Sunday, January 31, 2010

Fungus on a Futon

How much soup can one make? How much material for writing can one find when one can’t get out and about? How much reading can one do in a day? How many hours can one hold the phone to one’s ear? Solitude doesn’t agree with me, although Richard believes he thrives on it.

I figure that I’m as much of a butterfly as I’m ever going to be. Staying in a cocoon all winter won’t make me beautiful or graceful. In fact, I’ll emerge that much older and uglier from the passing of time and the pull of gravity – not to mention what the dry heat does to one’s skin. Of course, dry heat does beat cold and moldy.

Maybe if I spend the day entering and organizing the photos I took during the holidays, I’ll be in a better frame of mind. But, then again, maybe I’ll start pining for my family that is back at their homes far from me. Richard’s fond of pointing out that even good stress is still stress. And he’s said that I should avoid all emotional moments until my blood pressure is under control. Who does he think he’s dealing with?

Feeling is my fuel for everything; I don’t even get out of bed until I feel like it’s time. I know other people are motivated by something other than their emotions, but I just don’t seem to be able to reach that level of maturity. The closest I can come is to reframe my feelings to make me do things I wouldn’t, otherwise, be willing to do. Sometimes, once I convince myself that I’m willing to do something, I can also enjoy doing it. The next time I’m faced with the situation, I may even want to do whatever I was previously avoiding.

I have paperwork to do, and paperwork to file. I should be able to do those things without any emotion, but, no. Anything that has to do with money makes me extremely nervous, and most of our paperwork has to do with finances. I’d delegate this job to Richard, but it would make me and him very tense for me to try explaining my filing system.

I could begin interviewing for the book I’m helping a grieving mother write about her police hero son, but that’s bound to get me all emotional. Even reading about current affairs seems to spike my pressure, and I don’t enjoy romance novels. Face book is full of other people’s tales, but then I tend to get emotional about our correspondence.

Since we don’t have a hot tub or a Jacuzzi to bathe away the tension, maybe I’ll peddle my way to peace on Richard’s stationary bike while reading about Greg Mortensen’s school building in Afghanistan, as told in Three Cups of Tea. I’ve gotta find something to do other than sit. Otherwise, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be a fungus on our futon by spring.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Winter White

Snow coming down in fleece blankets;
Pines and hemlocks frosted in white.
Buster is huddled on blankets,
As if were already night.

The squirrels must have hidden in their
Nests filled with our sunflower seeds.
Bird feeder’s guaranteed squirrel proof --
A warning the rodents do not heed.

Finches feeding in our branches
Stopped eating when the snow began.
Being outside in this weather
Isn’t fit for beast or for man.

Gypsy in Pyrenees heaven,
Covered in snow white as her coat.
The cat is not having much fun;
It is good that dogs cannot gloat.

The driveway was graveled today;
We’re lucky the good weather held.
The mud will only get worse as
The snow blanket begins to melt.

Richard made deliveries of soup,
Thinking the roads would be okay.
He arrived home very impressed
How much snow fall had come to stay.

Oh, winter! It’s surely winter
On our mountain in Tennessee.
As we peer out the windows we
Have no place we would rather be.

Friday, January 29, 2010

What, Me Worry?

I’m not really complaining, I just saying…

Josie’s right; one of the worst things about getting older is how much time we have to spend seeing doctors. Now, it’s not that I have anything against doctors; some of our best friends are medical practitioners. It’s just that all this focus on our bodies leaves little time to develop our souls.

It doesn’t help that all of our doctors are over an hour’s drive each way. We do try to make it more pleasant by stopping for a meal either on the way there or the way back. Sometimes, we do a little shopping, and we’re considering taking in a movie on our next medical excursion.

We had a pleasant enough visit with the primary care doctor that we visited, but we know that good bedside manner doesn’t always translate to competent care. I hope that we won’t have a need to find out how competent he is anytime soon, but we do have someone to call next time we’re in need.

