diving in head-first

Literally.

The canning is coming along swimmingly, if messily...note: blueberries make a royal mess and syrup spatters! But, the results are definitely worth it. Next up: all things zucchini now that my garden is ready to harvest.

Also to note: I went surfing on Monday! As if I don't have enough hobbies. The sunset was gorgeous, out there on the water and feeling the wave energy flow through me and around me (and over me each time I was tossed off the board--never quite made it to standing position, but hey, it was my first time!), terns streamlining their bodies and plunging into the water in search of food...it was amazing to be part of that experience. I'm definitely hooked.

Pappy

One year ago today, at around 5:30 a.m., Pappy passed on to the next level of consciousness that our souls encounter, whatever that might be. I had received a frantic call from my mother the morning of July 7th, telling me it didn't look good and I should drive home immediately. When he had fallen a few weeks before and was taken to the hospital, I cried and told my mom "He won't come back out of there. He's going to die in that hospital." That wasn't my pessimistic side talking, that statement felt as true as anything.

I literally dropped everything and drove as fast as my little four-cylinder car could go. Around 11 p.m., mom called back and said "you need to be here immediately." I knew he had precious little time left. When I arrived at the hospital, the old brick building shrouded in fog on the hill above Pottsville, he was already unconscious. I sat down by his side, my eyes burning from the trip and stinging with tears, and I squeezed his gnarled hands. He gently squeezed mine back, likely the body's normal reaction to pressure rather than him knowing someone was there who loved him. I leaned in close to his stubbly cheek, his weathered ears, and I said, "Pappy, it's your granddaughter Becky. I just got here and I want to tell you that I love you. I want you to know that I appreciated hearing all your stories about our ancestors, I enjoyed your jokes. Thank you for the legacy you've left behind."

Grandma had been driven from the Reading Hospital to be by his side. She sat in her wheelchair, stroking his tanned hands and jagged nails, and said "Such hardworking hands." She would sigh, and say, "Oh, Pappy." She'd turn to us and say, "He was so handsome!"

Right before 5:30 a.m. on the 8th, he opened his eyes towards the ceiling, closed them, and the bright green heart monitor flatlined. I slid down the wall that had been supporting me, sat on the cold floor staring at him, a hospital blanket covering my shoulders and I shivered. I had never seen anyone die before. We spent another hour talking about good memories of him, of his first few dates with Grandma which were quite funny and helped ease the grief for a bit.

Pappy was a man of few words, but those he spoke he meant. His dry sense of humor, his interest in history and family, his little winks and finger waves, his ingenuity and frugality are all aspects that have been incorporated into the lives of all our family members.

"He is a good peeler of peaches," Grandma declared with obvious beaming pride one day as they canned peaches. In her book, that's a great compliment.

I have a great love and appreciation for the old ways of life, very likely due to being steeped in history and still-working antiques at Grandma and Pappy's farm. I am attracted to men who can work hard with their hands, who know how to treat the earth well, who are able to repurpose items laying around for a new useful task. I know this comes from Pappy.

Impatience

In this era of immediate gratification, it's really tough to be content with the process of improvement; of being on the road to self-improvement but not at the end goal yet. I want to be good at things right away. I don't like the fact that I'm currently unable to play the banjo very well, or that I still haven't knitted a sweater, or that I'm not fully healed from emotional scars dating back years ago.

I'm adding to my list of things I want to do this year: be more patient. Enjoy the process, know that someday I will be able to play this gorgeous banjo as well as it deserves to be played; that someday I'll knit a sweater to be proud of; and that eventually time will help heal my wounds.

Bring your dancing board

There's something so compelling about a place in the mountains where people bring their own 2'x2' wooden board to dance in the fields.


Taking a step back: I began my week on the PA farm, playing banjo on the porch with my dog and my mom, the pasture lit up with fireflies glowing. We made and canned strawberry jam from berries picked out of mom's little garden. My first foray into the canning world!


I headed south to Arlington to visit my lovely great aunt. We enjoyed the creepy thrill of minor keys of Bach played on the huge pipe organ at the National Cathedral, then explored the Bishop's Gardens behind the gothic structure. Unusual sage, poodle-like cedar trees, and eye-popping orange flowers adorned the stone-enclosed back gardens. Arlene was her usual hilarious self, being a younger, hipper version of my klutzy, accident-prone and generally unaware-of-her-surroundings sister, my beloved grandma. It was a comedy of errors moment on the elevator with the floor buttons which resulted in her closing the elevator door on an elderly gentleman who uttered some very foul language. She blamed it on the elevator. I also attended her friend's 80th birthday party, and it was about how you'd expect an 80th birthday party to be. Neither one of us could figure out that DVD player, either. But there was lots of laughter, love and in-depth discussions, which is what I love the most about "Matilda."


