Switched At Birth

Intruders

Thursday morning. Just slightly over 200 feet in front of our house. Did you know that when the county wants to take an 80 foot by 2000 foot chunk for a major road right out of the heart of that land you call home, that Longleaf pine preserve within a hundred acre wood with your dwelling on one side and the natural spring on the other, they have the force of law to come out and hack their way through the line they want before you even get to fight about it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the crew left late yesterday afternoon, Buck and I picked our way through the tunnel they had cut.

Denny Coates Returns to the Blogsphere

I am so pleased to share this great news with you. Denny's new blog is called Building Personal Strength. Yes, Denny brings more than 35 years as a learning and development professional, a CEO, a writer, and a passionate teacher and mentor to his blog, but enlightened self-interest is the number one reason you should become a regular reader. It's kind of like high-fiber cereal topped with dark chocolate curls and a glass of red wine on the side, all served in an artisan's pottery bowl: good for you,  entertaining, satisfying and original. 

"Personal strengths are behavior patterns that we ingrain throughout our lives, such as compassion, courage, patience, composure, self-discipline, and dozens more. Like knowledge, skills, values, attitudes and forms of power, personal strengths help us be more effective when working through tough challenges.

For each person, some patterns will be stronger than others. And just like any aspect of physical strength, through repetition you can build up any aspect of personal strength."  Denny Coates at Building Personal Strength

Last May, I celebrated the inaugural edition of novelist Kathleen Scott's new blog, Hill Country Mysteries, and hinted that Denny might be returning to the blogosphere. Here is what I said then:

It feels like coming home again, the home we want to see as we approach from wandering in the wilderness, candle in the window, dear faces peering out into the night, guiding our way with their yearning hearts. Coming home to folks who know us by our words over time. Honest brokers who report from the front lines of their own lives. The kind of people you would drive cross-country to break bread with because you have come to respect and appreciate their clear-eyed intelligence, character and courage. . . even though you have never met.

Who in the world am I talking about? Kathleen Scott has a new blog, Hill Country Mysteries. Her husband, Denny Coates, who has been sorely missed from the blogosphere since retiring his Book of Life in July of 2004, is working on an innovative concept for his (we hope we hope) return to blogging.

Denny, Kathleen and I began our virtual friendship back in 2004, when they were living on South Florida's Atlantic Coast. Denny's blog had a section for Kathleen's healthful recipes and often his words were punctuated by her photographs. Love of nature, life and each other illuminated the pages of Book of Life. Any day you read Denny's blog was a day you found a bit more strength and joy for the journey.

Kathleen and Denny share my own curiosity about the natural world. I wrote a post called "Exploration" in April of 2004. Kathleen's comment on that post tells you a lot about her uplifting personality and grace. 2004 was Florida's time in the hurricane barrel: we endured Hurricanes Charley, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne.  Denny, Kathleen and I -- along with many others -- chronicled the storms' devastation and our personal responses to them.  "Holding the Mirror"  was one of my posts. It included post-hurricane excerpts from both Kathleen and Denny.

If you used to read Book of Life, you will be celebrating to learn that Denny's strong, wise voice may be returning to the blogosphere. Start the party early by enjoying Kathleen's blog. She and Denny are living in the wildflower capitol of the world now: the Hill Country of Texas, where Kathleen is close to completing her first mystery novel, set in, naturally, a small town in the Texas Hill Country. I can hardly wait to read it. Click here to visit Kathleen. Be sure to leave a comment and introduce yourself.

 
    Kathleen Scott and Denny Coates from their home in the Texas Hill Country

p.s. Kathleen recently finished her first novel. You can read some excerpts and posts about her process at Hill Country Mysteries.

ReadWritePoem

The folks at

have a cool prompt today: 

What did you do with your dreams this week? Was it difficult to translate your dreams into poetry? Were you surprised by what you came up with? Shocked? Frightened? Delighted?

Readwritepoem is a unique, volunteer gathering of poets and folks who love poetry. Click here to learn more about their mission.