This should have been very calming news, so why did I end up at my cardiologist the next day with high blood pressure? I just had my annual visit with my gynecologist less than a week before, and my blood pressure was normal.

Could it have been all the thoughts of New Orleans that put me into such a state? Or did I really get that excited over the pressure cooker soup project? Maybe it was the anticipation of Richard’s first foray into bread making…
Whatever it was, it changed our rhythm for the day. Rather than cocooning with Jack’s stories, we were once again running the roads.

The cardiology triage nurse and nurse practitioner were both very cautious, which I certainly appreciate. In making the decision to bring me in, they took into account the length of time since my last appointment, the winter weather heading into our area, the length of time it takes us to make the drive, and the proximity of my call to the week-end.

Now, I’m officially an old person. I’m on beta blockers for a racing heart and blood pressure regulator to keep me from feeling like a pressure cooker about to explode. And I have to take another road trip to the cardiologist’s office in another week.

Richard is insisting that I take it easy until my blood pressure medication kicks in. This won’t be difficult to do if we get iced in again. All of this medical muck and winter storm mud is certainly slowing my life down. I can either keep straining at the bit or go with the flow. God certainly has His ways of showing me whose boss.

He even sent our firewood provider to make sure we had enough firewood for the coming storm the night before my blood pressure episode. With a pot full of soup, an oven full of bread, and a fire in the fireplace, what’s to worry about?

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Beef, Barley, and Bread

If this isn’t soup weather coming on, I don’t know what is. My favorite winter soup to make is beef and barley, so rich with beef, so creamy with barley, so healthy with all the vegetables included in the mix. Time to take out the pressure cooker.

There’s nothing like a pressure cooker for tenderizing beef. My mother could get dinner for eleven on the table in less than an hour with the use of a pressure cooker. This was very important, since my mother was what my daddy called a social butterfly. We always ate supper at six, so if she flew in at five, she could still serve dinner promptly with her Presto.

Richard had a pressure cooker when I met him. This pleased and surprised me; how many single men know what to do with such a pot? That pot bailed me out of more than one tight spot, like the New Year’s Day that seventy-five people came to our open house and stayed all day. Twice, I ran out of black-eyed peas and cabbage, the traditional fare for New Year’s Day in New Orleans (The peas for luck, and the cabbage for money). Neither time was noticed, as I saved the day with the help of friends in the kitchen and my Presto.

The mermaids took our magic pot, along with everything else in Hurricane Katrina. That was okay with me, as long as we lived in an RV, but not so much after settling in Tennessee Mountain Home. Our chef friend Holly came to the rescue for our first Coker Creek Christmas. She didn’t even have a pressure cooker of her own, but she knew how much mine had meant to me. She gifted us with our current cooker, and has since become a fan of the Presto method of meat preparation. When Holly and I spent too much time getting our hair cut and shopping last week-end, her pressure cooker and her husband Don saved the day, and her short ribs.

I love the soothing sound of the pressure valve rocking while my beef becomes fork tender, and the onions, barley and garlic become silky and soft. As supper time draws closer, I add Richard’s perfectly diced carrots and celery and a bit of Worcestershire sauce. When the vegetables are just tender, a bit of salt and black pepper seal the deal. With a nice bread, supper is served.

I had been considering purchasing a bread machine for Richard, especially since I found out that our cooking-challenged friend Chuck had taken to making bread with a machine. I’ve been hesitant to give up the kitchen space for a machine that Richard may not use, so it’s wonderful that Mountaintop Mary lent us her bread maker. We have the flour and the yeast…

I can’t wait to have the combined scents of beef and barley soup and fresh yeast bread wafting through the house as I sit at the computer with Jack’s latest tales.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Super Bowl Saints

New Orleans will rise again! Not only did my home city win a slot in the Super Bowl, my son won a chance to purchase two tickets to the game. He’s giving his lottery slots to his dad who has been waiting for this moment from the first time the Saints ran onto the field. Many said that the Saints would go to the Super Bowl when Hell froze over. Maybe it’s because of global warming, but Hell has frozen over.

