had been listening to too much Don Omar of late, I had just called her dear, handsome uncle a PIMP. Lovely. So very, very glad that I didn't say that earlier to the deceased pimp's wife, who, during our visit, had been crying because she missed him so, so much. No doubt she would have been very gracious, but I would have been absolutely mortified.

His name was Chelo. I was one letter off. One letter—a world of difference.

“Last night I dreamt that I grew wings…”

I am a little embarrassed to confess that I dreamt about Josh Ritter last night. I also dreamt about braving a flood to get to my dog, but that’s another story.

In the dream, Josh was a performing musician, but also an agricultural scientist specializing in corn and kale. (I have been garden obsessed of late, pouring over the winter seed catalog glut.) I had been trying to germinate some kale seeds, but they just wouldn’t grow. Desperate for help, I brought them to the horticultural specialist-slash-musician who carefully studied the (in my dreamworld) walnut-sized seed and offered some suggestions. As I was profusely thanking him for the help with my brassicas, praising his scientific prowess, he gave me a sideways glance and a very sly grin and said, “But musicians often glow, don’t they?”

In Josh’s case, they most certainly do.

I had seen him in concert at the newly posh Attucks Theatre in Norfolk just hours before, so it isn’t too surprising that I had this ephemeral conversation with Mr. Ritter. I went because as I alluded in an earlier post, his music moves me. He is very present with his songs, and the feeling is amplified in person. Even though I love his music, it was more Josh the Human that moved me last night.

His simple set is an old-fashioned parlor, an accurate scene-setter. Exuberant or subdued, full spotlight or complete darkness, the performance was always personal. The overall impression is that Josh is so pleased that he’s here and that you’re here and let’s visit for a while.

The hospitality doesn’t end there. After the show he appears in the lobby to greet the people who have come to hear his music. I fully expected to cast myself in the role of devotee, but Josh turned the tables on me. He thanked me—and everyone else he talked to—for coming several times, which left me feeling good…and a tad confused. Imagine someone painting your house for free and then genuinely thanking you for the opportunity. His entire interaction makes it clear that the privilege here is his.

Josh is a hugger, and they are liberally distributed. These are full on, sharing, I-really-mean-it body hugs, not shoulder-brushing I-don’t-know-where-you’ve-been superficial hugs. His cup overfloweth with life and—on-stage and off—it feels like he is about to burst, combustible energy glowing. His verbal and musical exchanges completely project the message that he feels very fortunate to be doing what he is doing, and that gratefulness, that joy, permeates the entire experience.

Which I suspect is why he also permeated my sleep. From all the events of the evening, my slumbering subconscious processed and distilled a crucial truth and then conveyed it through the fictitious Josh's final dream remark to me. It was a message that it felt was so important to me that I woke right up as soon as it left his lips.

I have been struggling for a while with the “be who you are” thing. In the midst of signing my CD, and valiantly trying to make conversation with the deaf-mute that was me at that moment, Josh asks what I do. Since I presently feel that what I do in no way reflects who I am (or at least, not the me I want to project, and that probably says too much), I hedged, saying, “Oh, I’m still finding my way in life.” So he writes, “Keep looking for the way! (Then tell me.)”

Earlier during the show he says during one intro that he used the song to break the news to his mother that, two years into his neuroscience degree, he had chosen to become a musician instead of a scientist. Today, plucking apart the threads of my nocturnal message, I thought about this as choice made, seed planted. Though seeing it through to fruition isn’t like talking about it. Watching Josh perform, it is obvious that he truly is “singing for the love of it." My impression is that he is an embodiment of the idea that being who you are and following your truth, faithful in its service, creates an unmistakable glow that folds everyone in its embrace.

His light and beaming energy followed me home and kept me company for a while. Perhaps if that isn’t the way, it is a least one very important way, regardless of the path chosen or the vessel used. If you feel grateful for what you have received, finding that the giver feels even more fortunate as a result of the act creates an endless euphoric reciprocation cycle. Like the cartoon chipmunks, Chip and Dale. Thank you. Thank you. No, no thank you.

I don’t think I adequately sputtered it out in the Attucks’ lobby, Josh, but what I wanted to say was—no, no, thank you. Thank you so very much.