They have a warm and welcoming spirit that extends to those of us non-poets who occasionally write a poem-like phrase and who have respect and affection for poets. Like me!

I'm going to jump in and participate in today's prompt with a new dream, , Funeral Food, posted yesterday at False Dawn and an old dream, The August Dream, posted on this blog in, well, August (fancy that).

These don't quite fit the prompt, in that they are simply a transcription of the dream or twilight experience itself with no translation into poetry. "Funeral Food" was surprising in two ways: it was lovely to wake up tasting warm peach pie, but I got a psychic whiplash when my sister wrote to advise that someone did die in Mississippi -- not actually one of my mother's relatives, but the wife of her first husband. Strange, anyway.  "The August Dream" was bizarre, but delightful. Reading back over it today, it still has the feel of one of those iconic dreams that has messages and layers of meaning, a field day for you know who.

Click on the badge below to find a portal to wonderful writing and a vibrant artistic community.

Night Lights

Tropical Storm Ida, our November almost-hurricane, left a few homes without power, some docks under water, and some small inconvenience. She shook us up a little, put all the emergency services through their paces, and caused me for once in my life to do a week's worth of grocery shopping on Monday morning.

I'm thinking about storytelling on this windy, gray afternoon, and how the repetition of our personal narratives becomes, over time, emblematic of our unique (however tiny) imprimatur upon the universe, iconic beacons in the dark night of humanity.

Buck and I were at the Sugar Shack Sunday afternoon and evening. Click here to drop in for a virtual glass of red.

Somebody Tell Ida We Don't Do November Hurricanes

There is an edgy feel to the traffic today.  Vehicles almost running stop signs, short bursts of speed for no apparent reason, cars cutting their turns short. Pre-storm behavior. I've seen it before. I am only surprised when there is not a line at the gas station or the bank ATM.

The grocery store parking lot is full, but people are buying party food: chips and dip and beer are going out the door in greater volume than gallons of water and canned mystery meat. It's hard to have conviction about a November hurricane.

Besides, Ida is such a wholesome name. If this storm 's name was Jezebel or Buster, I would worry that it would be a trickster. Mid-afternoon here, and it looks like Ida is continuing to weaken. It has already been downgraded from a hurricane to a tropical storm. Still, schools are closed today and tomorrow. Buck and I haven't decided yet whether to label and pull down all the plastic doors enclosing the pool. It will be a pain to go out in the rain and lug those doors into the little red storage building. But it will be a worse pain to go chasing after them in the middle of an early-morning landfall if we guess wrong.

Despite Ida's honest-sounding name, we have gassed up the car, gotten a little cash, bought a new battery for the generator, and picked up enough groceries to feed the multitudes. I didn't buy party food. I bought a chicken and a pork tenderloin to roast, ground beef for chili and meatloaf, canned salmon, eggs and veggies, that kind of stuff.

It's dark as night outside. The deer came out for a quick graze during a lull in the rain. They ran around in short, fast bursts that reminded me of the storm-neurotic drivers I saw earlier in the day.

Last night we sat on the dock at the Sugar Shack. The slow gray waves looked like a little weather was on the way. We watched as lights came on at homes across the water on the Alabama side of the bay. They were in various shades of yellow, white, lavender and blue and looked like a necklace strung with semi-precious stones. 

Sweet Maggie on the Green

There is a spot in our woods where lush grass grows. The roots stay slightly damp, but a broad open area in the tree canopy lets the sun in to warm the blades. Every time we go there, Maggie runs into the tall grass at full speed, then jumps around in the grass like a dog with pogo stick legs. I'm sure she smells creatures in there, but she has never emerged with anything. Looks like fun. 

In this same area, squirrels have turned a tree knocked down by Hurricane Ivan into an al fresco dining room. See here what's left of a pine cone dinner. 

The wild turkeys have grown so bold (or comfortable), they are walking right down the middle of the road. This turkey track is embedded within a truck tire tread. Looks like an arrow, doesn't it? 

Post restored from lost archive. Originally written March 17, 2005.