We’re not football fans, but we are definitely fans of New Orleans. Anything that can give help restore the spirit of “the city that care forgot” to the Crescent City has to be a good thing. Win or lose, New Orleans beloved team finally made it to the big time. This year, the week after the Super Bowl is Mardi Gras. I suspect that New Orleanians will party straight through from one event to the other.

I may have to roll down south myself just to soak up some of that attitude. It would be nice to experience some of the South Louisiana version of survival skills; no matter what happens, “Let the good times roll.”

While in the New Orleans area, I’d also be soaking up some of that good Cajun, Creole, Italian, Indian, Greek, and Soul food found in the neighborhood restaurants and homes all over town. My granddaughter has a birthday, and my aunt wants me to work with her on a Cajun cookbook, so I have plenty of reasons to head south.

Since it’s doubtful the Richard will want o accompany me, my big sticking point is his emergency care in my absence. Richard is simply incapable of making a big deal of himself, no matter how special he is, medically or otherwise. If only we could train Gypsy to act more like Lassie and run for help whenever her master is in trouble.

Meanwhile, we’re making progress. Our house is flagged with 911 as having a heart transplant patient. EMS has guided me in what to put on Richard’s medical dog tag, which Richard has agreed to wear -- after Adam’s insistence. Mary and Don have edited Richard’s medical records, so the most critical points are on top. We’re going to interview a local primary care doctor, and we have a subscription to a medical air lift program. I’ve tried to convince Richard to wear an “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” button, but that’s where he draws the line. I guess he he’s not ready to feel old just yet.

Whenever Richard gets testy about all this special attention, I offer him the alternative of being with me 24/7 three hundred, sixty five and one quarter days a year. He’s quick to reply to that offer, and not in a positive manner. At least he could pretend he wants me around all the time, but as we know, he never learned to play the dating game.

I hear New Orleans calling my name…

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

My Benevolent Benefactor

Sometimes I just have to remind myself how truly blessed I am. I know that all good things come from God, but they generally come to me through the people in my life. For forty-six years, Richard worked without help from a wife. He saved his money, and kept hoping someone would notice him.

My best friend from high school worked with Richard and thought he was a lot of fun. She decided it was time to find him a wife. After a few false starts, she introduced him to me so I could teach him what mistakes he was making in the dating game. I never did teach him how to play the game because I kept him for myself.

Because of Richard’s hard work, we have a very comfortable life. I woke up in a soft, warm bed this morning, even though the outside temperature is in the twenties. I’ll luxuriate in warm water caressing my skin as I shower. My transportation to wherever I want to go has safe brakes and tires, and Richard just had the oil changed. When I purchase food, fuel or clothing, I never have to worry about paying the bill when it comes.

We take joy in helping the young families with an occasional gift of cash, which was earned and saved by Richard. When I invite more people to eat at our table than our house can handle, Richard is the benevolent benefactor. I may have a computer, the internet, and a telephone without Richard’s generosity, but I sure wouldn’t have the time or energy to write after all day on my feet in some restaurant or catering kitchen.

I’m not yet old enough for tax-payer funded healthcare, or social security, but I am in the fortunate few that don’t have to labor all day outside the house to pay for health insurance or my living expenses. I’m cradled by the quiet all day and night because we don’t have to live in a hub of commerce in order to find meaningful work. I don’t have to lug laundry to town to find a washer and dryer. As I sit in my pajamas in front of a fire, I can be back and forth to the kitchen cooking and cleaning my clothes.

We hear about artists who had patrons to keep their bodies and souls together as they created. I couldn’t have published Jack’s book without Richard’s backing, and now we’re embarking on Jack’s second title.

Richard may ride around in an old Bronco II instead of on a white horse, but he sure saves me from a much more mundane life. And Elaine was right; he is wise and witty. Is it any wonder that I go ballistic when I fear for Richard’s life?

