We have rain! This is a relief. We have been in such distress because of the lack of water.
Our fields were brown. We've been feeding hay all summer and have been very concerned we wouldn't have enough to get through the winter. We feared we would have to sell all our cows. This would be a catastrophe.
We still might have to sell our cows, but with any luck, maybe we'll get a good cutting of hay in October and can see our way through the winter. Just one good cutting, please please please.
At least now there is hope.
****
In personal news, I have received word that my grandmother in California is not doing well. This is my father's family, and I don't know them well. They migrated from West Virginia to Virginia and then finally they moved to California when I was three months old.
I have seen my paternal grandmother about five times in my life. She is not the friendliest person, to be honest. I don't dislike her or anything and I love her because she is my grandmother, but I don't know her well enough to really have any kind of opinion of her.
But apparently old age is catching up with her. She's in her 80s so this is to be expected. She is having problems with her bones breaking now. (On the plus side, I seem to have some longevity in the genes so maybe that will be good for me.)
I am not much of a traveler anymore. I refuse to have people sticking their hands up my o.rifices these days and probably won't be flying any time soon, so I don't suppose I will see her before she dies.
My family is rather fractured anyway. I am the black sheep, the bad girl who married well and is well-known in the community for my writing and for volunteering and doing an occasional good deed. I don't understand it.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Hodge Podge
Obviously, I have a thing for cemeteries. They are so quiet, so peaceful. I don't believe ghosts walk there. Those spirits are whereever their memories take them, I think.
It is dreadfully warm with a hint of autumn in the air. We are desperate for rain. I see Bedford has declared a drought emergency; this county only does that as a last resort, I think. The officials are not exactly farmer friendly.
In the news, I see the media's circus about the Ramsey thing has blown up in its face. Good. Too much time is spent on things that mean nothing and no time is being spent on the things that matter very much. (Yes, I know, the death of a child isn't "nothing" but it happened 10 years ago. You can't tell me no child has died in the time this story hit the streets last week. Where's the scoop on that?)
How about a profile of how's the current economic policies are affecting real people? Or a story on the loss of farm land in the nation? Or the water crisis, which is very real and being completely ignored? Anything but celebrities or wannabe celebrities.
The husband called and he passed his physical. His cholesterol numbers are very low, etc. etc. His only trouble is his hearing, which seems to be common among firefighters. He will have to get some testing done for that, although I was quickly informed that a hearing aid is not on his purchase list.
He will probably outlive me, she of the high cholesterol. No matter what I do, I can't make those numbers fall. I refuse to take the medicine that is for that. The side effects are incredible; they would kill a horse. I have a tendency to react poorly to many medications, and to me it just isn't worth the risk.
Had a brief e-mail correspondence about poetry and a Hollins professor, Jeanne Larsen. She is presently head of the creative writing department, has a string of degrees, several published books, etc. She was my favorite teacher as an undergraduate student. I took a number of classes under her, and wrote some good poetry, some of which was published. I worked with her for about eight years, because that is how long it took me to go part-time and obtain my four-year English degree.
Jeanne had, I was told, great expectations of me (she never said a word, though). I suspect I have fallen short. I am not a poet, or a fiction writer. Just a news hound.
In the end, it is my lack of direction that has done me in. It lingers there like my high cholesterol, an obstacle I can't figure out.
It is dreadfully warm with a hint of autumn in the air. We are desperate for rain. I see Bedford has declared a drought emergency; this county only does that as a last resort, I think. The officials are not exactly farmer friendly.
In the news, I see the media's circus about the Ramsey thing has blown up in its face. Good. Too much time is spent on things that mean nothing and no time is being spent on the things that matter very much. (Yes, I know, the death of a child isn't "nothing" but it happened 10 years ago. You can't tell me no child has died in the time this story hit the streets last week. Where's the scoop on that?)
How about a profile of how's the current economic policies are affecting real people? Or a story on the loss of farm land in the nation? Or the water crisis, which is very real and being completely ignored? Anything but celebrities or wannabe celebrities.
The husband called and he passed his physical. His cholesterol numbers are very low, etc. etc. His only trouble is his hearing, which seems to be common among firefighters. He will have to get some testing done for that, although I was quickly informed that a hearing aid is not on his purchase list.
He will probably outlive me, she of the high cholesterol. No matter what I do, I can't make those numbers fall. I refuse to take the medicine that is for that. The side effects are incredible; they would kill a horse. I have a tendency to react poorly to many medications, and to me it just isn't worth the risk.
Had a brief e-mail correspondence about poetry and a Hollins professor, Jeanne Larsen. She is presently head of the creative writing department, has a string of degrees, several published books, etc. She was my favorite teacher as an undergraduate student. I took a number of classes under her, and wrote some good poetry, some of which was published. I worked with her for about eight years, because that is how long it took me to go part-time and obtain my four-year English degree.
Jeanne had, I was told, great expectations of me (she never said a word, though). I suspect I have fallen short. I am not a poet, or a fiction writer. Just a news hound.
In the end, it is my lack of direction that has done me in. It lingers there like my high cholesterol, an obstacle I can't figure out.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Turkeys
I saw these wild turkeys a few days ago over at Lee's Gap. More than a dozen of them were strutting around what looked to be a very late planting of corn. I stopped the car, grabbed the camera, and climbed out. Some of them flew but others just ran around, or moved away from me. They seemed to know I was harmless.
The field is a just a hundred yards away from the edge of the "homeplace." This would be the farm where my maternal grandfather was raised until he was 15. His mother sold out and left after my great-great grandfather died at the age of 56. My grandfather also died at the age of 56, as did my mother. Sounds like some kind of curse, doesn't it?