Tools in the Toolbox

I am seeing woodpeckers high up in the standing snags in one particular neighborhood of the woods. It is a circular cul de sac, formed by a convergence of fire line paths. To my naked eye, they look rather dull colored, except when they fly. Then, I see white patches on their wings.

I have taken a few pictures of them, but without a telephoto lens and more knowledge than I have, the birds remain dull colored and incognito in the morning light.

Buck reminds me that we have a fine pair of small Leica binoculars. He finds them for me, unzips the case, unwinds the cord, and drapes them over my neck. "There, now. Go out and identify your bird."

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this.

The contrast between my naked eye's ability to see and the reality brought in close by those binoculars was staggering. The birds' color blocks were so sharp, they looked like paint by number birds.

We all have forgotten tools in our toolboxes. Scratch around. Never know what you'll find.

A lost post restoration, originally written May 17, 2005.

Color Weather Radar

God, what a sunset. A thin yellow laser beam shoots across my shoulder as I sit on the sofa. It beams straight across and pins a dotted sixteenth note on the Antonio Soler Sonata in G Major where it rests on the old piano. Only ten minutes ago, a hard sideways rain was loud here in the cottage, waves of sound announcing its approach. It dissipated quickly, leaving the woods washed clean.

Buck and I step outside and look around in wonder at the blue sky streaked with dark clouds. A preternatural stillness frames the dark trees. They are shot through with sun gold.

Today is another "lost post" restoration Saturday. This one was originally posted on September 2, 2004. Didn't know it at the time, but Florida was in the middle of the worst hurricane season on record. Charley had already hit, Frances was about to, Ivan was two weeks away and Jeanne would be the last

We live in the extreme northwestern tip of Florida, the so-called panhandle, hundreds of miles from the current predicted path of Hurricane Frances. We have friends whose home on Pine Island near Naples was miraculously spared when Hurricane Charley hit. They have a second home in the Florida Keys, an investment property that is rented out most of the year. They also have a motor home, and ferry between their two properties with their doberman pinscher, the gentle Gussie. We talked to them today, asking whether they are running to or from the storm, or if they are just stuck in traffic. They are both scuba divers and plan to bring a cooler of just-caught Florida lobsters to us when they stop by for a sleepover on their way to a relative's wedding in Tennessee.

I ordered a box of organic fruits and greens as our contribution to the festivities, to honor the pristine lobsters with fine, fresh, simple accompaniments. It won't arrive until early next week due to storm worries. Because of the storm itself and the wedding schedule, our friends won't arrive until the first of next week either.  At this point, the niceties of dinner party planning go by the boards anyway. We just want everyone to be safe.

Florida is like New York state in one respect. People who don't know New York think the City is the whole state. Upstate is a world away. Florida is like that. It's not just Miami or Mickey. Pensacola is much closer in miles and heart to New Orleans.

For now, our weather report for the weekend is a big smiling sunshine face. That said, the only weather report I fully trust is the sun or rain on my nose, and the wind in our own trees.

Our friends, Denny Coates (known to many of you, an author and former Book of Life blogger) and his wife, the excellent photographer Kathleen Scott, are out there in the great Somewhere tonight, taking care of themselves and their feline friends, probably in Savannah, Georgia. They had to leave their beautiful garden, library, art work, photos and beloved home on the Indian River to seek the necessary higher ground to ensure they can live to love another day.

We wish them and all on the planet safe harbor, especially the hostage Russian babies. 

Note:  Denny is blogging again! I'll tell you all about it in a post upcoming shortly. Stay tuned!

Gift from Eleanor

I move easily. I jump, run, dash up and down stairs, sit on the floor and rise unassisted. I hear well - Buck swears I have sonar - and see well enough with the eyeglasses that correct my nearsightedness. I am well-educated and have sufficient mental acuity to take care of myself in most situations. It is, in short, hard for anyone to even try to take advantage of me. And no one does. I am almost 53.* Not young. Not old. A fully grown bear, you might say. A superb age, really. *This post is another recovered from the lost archive. It was originally written on February 3, 2004 (when I really was 53).