What more could a woman want? It’s amazing to me that I can still be cranky.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Praising the Process

All the way home in the deluge, I could see streams and lakes in the forest that I had never noticed before. In the dead of winter, the lines of sight aren’t obscured by the dense foliage of spring and summer, and without the glare from the sun, a whole new world is opened up to me. It’s a constant reminder that paradise is ever evolving right before our eyes. I was happy to be going home to the holler where there’s a natural rhythm of nature instead of the hustle and bustle of gotta go.

Living in this secluded hamlet in the forest, I’ve realized that we have a new frontier here. Because we’re so isolated from the hubs of commerce and communication, we draw together as neighbors. We have to depend on each other because we may be cut off from the outside world by ice or downed trees without prior notice. “Be prepared” is the Boy Scout motto; it’s a good guide for living in rural America.

Another idea I’m fond of is the Girl Scout goal to leave every place better than you found it. The wonderful thing about living in the lap of nature is how often simply doing no harm allows Mother Earth to continue making herself better than we found her. It takes a lot of pressure off of me in terms of landscape maintenance.
The people who have made this their home for many generations have a lot to teach us about neighborliness and community cooperation. They also have a lot of survival skills to impart to us, if we take the time to watch and listen.

What if our city water systems ran dry or someone poisoned our large water supplies. Mother Nature’s bosom gushes with fresh spring water, waiting to be dipped and carried as Jack does for his drinking water. Water for washing ourselves literally falls from the skies; Jack collects this in rain barrels.

My Cajun grandparents had a cistern for collecting rain water. This provided all their water for drinking, bathing, cooking -- and when they got an indoor potty – flushing. Of course, Grandma had very strict rules about when you could flush, as the cistern was dependent on rainfall to fill it. Maybe we’d have less resistant bacteria in our systems if we consumed more water straight from the hand of God.

Trees have to be felled, cut, and split to feed the fires in Jack’s stoves. I appreciate a heated home more when I see the effort it takes for Jack and his brother Charles put into keeping his home warm. I appreciate my food more knowing that Richard, Mamie, Junior, and I worked together to prepare the soil, plant the seeds, harvest the crops, and cook, can, and freeze the bounty of the earth’s sun, soil, and rain.

I appreciate Charlie and Deborah’s and Mary and Don’s beautiful homes more knowing that Charlie and Don cut down the trees and mill the boards before they build. I love that Don is cutting the stones found on he and Mary’s mountaintop to create his fireplace façade. Maybe if we can learn to appreciate the process, we can keep part of the earth safe for future generations.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Melt-In-My-Mouth Therapy

Jazz with grandgirls and daughter,
Melt-in-our-mouths braised short ribs,
Apple tart, the chef’s ice cream
With Holly, Don, and their friends.
This is winter therapy --
The best of mid-season dreams.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Forget Cabin Fever

I’m not sure how I could have had a more perfect storm of my fears of living in the forest. Driving dark mountain roads to get Richard to the hospital. No major medical facility within an hour’s drive. Icy road conditions not made for Cajun drivers. Doctors who wouldn’t listen. None of our medical friends to pull strings and explain things. Pets who needed tending, and neighbors unable to navigate to our house. Family fuming because we’d moved so far away, and friends fussing because I hadn’t called on them for help. And ice everywhere for days, after I took my convalescing honey home. Forget cabin fever; how do you spell panic?

Last year’s cure for my cabin fever was putting my mind to publishing Jack’s first book while Richard was my own personal wood sprite. As I sat for seemingly endless hours teaching myself the tricks of publishing, Richard, like magic, made marvelous meals appear, kept clean clothes in our closets, and fanned fanciful flames in the fireplace. No wonder I was losing my mind while fearing that I’d lose Richard during our latest medical melee.

I began to write this blog as a way to make my peace with the quiet mountain life. I find myself unable to tolerate sameness and ritual for long without either getting “ants in my pants,” as my teachers used to say, or becoming completely complacent. In spring, summer, and fall, no two days are ever the same when you live this close to nature. Winter, however, can close in on Coker Creek with a blanket of gray above and a mess of mud below us. What were we thinking, moving a solar powered person like moi into the dark?