My parents bought the farm directly in behind this one, and that is where I grew up. On weekends I would slip through the fence and trudge the same fields as my grandfather, picking up rocks and wondering if he had touched them, too. I scoured hills and forest glens for signs of him, or his parents, some acknowledgement that this land belonged to me, too.
I heard whispers in the wind and saw things in the clouds, and sometimes my imagination brought me voices carried on the backs of ants, or hushed in the trample of the deer hooves when I frightened them with my presence. I heard my ancestors call to me in tiny voices, crying for me to save them. But they have long been gone, and I am but a woman, anyway, and a silly one, at that.
The field is a just a hundred yards away from the edge of the "homeplace." This would be the farm where my maternal grandfather was raised until he was 15. His mother sold out and left after my great-great grandfather died at the age of 56. My grandfather also died at the age of 56, as did my mother. Sounds like some kind of curse, doesn't it?
My parents bought the farm directly in behind this one, and that is where I grew up. On weekends I would slip through the fence and trudge the same fields as my grandfather, picking up rocks and wondering if he had touched them, too. I scoured hills and forest glens for signs of him, or his parents, some acknowledgement that this land belonged to me, too.
I heard whispers in the wind and saw things in the clouds, and sometimes my imagination brought me voices carried on the backs of ants, or hushed in the trample of the deer hooves when I frightened them with my presence. I heard my ancestors call to me in tiny voices, crying for me to save them. But they have long been gone, and I am but a woman, anyway, and a silly one, at that.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
A trip "north"
We went on a trip "north" yesterday, to Stuarts Draft. This is near Staunton. It is about an hour or so away. Not far.
But the change in the landscape is rather noticeable. It gets flatter as you leave Buchanan and head into the Shenandoah Valley. The picture on the bottom is near home; see how far the mountains are in the first picture? It's quite a wide valley. (I took the photos through the car window as we were traveling.)
We went to The Cheese Shop, which is an organic food store we had not visited. We brought home cheese, organic brown rice, fax seeds, and . . . chocolate.
I should not eat the chocolate but I can't seem to help myself. I went for 15 years without eating it because it gave me migraines. And then this spring I ate some chocolate and ... no migraine. I guess I will stop craving it eventually, having sated myself from long hiatus from a food I dearly love. At least, that is the hope.
I still eat it in moderation because (a) it is fattening and (b) I am not convinced it won't give me a migraine. But it is nearly or.ga.s.mic to eat it when you haven't had it in so long. It is like a little dance inside of your mouth.
But they had some European dark chocolate that looked so good, I just had to try it.
Then we went into Staunton and shopped a bit. As we were having lunch (I had broiled flounder and broccoli, isn't that healthy?) I suddenly stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth. "You did put that chocolate in the cooler with the cheese, didn't you?" I asked the husband.
Um. No. I dropped my utensil and dashed outside, barely in time. The sun was bearing down on one end of the very large chocolate bar, and that part had melted.
I folded it over and stuck it in the cooler. This morning, that end of the bar was a little white with the sugar from melting.
But it tasted very good.
But the change in the landscape is rather noticeable. It gets flatter as you leave Buchanan and head into the Shenandoah Valley. The picture on the bottom is near home; see how far the mountains are in the first picture? It's quite a wide valley. (I took the photos through the car window as we were traveling.)
We went to The Cheese Shop, which is an organic food store we had not visited. We brought home cheese, organic brown rice, fax seeds, and . . . chocolate.
I should not eat the chocolate but I can't seem to help myself. I went for 15 years without eating it because it gave me migraines. And then this spring I ate some chocolate and ... no migraine. I guess I will stop craving it eventually, having sated myself from long hiatus from a food I dearly love. At least, that is the hope.
I still eat it in moderation because (a) it is fattening and (b) I am not convinced it won't give me a migraine. But it is nearly or.ga.s.mic to eat it when you haven't had it in so long. It is like a little dance inside of your mouth.
But they had some European dark chocolate that looked so good, I just had to try it.
Then we went into Staunton and shopped a bit. As we were having lunch (I had broiled flounder and broccoli, isn't that healthy?) I suddenly stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth. "You did put that chocolate in the cooler with the cheese, didn't you?" I asked the husband.
Um. No. I dropped my utensil and dashed outside, barely in time. The sun was bearing down on one end of the very large chocolate bar, and that part had melted.
I folded it over and stuck it in the cooler. This morning, that end of the bar was a little white with the sugar from melting.
But it tasted very good.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Pretty Boy
I call this little buck "pretty boy" and talk to him frequently. He raises his ears, snorts at me, tosses his lovely head, and then continues to graze on the acorns beneath the oak tree.
In this photo, he's not far from the house; he's standing in the gravel in my driveway.
One of the great things about living in the country. Well, the country-suburbs. Soon to be the city...
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Anniversary
Six years ago today, my mother died. She had pancreatic cancer and the last year of her life was about as tragic as a life can get.
I am convinced that stress made her ill.
She is buried in Mt. Union Cemetery, along with other relatives who died 150 years ago. She had a graveside funeral.
She and my father were in the midst of a six-year long divorce when she was diagnosed. Not to go into details, but he did not make it easy. She immediately tried to finalize the divorce and he fought her every step of the way. And the fighting had everything to do with money and little else, in my opinion.
Words fail me now and I can't really write any more. I am not sad, really. Just a little angry, sometimes confused, and occasionally relieved. I imagine most people find that to be so; they just don't admit it.
Death is really a new beginning, anyway, even if all you do is turn into worm food.
RIP Mom.
I am convinced that stress made her ill.
She is buried in Mt. Union Cemetery, along with other relatives who died 150 years ago. She had a graveside funeral.
She and my father were in the midst of a six-year long divorce when she was diagnosed. Not to go into details, but he did not make it easy. She immediately tried to finalize the divorce and he fought her every step of the way. And the fighting had everything to do with money and little else, in my opinion.