This morning, I was reminded of how many other, less comfortable, moccasins are out there that folks are walking in every day.

Eleanor had been sitting in her wheelchair at the medical center laboratory for almost two hours. Blood had already been drawn. She was still there because a "transporter" had not arrived to push her wheelchair from the lab on the third floor down the hall to an elevator and from there to the first floor lobby, where a driver from her nursing home was to meet her.

Buck and I arrived one and a half hours into Eleanor's ordeal. Buck had to give the lab a little blood for routine annual testing. Since there were quite a few folks ahead of him, he ran off to take care of another errand. I was comfortable, and so stayed put, thinking it might be a good time to scribble in my notebook.

I noticed Eleanor right away, struck by her beauty. Just guessing, I would put her age and weight both at about ninety. Short silver hair highlighted her fine features. Bright eyes matched her blue-violet soft velvet top. She sat alone, wheelchair bound, in the middle of the waiting room.

I saw Eleanor lift a small hand to catch the attention of a passing technician and murmur an inquiry. In the too loud voice often used to speak to people in wheelchairs - as though being hard of hearing came with the chair - the technician said, "I've called the transporter station twice." I could hear the tech's put-upon sounding, exaggerated sigh. "I'll try again."

Ten more minutes passed.

A gentler individual came out to tell Eleanor that the recorded voice-message style center for the transporter staff had been malfunctioning and that was why it was taking so long. But, she assured Eleanor, it was now operating properly and another call had been made. Upon hearing this latest news, Eleanor continued to maintain her dignity, but was clearly uncomfortable. Most everyone else in the room had their hands full with their own difficulties, many with walkers or physical frailty. Everyone but me.

I walked over. "Are you trying to get downstairs?"

"Yes," she replied in a clear, lovely voice which revealed what sounded to my ear like an eastern European heritage, "Just to the lobby, where a driver is supposed to meet me."

"Would it be okay with you if I go downstairs with you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" she said.

"That's it, then. Let's go," I said, draping my handbag cross-ways over my shoulder.

I introduced myself while we waited for the elevator. "I'm Eleanor," she said, twisting her tiny head around to look at me. The door opened. "Did you know I was waiting there for almost two hours?"

We arrived at the first floor.  As we rounded the corner in the lobby, a pleasant, curly-haired fellow walked straight to us. "Eleanor!" he called out. "Where have you been?" He was her driver.

I said goodbye to Eleanor, and expressed my hope that the second half of her day would be better than the first. She reached up, gasped my hand with surprising strength, and smiled deeply into my eyes. "Thank you, Beth. I know it will be."

I took the stairs back up to the waiting room and was sitting deep in thought when Buck returned from his errand. He apologized for keeping me waiting. I just smiled.

Struggle, Beauty, Perhaps Art

Just so you don't have the wrong impression, it's not all fawns on the lawn here at Longleaf. We work at our desks five days a week from 7 AM CST until 3:30 PM CST. Like most folks, the "brain time" spent thinking about the work spills over into nights and weekends, too.

After selling businesses and retiring from corporate life more than ten years ago, Buck and I learned to supplement income and hang on to savings by investing in the stock market. Yes (gasp). The Market. It's what we do, during good times, bad times, near Armageddon times, and back-from-the-brink times. 

Some days it's fun. Some days it's hell. We joke about donning hard hats, combat boots and flak jackets before sitting down to work. Our computers are at opposite ends of a folding office supply house table. A table-top television sits between us, where it stays on CNBC business news all day and Bloomberg all night. I have developed a bad (bad, bad, very bad) habit of peeking at international and pre-market futures from my cell phone in the middle of the night.

Most writers have demanding non-writing jobs, or young children, or debilitating illness, or inhospitable partners, or an insidious voice inside their own heads that dishonors their efforts, or grinding poverty that denies them the most basic tools, or some other barrier.

There's an old expression: "It takes a lot of dirt to grow pretty roses." We are not children. We are not hot house flowers, writing lyric essays in a vacuum. We are in the world. We are of the world. And we are all really something.