Finally found my way back onto I-81, heading south deeper into the hills of rural Appalachia, until I reached my destination: Trillium Cabin on Greasy Creek, no town name, closest to Dugspur and not too far away from Floyd, VA. Second home to Richard, Queenie and Wiley, a North Carolina man and his two dogs. Banjo on the porch overlooking the mountains, the sound of the creek coming up the hill lured the cabin guests into chilly waters running over smooth rocks glittering with pyrite. After a few discussions about geology and aquatic entomology, we settled into the flow of the creek. Only after a lengthy intense yoga session have I felt so at peace. Sitting on the porch afterwards, my mind was completely clear of any particular thought. I was fully in the moment.

Friday night we headed into Floyd, a tiny version of how I imagine Asheville was about 30 years ago. The Floyd General Store hosts a Friday night jam, every week for the past 60 or so years. The store was full of spectators and dancers of all ages, and the bands spilled out onto the sidewalk. People clustered around to listen and dance to each jam, mostly old-time, some bluegrass. Lots of fiddles, banjos, an autoharp, a base, guitars, a washboard (!!!), and mandolins. We danced squares and clogged on the open floor, listening to the band whipping us into a frenzy. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Out under the stars, the bands played on the street well past the jam's hours.

Saturday we headed to Elk Creek, VA, by way of Galax. The Grayson County Old-Time Fiddle Festival is located on a big field at the top of a mountain, with a 360-degree view of the surrounding hills. Campers pull up chairs and jam outside their living arrangements. Each jam consisted of very friendly folks who were quite willing to invite us to play with them, even though they never met us before. There was even a guy playing a homemade washtub base! Amazing musicians entered the competitions for flat-picking guitar, old-time banjo, bluegrass banjo, fiddle, and clogging. The sunset was a spectacular shade of melon pink, and the thin clouds stretched in long lines to the horizon. Stars speckled the sky and we settled into our hooded jackets to ward off the chilly mountain air. A girl about 14 years old played Foggy Mountain Breakdown so fast and clean that the guitarist could hardly keep up with her. Little children showed off their budding talents as cloggers, and the crowd clapped and cheered for each dancer and musician. Dancers brought their own dancing boards to clog on, and I spent hours soaking up the music and the scenery.

I sometimes wonder if I ought to be living in southern Appalachia rather than in New England. They both appeal to different parts of me, and I'm not sure I'd be fully happy with one or the other. But I've always said, of all the places I've traveled, only the Blue Ridge Mountains seemed like I could settle there happily.

Amazing hikes

I've gotta say, I've had some seriously gorgeous hikes in the White Mountains the past two Saturdays. Open granite domes, 360-degree views of lush valleys, surprisingly tall peaks, rock formations that look like natural slate stairs, delicate lady's slipper plants, a moose and fledgeling ravens just learning to call and fly. Sometimes, I just feel so incredibly lucky to live in an area where I can day-hike in the White Mountains and return home to make a fabulous pasta dinner with wine in the comforts of my own home. And then spend all of Sunday not being able to move my legs from extreme soreness!! I'm not in hiking shape yet. Updated goal: hike Mt. Lafayette by fall, one of the taller, more rugged peaks around.

simplicity

I cannot even begin to tell you how satisfying it is to eat a salad constructed of lettuce you've grown from seed--buttercrunch, mesclun mix, arugula--a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of sea salt...

I love how the simplest little things in life can be the most wonderfully fulfilling.

continued Great Work

"One of the most essential roles of the ecologist is to create the language in which a true sense of reality, of value, and of progress can be communicated to our society." -Thomas Berry, "The Great Work"

This one sentence brings so much validation to my life's work and it makes me proud to be a science writer.

The Great Work and errands

Thomas Berry wrote a book called The Great Work in 1999; basically, he says that the great work of our time will be nature and our environment. I started it yesterday and found a great paragraph to share:

"The Great Work before us, the task of moving modern industrial civilization from its present devastating influence on the Earth to a more benign mode of presence, is not a role that we have chosen. It is a role given to us, beyond any consultation with ourselves. We did not choose. We were chosen by some power beyond ourselves for this historical task. We do not choose the moment of our birth, who our parents will be, our particular culture or the historical moment when we will be born. We do not choose the status of spiritual insight or political or economic conditions that will be the context of our lives. We are, as it were, thrown into existence with a challenge and a role that is beyond any personal choice. The nobility of our lives, however, depends upon the manner in which we come to understand and fulfill our assigned role."