Words fail me now and I can't really write any more. I am not sad, really. Just a little angry, sometimes confused, and occasionally relieved. I imagine most people find that to be so; they just don't admit it.
Death is really a new beginning, anyway, even if all you do is turn into worm food.
RIP Mom.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Country no more?
Bulldozers, dump trucks and backhoes, oh my. Another development. Another day, another dollar for the developers who come into an area, buy up the land, and ruin it for the rest of us.
My ancestors settled the county I live in. As in the 1700s. As in, pioneers. As in, when the east was the wild west and the Mississippi was just a scribble on a map.
What a mess we've made, eh?
My ancestors settled the county I live in. As in the 1700s. As in, pioneers. As in, when the east was the wild west and the Mississippi was just a scribble on a map.
What a mess we've made, eh?
Monday, August 21, 2006
This ol' house
This ol' house is where I grew up. Well, I spent four years of my life there, from 1972 to 1976. I own it now, having inherited it from my mother, who died six years ago this week. My husband and I rent it out to a couple with children.
My bedroom was in the upstairs loft; you can see the window above the porch. I went from childhood to teenager there; I turned 13 the year my parents built another home in the woods on the hill behind this place.
Across the street is a creek. We dammed it up and swam there, or floated on inner tubes. In winter we had hills for sleighing. A swing used to grace the front porch; a nice breeze blows through there of evening. There used to be a hedge across the front; that's gone. It also used to be white clapboard and not yellow vinyl siding.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
32 cents an hour
Yesterday was visit-great-aunt Susie day. She is in her late 80s. Sometimes she is coherent and interesting to be around; sometimes you just have to visit a minute and leave.
She lives alone. I wish she did not, as I don't think it's very safe. She has poor eyesight and can't hear. But she won't let anyone stay with her and she won't move. She doesn't drive, fortunately, but she hates being house-bound. Most of her friends have died. Her sister, my grandmother, is still alive, but she is in an assisted living facility. "You'd never catch me in one of them places," Susie said.
Yesterday she was in a good mood. She was reminiscing. In 1941, she went to work for Valleydale in Salem. She started out at 32 cents an hour; men automatically recieved 35 cents, apparently just for having a pee hose.
"That weren't fair, now was it?" she said. She's no feminist, but right is right, and even the old folks know that.
She made $14 and change for working 48 hours a week (the math doesn't work out but I think she must've been docked for the half-hour lunch hours). She wore a white coat and worked at various jobs, including packing, freezing, and grinding. She even took a couple of turns in the company cafeteria.
Several fellas tried to sweet-talk her. One said she wasn't the prettiest but she was the best. Talk about a backhanded compliment!
She worked there until 1963, the year I was born. Not long before, her "good" boss died. The new boss kept sending her off to other departments, ostensibly because she always did good work. But then after a few turns in other areas, he called her into his office and asked her if the "girls" in the other departments were the ones talking about unionizing the plant.
"I didn't hear nothing 'bout no unions; I never had time. By the time you had a half hour for lunch, and had to wash up and eat and put your ol' coats back on 'cause it was cold in there, I never had no time to listen," she said.
But because she couldn't tell the boss anything, he fired her.
Susie stayed home after that, and soon she was my babysitter. She still has my teethmarks in her windowsill, something she proudly showed my husband.
Listening to her talk about her life before I was born was a sobering reminder of what used to be. And I wonder if we're really come so far, after all?
She lives alone. I wish she did not, as I don't think it's very safe. She has poor eyesight and can't hear. But she won't let anyone stay with her and she won't move. She doesn't drive, fortunately, but she hates being house-bound. Most of her friends have died. Her sister, my grandmother, is still alive, but she is in an assisted living facility. "You'd never catch me in one of them places," Susie said.
Yesterday she was in a good mood. She was reminiscing. In 1941, she went to work for Valleydale in Salem. She started out at 32 cents an hour; men automatically recieved 35 cents, apparently just for having a pee hose.
"That weren't fair, now was it?" she said. She's no feminist, but right is right, and even the old folks know that.
She made $14 and change for working 48 hours a week (the math doesn't work out but I think she must've been docked for the half-hour lunch hours). She wore a white coat and worked at various jobs, including packing, freezing, and grinding. She even took a couple of turns in the company cafeteria.
Several fellas tried to sweet-talk her. One said she wasn't the prettiest but she was the best. Talk about a backhanded compliment!
She worked there until 1963, the year I was born. Not long before, her "good" boss died. The new boss kept sending her off to other departments, ostensibly because she always did good work. But then after a few turns in other areas, he called her into his office and asked her if the "girls" in the other departments were the ones talking about unionizing the plant.
"I didn't hear nothing 'bout no unions; I never had time. By the time you had a half hour for lunch, and had to wash up and eat and put your ol' coats back on 'cause it was cold in there, I never had no time to listen," she said.
But because she couldn't tell the boss anything, he fired her.
Susie stayed home after that, and soon she was my babysitter. She still has my teethmarks in her windowsill, something she proudly showed my husband.
Listening to her talk about her life before I was born was a sobering reminder of what used to be. And I wonder if we're really come so far, after all?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Visitors
A little fawn and her mother came to visit the garden outside my bedroom window around 6:30 a.m. After I snapped these pictures, I shooed them away. I never knew deer like green tomatoes until we planted this garden so close to the house.
Obviously, being beside the house has not kept critters from eating the vegetables. It's a good thing I don't mind sharing!
I used my Nikon 4600 on the "sports" setting and then had to use the contrast/exposure fix in my editing software. There is no point trying the flash; it just reflects the window glass. Also, there is a screen on the window and I was shooting through that in very low light. Sometimes I think I should take the screens from the windows to give myself a better chance at getting a decent photo at times like this. Oh well.