As it turns out, many people here have cabin fever. Some head to Florida for the winter, but the die-hards and those who grew up here hunker down and handle what’s here: friends, faith, family, and folk arts. Some, like Anita, sew. Some, like Eda, bake. Some, like Mary, make soup. Some, like Jack, spin tales. Mamie makes a point of having friends in for lunch and dinner, and Charlie and Deborah continue their year-round bluegrass and car club adventures. Adam rides the roads as a policeman and one-man community morale booster. Josie celebrates every day that she can get outdoors with photographs of the smallest changes in our many miles of scenery. One thing none of them do is sit around wishing winter was over.

I’m so glad that Jack’s fan club has been clamoring for his next book. There’s no better way to get my mind off the mud than to keep my nose in a manuscript. And every day that the weather permits, I’ll go visit someone with a bit of information or joy to add to the wit and wisdom I’m attempting to amass.

I do hope Richard will still keep the fire burning and cook at least some of the meals.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Cabin and Kitchen Conversations

I was a real country girl today; spending all day visiting. Mountaintop Mary is planning on helping with the typing of Jack’s manuscripts, so we met at Jack’s house and had such a good time chatting with Jack in his cozy living room. It felt like we had our own little writers’ group going. Jack has thirty or so years of writing: poetry, children’s stories and romances waiting to be published. The first step is getting them all digitized.

I thought digitizing would mean re-typing every manuscript, as I did for Jack’s first book. When I began to scan a story to email to Mary, I was having trouble reading the impressions. Jack’s typewriter ribbon is old, and the words on the page are very light. This glitch made me look for a setting that would darken the copied text. I discovered that I can send his typing directly to a Word document. Now, all I need is help scanning, formatting, and editing to publish Jack’s second book. I just love serendipity.

After leaving Jack’s, Mary and I went up the hill to her house where she served me a delicious lunch of turkey soup with what her husband Don calls stuffing dumplings -- Move over matzo balls! Mary is quite the cook and baker; she even bakes her own bread. Since she doesn’t use her bread machine, she lent it to me. Having homemade bread could be dangerous to our waistlines; I guess we’ll be waddling next time we see our friends in Louisiana.

Mary and Don have been applying their experience in emergency medical care to Richard’s records. We should be able to get the information across to the EMTs after Mary and Don are finished fine tuning Richard’s medical history. How lucky we are that Don was a corpsman in the Navy and Mary was an EMT – and they’re willing to share their expertise with us.

Anita’s almost-ninety-year-old mother Eda had sent me a sweet note asking me to drop by for some of her most marvelous biscotti. I hadn’t made time before the holidays to bring them their yearly gift of roasted pecans, so I packed up the pecans and a jar of jam, and headed to their house. I also brought Anita’s husband Ray some Brunswick stew.

We sat at the kitchen table having a wonderful time talking about how much talent there is on this mountain. Anita makes absolutely beautiful quilts, and her mother does all sorts of needlework, in addition to her daily baking and cooking. All these talents to share, and we’re hidden in the hills. We really need to get artists’ retreats going up here.

Not only did I receive biscotti, Eda also gave me her recipe and an invitation to come back and bake with her. She served me her latest creation, Mexican brownies, and packed some for Richard – along with several grapefruits. With all of Eda’s baking, she uses lots of eggs. I can’t wait to introduce her to Mamie, especially since Eda has never had the opportunity to pick up eggs directly from under a chicken. I don’t think anyone should reach their ninetieth birthday without that experience.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Pity Party

I hate that I’m not low profile;
I hate that I am proud.
I hate that I’m not submissive;
I hate that I am loud.
I wish to be a Southern Girl,
Waiting for my master.
I’ve tried this method in the past;
It led to disaster.
Oh, what am I going to do
In this situation?
It appears submissive woman
Is not my vocation.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

EMS and Email

I was extremely impressed when I got a phone call from the 911 center. A woman had been assigned to follow up with me, double checking our address, and making suggestions for better marking our right-of-way. That’s a service I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get in the big city.