My friend Adam Benson once said, "If it wasn't so scary and foreboding, they wouldn't be called 'dreams'; they'd be called 'errands.'" My errand, as of the day we visited Acadia National Park and talked to a park ranger about ozone depletion and air quality, is to devote my life, in one way or another, to The Great Work. Today I write about mercury and methylmercury cycling and bioavailability in Great Bay to inform the public.

update on goals

It's been a crazy time lately.

As in, infidelity, divorce, cancer, uprooting, healing, etc. But life keeps moving along and it's not been quite as traumatic as I thought it would be.

In any case, I just finished the most adorable skirt EVER and I can't wait till the rain stops and the warm sun re-emerges so I can flaunt and flounce all around town in it. :)

Pictures to come once it's sunny.

I've decided that for my debut song at our bluegrass jam, I'm going to play "Little Satchel," the most amazing old-time song I've heard, maybe ever. Dirk Powell's version seeps into my bones and takes hold. Love it.

We put plastic on the garden last weekend to keep weeds at bay and planted cucumbers and peppers. Nothing else is quite big enough yet, but we're getting there. And I might have spent a bit of time working on my book on a slow work day last week...hehe.

My top 10 goals for the year

I'm feeling a little all-over-the-map right now, so I've decided to set a list of 10 goals for the year.

1) Become more proficient on banjo equally in bluegrass and clawhammer styles
status: working on both each evening; just ordered a book/dvd combo on
clawhammer; will get higher bridge put on banjo for easier playing very soon,
attend monthly jams.

2) Garden veggies, herbs, and some pretty plants this year
status: already started the seeds and cleared out the spot next to my front steps for the
the pretty stuff.

3) Learn to can food/veggies that I've grown
status: just ordered a book on how to can, plus recipes, etc.

4) Attend an old-time music festival, hopefully somewhere further south, perhaps
combine that with a trip to see Aunt Arlene and my friend Steph?
status: nothing yet, need to work on research for it.

5) Contra dance more often
status: haven't gone since the folk school, need to work on this!

6) Improve knitting skills
status: about to start my first cable-knit hat.

7) Sew at least three items
status: have two sundresses, one skirt and a quilt pattern ready to start whenever I
get a spare few weekends; also would like to make pajama pants.

8) Make progress on my book
status: *sigh* I haven't worked on this in forever, time to get jump-started on it.

9) Make bread from scratch
status: why haven't I started this yet? Maybe this weekend I'll attempt focaccia..

10) Practice my singing!
status: I've realized how important this is to accompany my banjo music, so I've been
singing a lot in the car, belting out Dixie Chicks tunes, etc., to strengthen my
weak and out-of-practice vocal chords; I'll never be like Alison Krauss, but it
would be nice to express my own singing style in public without total
embarrassment.

Excellent!

happy blues

And just as I was about to say that I can't stand to wear sweaters for six long months...mother nature has granted warmth up here.

Wow, it got hot all of a sudden! I cannot stress how much I adore New England "heat," which is not really super hot and not really all that humid. Just lovely heat that lasts long enough to make good use of the balcony, perfect the iced coffee recipe, enjoy some swimming in Mendum's Pond (which reminds me so much of northern Minnesota with the red pines, rocky little islands, clear cold water...sigh). I *might* have enjoyed some skinny dipping there last year.

Poor Zoe has not had the chance to catch up. After all, it's in the 30's at night, and she still has her winter coat on. The Zoe fur is accumulating like tumble weeds while she frantically tries to shed the warmth. Remind me to post about her, ahem, interactions with a male hound dog twice her age. Me-ow! And her subsequent cold shoulder after he rebuffed her very unabashed advances. Actually, that's all you need to know. I was slightly horrified and really kinda grossed out, truth be told.

Anyhoodle, it's a great day for the blues. Delta blues, courtesy of my little sis. Swimming season, coming soon!

travels and like-minded souls

there have been too many wonderful things in my life recently to note them all right now. but let's just say, traveling to n.c. with wendy, listening to music in the mountains, and meeting like-minded souls have all been experiences to treasure. i returned home literally glowing with happiness.

on the other hand, i like returning home to my dog, my space, some land too!

i plan on spending some time getting seeds started for the garden this weekend. lovely! it's going to be warm enough for a sundress, sandals, beer on the balcony watching the sunset. banjo tunes will be played. !!!

more later on all my travel adventures.