Obviously, being beside the house has not kept critters from eating the vegetables. It's a good thing I don't mind sharing!
I used my Nikon 4600 on the "sports" setting and then had to use the contrast/exposure fix in my editing software. There is no point trying the flash; it just reflects the window glass. Also, there is a screen on the window and I was shooting through that in very low light. Sometimes I think I should take the screens from the windows to give myself a better chance at getting a decent photo at times like this. Oh well.
Friday, August 18, 2006
A Corny Day
Suddenly, I have a lot to do. As it happens, the news picked up and there are stories to write. People to call. Leads to track down. Lines to follow, ideas to bounce around.
Chasing stories can be quite invigorating. Tangents can be followed to some logical conclusion, or they may turn out to be useless information. Since I am paid by the article, it's prudent for me to try to keep the time I spend on each article to a specified limit. But I never short-change a story and because of that, I spend far too much time for the money I'm paid. Sometimes I end up figuring it's a public service to get the information out, and shrug it off.
Sometimes I grumble about it, but I do it anyway, for the greater good.
Days when I have lots of articles become challenging, and usually fun. I get out of the house. I see people. I usually come back with more article ideas than when I left. Things are always happening. Life is a constant flow, moving always, and stories are left in its wake.
Chasing stories can be quite invigorating. Tangents can be followed to some logical conclusion, or they may turn out to be useless information. Since I am paid by the article, it's prudent for me to try to keep the time I spend on each article to a specified limit. But I never short-change a story and because of that, I spend far too much time for the money I'm paid. Sometimes I end up figuring it's a public service to get the information out, and shrug it off.
Sometimes I grumble about it, but I do it anyway, for the greater good.
Days when I have lots of articles become challenging, and usually fun. I get out of the house. I see people. I usually come back with more article ideas than when I left. Things are always happening. Life is a constant flow, moving always, and stories are left in its wake.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
The Forest Glen
Here's another shot of light and shadow. I like the painterly effect.
I'm doing a lot of thinking these days and reaching no conclusions. I am trying to figure out what this blog is about. I don't really want to be "political" in it, unless it's just local things maybe having to do with my work, like the FOIA article. But then again, everything is political these days and I'm not sure how one goes about avoiding it.
Should I open another blog for "political" writing? Or keep it all in one place?
Then there is my job. The newspaper work has slowed, and I'm looking for something else to do until the work picks back up. Do I write for magazines? Do I become an infopreneur and learn HTML and other online tricks? Do I go back to my novels and try to finish them?
Or do I just go clean the house?
Decisions, decisions. No wonder instead of thinking I grab the camera and head out to the forest, where the leaves whisper, the crickets the sing, and the animals greet me with a flash of their fannies as they run. How much more peaceful is that than the inside of my brain?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
FOIA
I want to write about the Freedom of Information Act. I don't know much about the federal version, but I can talk about Virginia's.
The FOIA gets changed yearly. I get a new edition of the Virginia Press Association's booklet every summer, but haven't yet received the 2006 version. So I have a little pile of old FOIA guides for reporters. I have in hand the 2004 edition because I'm too sorry to get up and get the 2005 edition out of my camera bag.
But looking online, I see lots of changes to the Virginia FOIA since 2004. One section, 2.2-3705.2, has been completely revamped to add all kinds of information that is no longer available to the public. One of these exemptions is "plans and information to prevent or respond to terrorist activity" (2.2-3705.2 (4)).
I have done stories on Health Department plans to respond to terrorist activities before; they focused on anthrax at the time (remember that?). I am wondering why some of this information should not be public. Don't we want to know how the government is going to respond if there is a crisis?
Maybe there isn't a response and that's what they don't want us to know? How can we be reassured that a response is in place if it's secret?
FOIA comes up at the local level in town council meetings and supervisor meetings. Government meetings. The county is pretty good about following FOIA, but there have been times, during breaks, when I've walked by a gathering of three supervisors having a discussion and coughed, "FOIA" several times to break up their pow-wow.
FOIA states that elected officials aren't supposed to gather in groups to converse. That's an unannounced closed meeting. Meetings can only be closed for specific reasons.
Also, citizens have a right to most (but not all) information in the office.
If officials don't comply, there are supposedly penalties and fines.
This set of laws is good in theory and I'm glad something is in place. But I have also seen it thwarted. For example, a county school board several years ago simply thumbed its nose at the citizenry, the newspaper, me, and the Virginia FOIA council and went on about its business, FOIA be darned.
Nobody was fined and no one was punished and that was the end of that, as far as I know.
One of the towns I cover had FOIA issues last year. My editor and I trumpeted the issue in the newspaper in the hopes the citizenry would raise a ruckus, but that did not happen. It essentially passed under the radar.
But several years ago, in another town, I noted a FOIA violation in a story and the next month 20 citizens turned out to watch and make sure their council members minded their p's and q's. I was moved to tears to see this kind of interest.
Unfortunately, it is rare, and the lack of citizen interest makes FOIA a joke. It is a good tool and should be used to obtain information and keep elected officials honest, but the legislature at the state level, and probably the federal, are gutting it every year to make things more and more secret.
I don't believe in secrets at the local level. I think the only things that should be discussed in private are personnel and the purchase price of property. Generally speaking, it is has been my experience that if a town council or a school board is talking about issues in private, they're doing things the citizens would not like.
And usually they know it, too.
The FOIA gets changed yearly. I get a new edition of the Virginia Press Association's booklet every summer, but haven't yet received the 2006 version. So I have a little pile of old FOIA guides for reporters. I have in hand the 2004 edition because I'm too sorry to get up and get the 2005 edition out of my camera bag.
But looking online, I see lots of changes to the Virginia FOIA since 2004. One section, 2.2-3705.2, has been completely revamped to add all kinds of information that is no longer available to the public. One of these exemptions is "plans and information to prevent or respond to terrorist activity" (2.2-3705.2 (4)).