The second step of my plan to track down a solution to my worries concerning Richard’s emergency care was to visit the EMS ambulance service. The director of the EMS gave me as much of his time as I needed to plead my case, and had the first responder coordinator sit in. They made several suggestions for making Richard’s medical information obvious to whoever arrives on the scene.

The director has an uncle who received a liver transplant, so he had some knowledge of what we’re up against in terms of special knowledge required for post-transplant medical care. The first responder coordinator lives in Coker Creek, so she has knowledge of our logistics issues for expedient transportation off the mountain.

The next step will be the EMS director talking to the medical air lift helicopter director, and me contacting the director of the private subscription air evacuation service serving Coker Creek. Meanwhile, my concerns are driving Richard to distraction. I think he may rather be dead than have all this attention focused on him. Too bad for him, I don’t feel the same way.

Whenever I talk about the situation Richard involuntarily rolls his eyes and purses his lips. I told him that I saw those eyes rolling and asked if he’d like for me to get him a pair of mirrored sun glasses so I wouldn’t see it. He did like this idea, but I let him know his pursed lips would still be a tell. I offered to give him a big paper bag to cover his face when I bring up these issues. He likes this idea, as long as I give him warning before speaking.

The big problem with that is he’d have another excuse for not hearing a word I said. As my granddaughter Miya says to her brother, “I see your mouth moving, but all I hear is ‘Blah, Blah, Blah , Blah, Blah’.” Or, he might be silently slipping into sleeping while I think I have his rapt attention. Poor thing, I’ve taken to emailing him my worries. Maybe that’s why his computer began shutting down on a regular basis; I melted the hard drive.

I love email communication. I never feel guilty about anything I email to someone. I figure they can read it or not. I also figure they can wait until they’re in the proper frame of mind before reading the missive. It’s great therapy for me; I can get the worry off my mind while it’s still fresh -- like when it awakens me at three in the morning. The recipient has all the time in the world to respond – or not.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Medical Miracles and the Mountains

Josie’s working on a project for me. Adam, who is a policeman, had offered to introduce me to the 911 dispatch team. We’re trying to work out some accommodation for future emergency care for Richard. I invited us over to Adam and Josie’s house for lunch; we’d bring the lunch. We had leftovers of pork tenderloin with apples and cranberries and Brunswick stew. I gave Adam a choice, and he chose both. So, both it was.

We ate the pork over white rice with sides of Josie’s yummy homemade apple sauce and cranberry compote. Even though both Camille and Adam had requested the Brunswick stew alongside the tenderloin, I opted for stowing the stew in Josie’s refrigerator for a future feast. We still had some of Rachel’s ricotta cookies with cherries, so we served these for dessert.

Once we finished lunch, it was about time for Josie’s afternoon siesta. Richard headed over to drop stew and cookies off to Jack and Mamie while I ran the roads with Adam to the dispatch center. The initial reaction of the director upon being told that Richard had a heart transplant and lived in Coker Creek was a bit disconcerting. “Why would anyone with a heart transplant move to Coker Creek?” I admitted that we were still in shock from losing our home in Hurricane Katrina when we made the choice, and that I was beginning to share her doubts about how prudent our choice had been.

Although we didn’t get all the answers we need there, we did accomplish getting one goal. The director of the center flagged Richard’s address as having a post-heart transplant person in residence. She then suggested that I talk with the EMT director.

Mountaintop Mary used to be an EMT in her former home state. She’s looking over the medical records we keep in our freezer for the Air Evac service. I asked her to review the information on Richard’s special medical needs, and prioritize the information from an EMT “need to know” viewpoint, so that we won’t have a repeat of last week’s mistakes. She had told me that having Richard’s address flagged by 911 may be a possibility. I was very pleased when the dispatch director offered to do so with no prompting from me.