The Distillery

It was a long road to get there
full of switchbacks, speed bumps, dead-ends
the weary traveler enters in
and a rough look on my face,
torn jeans, dirty boots,
but I think I found the place.

Lush valley full of echoes
and a fog that settles in.

You danced on soft worn floors
I sat near the side,
a flowered cotton dress
on such a grey-eyed mess
I knew I was in for a ride.

Down at the distillery
At the bottom of the hill
The fires still burn brightly
But the candle never will

Balance and swing,
a gypsy’s call to souls
a rush of color blurred by flight
Later I ran to greet you,
carrying elderberry wine
and my shining eyes
caught yours winking in the light.
That courting candle, could it burn bright?

That creek was cold and clear
My bare feet flat on rocks
I let waterfalls rush over me
and never thought of fear.

Lush valley full of echoes
and a fog that settles in.

Down at the distillery
At the bottom of the hill
The fires still burn brightly
But the candle never will

And the still’s cold tin walls
press on my skin.
Volumes of our time,
this filter I am in
pure sweet taste
down to one bitter drop
swallow it now and be done.

Two sentences on paper
An ocean behind us,
a desert ahead,
one candle wick cold
cheap wine and rye whiskey
was all that was ever made.

Spring cleaning

It's still *officially* winter here in NH, snow is still on the ground, but the cold days are now interspersed with warmer sunshine and chirping birds. I have my annual spring head cold, so it must soon be spring. And so, time for spring cleaning, of sorts.

This year, it involves emotional cleansing. Detox, cleanse, purify.

I am dealing with two very painful matters right now, and I'm proud to say I took a hard-line stance on both. One, a professional matter from graduate school in which my work was published without my knowledge. I took steps to remain professional and yet I put my foot down. The other, I managed my first true "break-up" of sorts in pure civility. It hurts really badly. But it was the most humane thing I could have done.

While I am proud I took these steps, and I stand by my decisions, it does not make the detox process any less painful. Kinda like drinking some awful smoothie made of raw green vegetables and some unmentionable liquids. You know it's gonna wipe out everything in your system, and it's gonna totally be miserable, but it'll clean everything out and allow you to improve faster.

Life isn't all donuts and coffee, unfortunately.

Confucious was a smart guy

"By three methods we may learn wisdom:
first, by reflection, which is noblest;
second, by imitation, which is easiest;
and third, by experience, which is the bitterest."

Departures

As we entwine more deeply,
your forearm snaked around my left elbow and wrist,
the soft sheets threaten to hold us in place
like butterflies pinned to cork by their fragile wings.

Tears ease a path to my pillow and your palm,
seeking a pool already soaked into cotton,
but your breath melts my shoulder and
steeps my spine in acceptance.

I think about the meaning behind your words.
You speak off-the-cuff, tactless and immediate.
Blunt butter knife that leaves me bleeding so slightly.
What am I to believe? You misspoke.
Or that you meant every quick comment.

I sometimes wonder why I beg you.
Please tell me something sweet. Remind me that you care.
Why do I ask? Only two months ago I never thought to.
I never had to. You were glad to share happiness.

I call you handsome. You call me a grouch.
And our recent phone call was destiny, it seems.
My tears elicited your anger
and I sometimes realize this is unhealthy.
I’m amazed I don’t realize this more often.
I wish the metal rose would wilt,
hammered petals falling with my hopes.

But then I would have to admit
my assessment of you was incorrect.
Off by more than a mile.
Wiping the slate clean of my chalk scribbles
That I once considered handsome.

Fly

Sometimes, what we think we want we really don't. How many years until the healing begins and we learn from our patterns and truly discover ourselves? How can the mind fool us so terribly? How can our hearts mislead us to such dark corners?

I have not yet found the beauty in just letting go. It still just seems awful, painful, scary and unwanted. In that vein, the slightly comforting and motivational lyrics to "Fly."