I have done stories on Health Department plans to respond to terrorist activities before; they focused on anthrax at the time (remember that?). I am wondering why some of this information should not be public. Don't we want to know how the government is going to respond if there is a crisis?
Maybe there isn't a response and that's what they don't want us to know? How can we be reassured that a response is in place if it's secret?
FOIA comes up at the local level in town council meetings and supervisor meetings. Government meetings. The county is pretty good about following FOIA, but there have been times, during breaks, when I've walked by a gathering of three supervisors having a discussion and coughed, "FOIA" several times to break up their pow-wow.
FOIA states that elected officials aren't supposed to gather in groups to converse. That's an unannounced closed meeting. Meetings can only be closed for specific reasons.
Also, citizens have a right to most (but not all) information in the office.
If officials don't comply, there are supposedly penalties and fines.
This set of laws is good in theory and I'm glad something is in place. But I have also seen it thwarted. For example, a county school board several years ago simply thumbed its nose at the citizenry, the newspaper, me, and the Virginia FOIA council and went on about its business, FOIA be darned.
Nobody was fined and no one was punished and that was the end of that, as far as I know.
One of the towns I cover had FOIA issues last year. My editor and I trumpeted the issue in the newspaper in the hopes the citizenry would raise a ruckus, but that did not happen. It essentially passed under the radar.
But several years ago, in another town, I noted a FOIA violation in a story and the next month 20 citizens turned out to watch and make sure their council members minded their p's and q's. I was moved to tears to see this kind of interest.
Unfortunately, it is rare, and the lack of citizen interest makes FOIA a joke. It is a good tool and should be used to obtain information and keep elected officials honest, but the legislature at the state level, and probably the federal, are gutting it every year to make things more and more secret.
I don't believe in secrets at the local level. I think the only things that should be discussed in private are personnel and the purchase price of property. Generally speaking, it is has been my experience that if a town council or a school board is talking about issues in private, they're doing things the citizens would not like.
And usually they know it, too.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
A Play of Light
I caught this image about midday Sunday. I loved the play of light and thought my Nikon Coolpix 4600 did a decent job.
This morning, I spied a doe in the backyard. She was intent on the acorn tree and paid me no attention. It was just at daybreak, about 6:35 a.m. on a cloud-filled morning. Behind her a shadow caught my eye and I watched as a young buck glided among the trees. He too visited the acorn tree. They were soon joined by two fawns.
The deer is my animal totem. I see deer all the time; they come and visit me. I was even born in the month of the deer, according to First Nations (Native American) legend.
Deer are observant, peaceful, serene. They are also skittish, curious, exceedingly cautious and nervous. I am a deer in human form, it seems.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Stone Soup
Today in Kroger, corn was on sale, six ears for $2. As I pulled the silk away from the ears, I discovered fungus. Black and ugly, the stuff renders the corn inedible.
A stockboy (actually a beyond-middle-aged man), who was putting cauliflower on the shelf, told me to toss the bad corn into the trash can where I was tossing husks.
Then he went on to tell me he fears we'll all be in trouble this winter. His manager is constantly turning away trucks filled with vegetables that have rotted by the time they've reached the store. The produce is suffering from the extremes in the weather in the west and mid-west. First drought, then too much rain, then too much heat.
Being a nosy reporter, I asked if he thought we might have a famine. Could be, he said. Things are a lot worse than anyone knows.
The USDA says that the food supply is fine. Of course, it also says prices for this year will only rise two or three percent. I guess that must be an average and we're in the high end, because I've only seen prices going up. And then again, it's a government briefing, and I have been unable to believe anything the government says for a very long time.
This report says that fresh vegetable prices will increase about 4 percent; fruits, 3.5 percent, processed fruits and veggies 3.7 percent, sugar 2.5 percent, cereals 3 percent; you get the idea.
Trouble is, I don't see too many people's paychecks increasing to match that. Where, I wonder, is the money going?
I'm paying $3.59 for a bag of salad that used to cost $1.49, for example. I just turned down a beef roast that was $17, choosing instead to buy the $9 pork roast at the same weight. Crackers that once cost 89 cents are now $1.19.
Beef prices are expected to fall at the wholesale level. This is bad news for us, since we raise beef cattle, but it would be easier to take if we saw a similar decline in the meat prices at the store. I don't see that reflected at the cash register, though.
The folks who run the local food pantry told me a year ago that the numbers are up. They're serving more working class people who aren't able to make ends meet. When it's a choice between making the house payment and food, what do you do? Toss a coin and decide if this month it's a roof over your head or food in your belly?
This is the reality for some folks, and it's happening here. In my county, on my street. It's next door, but it still seems to be a big secret.
I look for things to get much worse. I worry that a lot of people will be eating stone soup come winter.
A stockboy (actually a beyond-middle-aged man), who was putting cauliflower on the shelf, told me to toss the bad corn into the trash can where I was tossing husks.
Then he went on to tell me he fears we'll all be in trouble this winter. His manager is constantly turning away trucks filled with vegetables that have rotted by the time they've reached the store. The produce is suffering from the extremes in the weather in the west and mid-west. First drought, then too much rain, then too much heat.
Being a nosy reporter, I asked if he thought we might have a famine. Could be, he said. Things are a lot worse than anyone knows.
The USDA says that the food supply is fine. Of course, it also says prices for this year will only rise two or three percent. I guess that must be an average and we're in the high end, because I've only seen prices going up. And then again, it's a government briefing, and I have been unable to believe anything the government says for a very long time.
This report says that fresh vegetable prices will increase about 4 percent; fruits, 3.5 percent, processed fruits and veggies 3.7 percent, sugar 2.5 percent, cereals 3 percent; you get the idea.