Note to self: bring the entire sweater next time so that your recently acquired I’m-comfortable-in-my-relationship paunch is not permanently flawing an otherwise great picture.

The Real Deal from the House of Deals

Breakfast is sacred to me.

Other eating times are social--good conversation with friends or family over dinner and wine is a wonderful experience--but breakfast is a private affair. I prefer getting up before Papi so that its just me, eggs, toast or biscuits and (fair-trade) tea, the Eastern Shore News, Mother Earth News or the New Yorker in front of me. It is a quiet and restful time, a transition from bed to the whizz and whorl of the outside.

I have become hooked on fried eggs, (perhaps not the healthiest of choices, but better than a doughnut) and have finally mastered cooking them without breaking the yolks. I feel a great sense of accomplishment about this--you have no idea how long it took me to get here!

Lately, the breakfast experience has taken on a whole new level with the discovery of fresh, local eggs from The House of Deals in nearby Onancock.

When I was younger, I never paid attention to The House of Deals because it was not the sort of place that most teenagers find appealing. The lighting is so dim that from the outside it doesn't even look open. Inside, the smell is a bit musty, the merchandise is close and jam-packed, and there is an overall sepia-toned appearance, as if you have just stepped into a 1930's photograph. Which is not as fantastical as it sounds. This is your grandfather's hardware store, complete with tin ceilings and wooden Coca-Cola crates. A group of old-timers routinely congregate here to chat over card games in the back.

Real eggs from a real chicken with a real life.

But up front, at the wooden counter, one can ask for a dozen or two elongated, bullet-shaped, brown eggs. That is, until recently. It seems that the hens are on strike. Papi, who grew up on a farm in Cuba and later worked at one of Perdue's research farms, assures me that this is a natural process, that hens go through periods where they simply do not lay eggs. Ok, I really can't blame them. It must be hard work pushing those things out all the time. But I miss them!

What I did NOT have for breakfast this morning.

The yolks are a deep, golden yellow and always double. And the taste? Just as rich and deep as the color. The ones from Food Lion are pale imitations in color, taste, and so I've read, nutrition. Seriously. After weeks of eating the bullet eggs, the Food Lion knockoffs that I had this morning were, well, bland. And watery. Truly, I cooked them exactly the same as the real eggs, and not only did the edges not crisp up, but they broke off in white puddle-like spooges on my plate. Ick.

Corporate agriculture and factory farms are awesome.

I can't even think of a title.

Perhaps you have read about the horrible car accident in Onancock on Friday night which took the lives of four young men and a two-year-old boy, and injured two others. I was surprised to find that word of it was on the AP wires.

The sadness of it only just caught up with me today, partly because I didn't sleep well which makes me overly emotional, partly because it is a dark, rainy, gloomy day, but also because I stepped out of the cocoon of home to go to work. That put me in contact with the outside world, and under the same shroud that seems to be hanging invisibly around us. You go out and you cannot help but come into contact with it, either from snatches of conversation caught in the bakery or grocery store, seeing it on the news or discussing it in office conversation. It's everywhere. And even though I did not personally know, or even ever meet, anyone who was involved in the accident, because it is the Shore, it is personal.

Even though the Eastern Shore consists of two counties--Accomack and Northampton--we consider it one community. It really does feel like one small town. I like to joke that it is not six degrees of separation around here, it's more like two degrees. When I was a teenager I found this painfully confining. Now, after living in a few mid-sized cities, I find it very comforting.

Through those two degrees, I am connected to four of the people in that accident. The woman and toddler are the daughter and grandson of an acquaintance. One of the boys was the son of my sister-in-law's pastor, whom I have met a few times. And another was the grandson of the woman who went to our church and lived 3 blocks away from me when I was a child. From the time I was born until I was 15, I went to her house with my mom to get our hair done, and her late husband used to pump our gas and fix the family cars at his service station in downtown Parksley.

I do not wish to be caught up in the tragedy of it, but it is difficult to stop thinking about it. Even if I don't personnally mourn one of the boys or the young child, I can't help mourning the loss of life itself. Mostly I am mourning with the parents and grandparents and family, because that's where my connection lies. I can only remotely imagine what they must be thinking and feeling and I am having a hard time getting it out of my head. Because I have real faces to go with those feelings--those people fit somewhere in a place in my life--and I am so very sorry for them.