Ain't no talkin' to this man
Ain't no pretty other side
Ain't no way to understand
the stupid words of pride
It would take an acrobat
and I already tried all that
I'm gonna let him fly

Things can move at such a pace
The second hand just waved goodbye
You know the light has left his face
But you can't recall just where or why
So there was really nothing to it
I just went and cut right through it
I said I'm gonna let him fly
Oh yeah

There's no mercy in a live wire
No rest at all in freedom
Choices we are given
It's no choice at all
The proof is in the fire
You touch before it moves away - yeah
But you must always know
How long to stay and when to go

And there ain't no talkin' to this man
He's been trying to tell me so
It took a while to understand
The beauty of just letting go
Cause it would take an acrobat
I already tried all that
I'm gonna let him fly
I'm gonna let him fly
I'm gonna let him fly

Snap!

It was -12 degrees F this morning. My car did not want to start. My dog was shivering so badly she could hardly stand. My winter jacket, which was fully dry, somehow managed to freeze on the two-minute walk to get the paper at the end of the driveway.

I was just starting to enjoy winter...the flocked evergreen trees, the sparkly walkways, the icy maple tree branches, deep breaths of clean fresh cold air...and this morning, I could hardly breathe in because it actually hurt. My eyelashes froze.

I want to snap my fingers and have it be springtime. Or at least +20 degrees F. But this will help me appreciate the spring rains so much more, I suppose. And hot tea.

Peace and Quiet

I had an entirely different experience snowshoeing today than yesterday.

It was overcast and the trails were empty, no dog by my side. Just me and the snow weighing heavily on the tree branches. I reached a part of the trail where the branches were bent down, enclosing the trail at the top while the packed snow insulated the bottom. A lone raven called just once over my head, and a thin ribbon of icy water trickled below the trail. The whole scene was very cozy and intimate. I felt more at peace in that moment than just about any other moment I can remember, and for that I am grateful.

Being Alone vs. Not Fitting In

I love snowshoeing with just my dog. It is so peaceful being able to enjoy the woods, the snowflakes falling like glittering confetti through the trees, sun reflecting off the whitened fields, fresh icy air in the lungs with a peppy dog by your side.

I love pulling on each leg of my patched up old Carhartt pants over my long johns and wool socks, wrestling into layers of breathable clothing like polypro and wool sweaters, wrapping my 10-ft. long homemade scarf around my neck three full times and donning the huge movie star sunglasses. I walk through the woods, fully enjoying my life here and taking in the scenery.

And then, two cross country skiiers enter my path. I say hello and smile, put my exuberant dog on a leash and allow them to pass first. They mutter a greeting through tight lips and upturned noses, and I notice how all their clothes are coordinated, sleek, name brand and likely very expensive. To them, I probably look like I'm homeless and living near the compost piles on the property.

I have asked this on a number of occasions, but I still do not understand: when did it become more important to look outdoorsy than to just get out and enjoy? Why the stigma placed on people who cannot or will not buy the expensive clothing when good enough is just fine?

It was a reminder that, regardless of age, the old cliques from the school yard never really go away. The cool kids always think they're cool, and the dorks will always feel, well, dorky. We nerds often spend time alone, free from judgement of the cool kids, and I would argue that might allow us to connect on a deeper level with nature around us.

Regardless, I still enjoy New England wintertime fun, but the empty trails seem to call me more than the well-trodden ones.

of banjos and buddies

I was playing banjo last night, or rather, plunking away and trying desperately to transition between D7 and C on the fretboard while my dog huddled in the corner, when I started thinking.

I remembered back at Penn State when I would ride in the middle of the seats of my friend Brian's restored Model A, with him in the driver's seat, his friend Dave in the passenger's seat, and me in between waving to people on College Ave. One day in particular, it was a gorgeous fall afternoon and Brian called me up for a drive. The three of us drove up into the nearby mountains, worn down over the years by wind, weather, human activities.

We drove on a gravel backroad, winding our way through the orange, crimson and honey colored leaves, enjoying the smells of autumn in the Appalachian Mountains. Each road switchback would cause us to spin the tires a bit, swerving in response to the spray of rocks and dirt. On the straightaways, Brian hit the gas and we were speeding along at a hasty 35 mph with the top down on a gorgeous boxy old vehicle. Every now and then he hit the "Aoooga" horn for my pleasure.

We ended up at Dave's log cabin in the hills about 45 minutes away from Penn State, near Juniata. Dave had assembled his friends for a modest bluegrass jam. There we sat in his completely awesome log cabin kitchen, him playing the banjo, his friends playing fiddle, harmonica, acoustic guitar, Brian played the spoons on his knee, and I sat there with a huge grin on my face, loving the music they were creating in this space. It's hard to think of a time when I was more present than that, absolutely soaking up every second of the moment.