Trouble is, I don't see too many people's paychecks increasing to match that. Where, I wonder, is the money going?
I'm paying $3.59 for a bag of salad that used to cost $1.49, for example. I just turned down a beef roast that was $17, choosing instead to buy the $9 pork roast at the same weight. Crackers that once cost 89 cents are now $1.19.
Beef prices are expected to fall at the wholesale level. This is bad news for us, since we raise beef cattle, but it would be easier to take if we saw a similar decline in the meat prices at the store. I don't see that reflected at the cash register, though.
The folks who run the local food pantry told me a year ago that the numbers are up. They're serving more working class people who aren't able to make ends meet. When it's a choice between making the house payment and food, what do you do? Toss a coin and decide if this month it's a roof over your head or food in your belly?
This is the reality for some folks, and it's happening here. In my county, on my street. It's next door, but it still seems to be a big secret.
I look for things to get much worse. I worry that a lot of people will be eating stone soup come winter.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
A Clear Day
August has given us a beautiful Sunday, one with little haze. My lovely Blue Ridge Mountains are lazily brushing the sky. This section runs over into Craig and Alleghany Counties. I think we're looking at Bald Mountain or Caldwell Mountain, but I am not certain. I am not very good at reading topography maps.
My latest assignment for the newspaper was about genealogy and history. I interviewed a woman who does this as a business. She likes the stories people tell. Everybody has a story; I know that. The interview was nice. We belong to the same book club so we are acquaintances.
The planning commission meets tomorrow night; I always cover that. And Wednesday night the Troutville council is in session. I get to cover that, too.
The bull is out walking in the field again. He hurt his leg and we had to keep him in the barn for several days. The swelling has lessened so we're crossing our fingers. If he can't mount he is no use to us and we will have to sell him. He has given us very nice cows in the last several years and he is in his prime. We want to keep him if we can.
My latest assignment for the newspaper was about genealogy and history. I interviewed a woman who does this as a business. She likes the stories people tell. Everybody has a story; I know that. The interview was nice. We belong to the same book club so we are acquaintances.
The planning commission meets tomorrow night; I always cover that. And Wednesday night the Troutville council is in session. I get to cover that, too.
The bull is out walking in the field again. He hurt his leg and we had to keep him in the barn for several days. The swelling has lessened so we're crossing our fingers. If he can't mount he is no use to us and we will have to sell him. He has given us very nice cows in the last several years and he is in his prime. We want to keep him if we can.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
On Writing (and procrastinating)
My friend Leslie has written about the need to have an agent. She writes fiction and is hoping for that big sell that will propel her forward into the realm of "published novelist."
I write nonfiction. I write a *lot* of nonfiction, actually. I average about 250 articles a year, and have for several years. My markets are local, though, and I don't need an agent for that.
However, tucked away in a drawer is a book or three. Half-written and half-formulated in some cases, my stories are just waiting on me to return to them, set them right, and send them off.
But my fears keep me from taking those steps. I don't know why I am afraid, but I am. I am afraid of failing, and of succeeding! How's that for a state of inertia? If I don't do it, I chastise myself. If I do it, I chastise myself! Talk about no-win!
I have challenged myself to work on these stories, but still, I procrastinate and find other things to do. The laundry. Painting the bathroom. Cleaning out the junk drawer. Writing the nonfiction that pays the bills. The stories are there and I'm a fairly good writer. So what, pray tell, is the problem?
I write nonfiction. I write a *lot* of nonfiction, actually. I average about 250 articles a year, and have for several years. My markets are local, though, and I don't need an agent for that.
However, tucked away in a drawer is a book or three. Half-written and half-formulated in some cases, my stories are just waiting on me to return to them, set them right, and send them off.
But my fears keep me from taking those steps. I don't know why I am afraid, but I am. I am afraid of failing, and of succeeding! How's that for a state of inertia? If I don't do it, I chastise myself. If I do it, I chastise myself! Talk about no-win!
I have challenged myself to work on these stories, but still, I procrastinate and find other things to do. The laundry. Painting the bathroom. Cleaning out the junk drawer. Writing the nonfiction that pays the bills. The stories are there and I'm a fairly good writer. So what, pray tell, is the problem?
Friday, August 11, 2006
Santillane
Santillane is an historic old home outside of Fincastle. An article in today's Roanoke Times reminded me of the house and a story I wrote in 2005.
The house is famous because the wife of William Clark, Judith Hancock, lived there. William Clark would be the Clark in "Lewis and Clark," those intrepid explorers who went west of the Mississippi on a mission from President Jefferson. They were exploring the Louisiana Purchase.
I like history and am surrounded by it here. It lends itself to tourism and I think the county is (finally) looking in that direction as a revenue source. History is an asset, but the county has ignored it. Hopefully that will change.
The house is famous because the wife of William Clark, Judith Hancock, lived there. William Clark would be the Clark in "Lewis and Clark," those intrepid explorers who went west of the Mississippi on a mission from President Jefferson. They were exploring the Louisiana Purchase.
I like history and am surrounded by it here. It lends itself to tourism and I think the county is (finally) looking in that direction as a revenue source. History is an asset, but the county has ignored it. Hopefully that will change.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
In Memory
This weekend, a "cyber" friend killed herself. I have been stunned by this event, even though I did not know this woman "in real life." She called herself "Xalaska"; her real name was Susan.
I met her through the part of the Internet called the "Xenaverse," which is to say, we both shared a love of the TV show, Xena: Warrior Princess. I knew of her long before we shared private conversations and a telephone call. She was everywhere, it seemed, involved and chatty and glad to be talking to you.
But things fell apart and she took her own life. She was a physician by trade, and loved her work in a small town in Alaska. She wrote eloquently of the hardships, of trying to save lives and make existence better for others. That she could not do that for herself is staggering to me.
None of us who corresponded with her could what was happening. She had terrible physical pain from a gastric bypass surgery gone awry, for one thing. She also owed the government thousands for her education.
That would be enough to drive anyone to the brink. I am sorry, though, that she couldn't reach out and find help from someone, anyone. Especially since so many online knew her and cared about her. An online memorial to her is here.
I am angry at a medical establishment that condones such surgeries. I do not know if Susan's surgery was necessary, but I think it must have hastened her death. I am sure there are such surgeries that are life or death, but it seems to me most are aimed at women who are overweight and unable to live up to society's ideals of "slim" and "beautiful." How dare a doctor utter the Hippocratic Oath and then mutilate in the name of beauty?
I am also angry at a wealthy nation that has an educational system that puts its smartest and wisest in the position of being in intolerable debt. Why can't we put people through school without this burden? Why must our physicians be forced to shuttle patients through in rapid order so they can meet their educational obligations? What is it worth to the public to educate and train good doctors who will then stay alive and practice good medicine?
I fear this country has some wrong-headed perogatives. And every single day, someone else falls to the axe, a pawn in a great game that only a few understand.
I met her through the part of the Internet called the "Xenaverse," which is to say, we both shared a love of the TV show, Xena: Warrior Princess. I knew of her long before we shared private conversations and a telephone call. She was everywhere, it seemed, involved and chatty and glad to be talking to you.
But things fell apart and she took her own life. She was a physician by trade, and loved her work in a small town in Alaska. She wrote eloquently of the hardships, of trying to save lives and make existence better for others. That she could not do that for herself is staggering to me.
None of us who corresponded with her could what was happening. She had terrible physical pain from a gastric bypass surgery gone awry, for one thing. She also owed the government thousands for her education.
That would be enough to drive anyone to the brink. I am sorry, though, that she couldn't reach out and find help from someone, anyone. Especially since so many online knew her and cared about her. An online memorial to her is here.
I am angry at a medical establishment that condones such surgeries. I do not know if Susan's surgery was necessary, but I think it must have hastened her death. I am sure there are such surgeries that are life or death, but it seems to me most are aimed at women who are overweight and unable to live up to society's ideals of "slim" and "beautiful." How dare a doctor utter the Hippocratic Oath and then mutilate in the name of beauty?
I am also angry at a wealthy nation that has an educational system that puts its smartest and wisest in the position of being in intolerable debt. Why can't we put people through school without this burden? Why must our physicians be forced to shuttle patients through in rapid order so they can meet their educational obligations? What is it worth to the public to educate and train good doctors who will then stay alive and practice good medicine?
I fear this country has some wrong-headed perogatives. And every single day, someone else falls to the axe, a pawn in a great game that only a few understand.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Moo, I say!
We raise beef cattle. They are not organic, which I regret, but I am not in charge of raising the cows.
The cows get a series of shots, all duly recorded. We keep track of ours with little tags in their ears; my father-in-law, apparently, is not so anal in his record keeping, as I don't see tags in the ears of these cows. Maybe they fell out.
The calf, that's the very front cow with its rear pointing toward you, is eating, and he's nearly big enough to be weaned. Looks like a trip to the stockyard will be happening soon. But prices have dropped a bit; not good news.
The nationwide drought is forcing farmers to sell livestock because there is not enough feed for winter. We are in that position ourselves. If the next cutting doesn't produce the needed bales, we will have to sell out, too.
The cows get a series of shots, all duly recorded. We keep track of ours with little tags in their ears; my father-in-law, apparently, is not so anal in his record keeping, as I don't see tags in the ears of these cows. Maybe they fell out.
The calf, that's the very front cow with its rear pointing toward you, is eating, and he's nearly big enough to be weaned. Looks like a trip to the stockyard will be happening soon. But prices have dropped a bit; not good news.
The nationwide drought is forcing farmers to sell livestock because there is not enough feed for winter. We are in that position ourselves. If the next cutting doesn't produce the needed bales, we will have to sell out, too.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
My impatiens
We are having rain. I am very grateful, because we've had terribly dry weather. The hay crop has suffered for sure. Maybe this will give us a better chance at wintering the cows, anyway.
I love my flowers, especially my impatiens. What a riot of color! I enjoy seeing them every time I pull into the driveway. They are quite cheerful.
I love my flowers, especially my impatiens. What a riot of color! I enjoy seeing them every time I pull into the driveway. They are quite cheerful.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Butterfly
I saw an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail in the field sucking nectar from a thistle bush. I had a difficult time getting a picture as I have no telephoto lens. Creeping up on a butterfly is not an easy thing to do.
I took a long walk through the cow pastures. Walking the cow pastures is a challenge. The ground is uneven and there are all kinds of surprises. Thorn bushes, thistles, cow patties. High grass buzzing with grasshoppers. Rocks.
I am sad to note that the doe I saw wandering around the house this weekend has lost her fawn. I saw it dead along side the road. I feared that might be the case when I kept seeing her without it. Poor Mom Deer looked so lost. I know I'm supposedly just projecting human feelings onto animals but I believe they do feel and notice things.
For instance, once my mother killed a mouse and tossed it outside. An hour later, a number of mice gathered around the little body in a circle. We watched, amazed. They were there for a few moments and then hurried off. We were sure they were having a funeral.
The deer seem to know when one of their own is killed. My husband is a hunter, and he once saw a doe nose at a downed buck in effort to see if he was alive. And then she watched as he took the buck away. He swore she was upset about it.
I have danced with the deer myself. I know how to stand still and watch them. They get very close if you're quiet and nonthreatening. I have even called them from the woods by playing my guitar.
I took a long walk through the cow pastures. Walking the cow pastures is a challenge. The ground is uneven and there are all kinds of surprises. Thorn bushes, thistles, cow patties. High grass buzzing with grasshoppers. Rocks.
I am sad to note that the doe I saw wandering around the house this weekend has lost her fawn. I saw it dead along side the road. I feared that might be the case when I kept seeing her without it. Poor Mom Deer looked so lost. I know I'm supposedly just projecting human feelings onto animals but I believe they do feel and notice things.
For instance, once my mother killed a mouse and tossed it outside. An hour later, a number of mice gathered around the little body in a circle. We watched, amazed. They were there for a few moments and then hurried off. We were sure they were having a funeral.
The deer seem to know when one of their own is killed. My husband is a hunter, and he once saw a doe nose at a downed buck in effort to see if he was alive. And then she watched as he took the buck away. He swore she was upset about it.
I have danced with the deer myself. I know how to stand still and watch them. They get very close if you're quiet and nonthreatening. I have even called them from the woods by playing my guitar.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Our Farm
The land we live on belongs to my in-laws. We rent half of it. It is several hundred acres.
The farm stretches to a distant tree line, leaving vast fields of family property. There is white house under construction, a part of four plots of land that had to be sold as directed under Grandma's will. The land was bequeathed to my husband's aunts, who wanted nothing more than the dollars. They also wanted a lot more money than any of us could come up with to purchase the property so it would remain part of the farm.
The sale included the old family home, an 1810 structure made of bricks. The bricks were made by hand from mud on the farm. The walls of the house are 18 inches thick.
The famly is, as the saying goes, land rich and cash poor. Most small farmers find themselves with that problem, I think.
If you look closely, you'll see on the left that a power line runs through the property. You can hear it buzz when you walk under the lines. It is a main artery for the area and when it goes out so do the lights for miles around.
I fear one day this land will all be a subdivision, with lots of new houses. But that is not my decision or my choice; I truly have no say in the matter. Meanwhile, I enjoy the serenity, the tranquility, and the lessons the land brings forth each day. The wisdom of nature of boundless. I must always remember to listen.
The farm stretches to a distant tree line, leaving vast fields of family property. There is white house under construction, a part of four plots of land that had to be sold as directed under Grandma's will. The land was bequeathed to my husband's aunts, who wanted nothing more than the dollars. They also wanted a lot more money than any of us could come up with to purchase the property so it would remain part of the farm.
The sale included the old family home, an 1810 structure made of bricks. The bricks were made by hand from mud on the farm. The walls of the house are 18 inches thick.
The famly is, as the saying goes, land rich and cash poor. Most small farmers find themselves with that problem, I think.
If you look closely, you'll see on the left that a power line runs through the property. You can hear it buzz when you walk under the lines. It is a main artery for the area and when it goes out so do the lights for miles around.
I fear one day this land will all be a subdivision, with lots of new houses. But that is not my decision or my choice; I truly have no say in the matter. Meanwhile, I enjoy the serenity, the tranquility, and the lessons the land brings forth each day. The wisdom of nature of boundless. I must always remember to listen.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
A New Beginning
Today I leave behind my AOL Journal and begin anew. I think it will be a good move because of AOL's new "free" promotion. I liked the AOL Journal but blogspot.com seems to give me more control.
I had several readers with AOL and I hope they migrate with me. I plan to explore blogspot.com and make new friends, too. It is a big world out there; I aim to explore.
I live on a farm in southwestern Virginia in a county outside of Roanoke. My in-laws own this farm. My husband and I have 70 cows; we rent the property. My father-in-law has a herd, too. It is a rural area that is turning suburban with each passing day. Houses pop up like mushrooms as folks move in from the city.
I am a freelance writer. I write for the local weekly paper. This is low-paying part-time work that I hold quite dear. Local government is very interesting and it is the true foundation of the U.S. Here is where the real work is done, and where the things that really affect you and your neighbor take place (well, except for votes on minimum wage). I use my words to teach, to explain, to comment, to urge, to suggest, and to point out the obvious. News writing is a powerful vehicle.
My husband is a farmer, a ditch digger, and a firefighter. The latter job really pays the bills. The other two jobs are his loves, I think. Well, besides me.
We have no children, not by choice. We love our life, though. We dote on our nephews and our niece and try to be a good aunt and uncle. We care for my in-laws, who are in their 70s.
I will, I hope, write about all of this, and more. Politically I lean moderately left. That means I dislike most of what's going on in the world today, but not all of it. I don't know how you can see the things I have seen and not lean left. But that's a subject for another day.
I had several readers with AOL and I hope they migrate with me. I plan to explore blogspot.com and make new friends, too. It is a big world out there; I aim to explore.
I live on a farm in southwestern Virginia in a county outside of Roanoke. My in-laws own this farm. My husband and I have 70 cows; we rent the property. My father-in-law has a herd, too. It is a rural area that is turning suburban with each passing day. Houses pop up like mushrooms as folks move in from the city.
I am a freelance writer. I write for the local weekly paper. This is low-paying part-time work that I hold quite dear. Local government is very interesting and it is the true foundation of the U.S. Here is where the real work is done, and where the things that really affect you and your neighbor take place (well, except for votes on minimum wage). I use my words to teach, to explain, to comment, to urge, to suggest, and to point out the obvious. News writing is a powerful vehicle.
My husband is a farmer, a ditch digger, and a firefighter. The latter job really pays the bills. The other two jobs are his loves, I think. Well, besides me.
We have no children, not by choice. We love our life, though. We dote on our nephews and our niece and try to be a good aunt and uncle. We care for my in-laws, who are in their 70s.
I will, I hope, write about all of this, and more. Politically I lean moderately left. That means I dislike most of what's going on in the world today, but not all of it. I don't know how you can see the things I have seen and not lean left. But that's a subject for another day.
Friday, August 04, 2006
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