I know it would break Richard’s relatively new heart to have to move from the holler. Although I’d be sad, I found out a long time ago that the only losses that I can’t recuperate from are the losses of my people. If I lost Richard, I’d soon lose my Coker Creek neighbors because I would never have the courage to live alone anywhere, much less in the deep dark forest.

Coker Creek has many retirees moving in from major metropolitan areas. Most of them take for granted that there are great trauma and emergency units within a short driving distance. Whatever accommodation can be made for individuals with special needs because of the major medical miracles of today can only increase the value of their lives in their dream homes in the mountains.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Carpe the Cash

This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Not with Richard – we already have a beautiful relationship – but, with my baby sis Camille. I never “got” Camille when she was growing up. I could make most of my other siblings howl with laughter, but not Camille. She’d just sit in her little jumpy seat and study me with her solemn brown eyes. As a toddler, she was very fond of following our mother around. How boring! I was six years old when she came along. I had school and other adventures to pursue.

By the time Camille became a teenager, I was an adult with a husband and house to tend. We entered each other’s lives for short periods over the years, but with Camille’s military service related relocations, her many years of education, her career, and her own husband and child rearing responsibilities, we never had time to explore our adult relationship. I have, however, heard over the years that I’m “just like Camille” – and it never sounded like this was a good thing.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that Camille is smart and funny and cute; and she’s also deeply interested in becoming an arts agent. I have long been a patron of the arts, and have toyed with the idea of expanding my small publishing company to include promoting other arts media. Now that we live in a cradle of creativity, it seems like the perfect time to make that move.

I’ve been in business for myself several times and have managed businesses for others. One thing about which ‘m absolutely positive is that it’s not smart to have a business with one person wearing too many hats. If you’ve ever seen a plate spinner, you know what happens if the entertainer takes a misstep – all the plates fall and break into a bazillion pieces. Richard is my perfect domestic partner and household business partner. I don’t want him to wear too many hats, even though he does have a super large skull housing his super active brain. Besides, he has his own interests including production of a favorite family toy.

Camille’s fortunate enough to work a four-day week, and her daughter is grown and in college. Both her husband and her mom-in-law are extremely talented painters. Camille loves to travel, possessing the same Gypsy blood that courses through my veins. She also has an inquiring mind, an MBA and an adoring domestic partner in her husband David.

I’ve always believed in employee/management partnerships. Bill Gates built his empire on this same concept. Who better than the people whose talents and value systems I’ve drawn to me on a personal level to pair their talents with mine in a business venture?

I’ve started small, with Richard and Jack. I’ve been approached by several other budding writers to represent them. I have a wide range of visual artists that I’d love to represent. With energizer bunnies like Camille and my journalist/editor friend Susan in my corner, it’s time for us to move boldly forward and Carpe the Cash.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Messes and Memories

A lovely way to spend a day,
We both slept in very late,
Then puttered to get some simple things done;
This may be our ideal date.

Richard replenished our firewood,
While I stored the Christmas tree.
When it came to the packing the village scene,
Richard agreed to help me.

It’s nice to reclaim our space,
And our slower pace in life.
I’m not sure Richard knew what would happen
When he chose me for a wife.

As I stroll around each room,
Putting things back in order,
I find a sock that may be my grandson’s,
And toys of my granddaughters.

Some to store and some to mail,
The things may be packed away.
The bills are paid. The dust has now settled.
The memories are here to stay.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Richard's Rolling Again

Well, the truth is, Richard ran errands while I took a long sigh of relief. Richard said that he needed to get out for a while to begin having some regular activity. He is always concerned about avoiding “illness behavior.” This may be how he gets himself in so much trouble.

The little cat that had shown up in our shed was limping and biting at her back paw. Because his immune system is compromised, Richard can’t take a chance on getting scratched by a cat. And that cat wasn’t letting us check her paw without a whole lot of hissing and scratching. We decided it was time to take “Slate” to the Monroe County Animal Shelter.

Gypsy had taken to chasing “Slate” which probably wasn’t the best thing for the cat’s injured paw. Buster had made it very clear that he wanted nothing to do with this interloper who got wet food while he only gets kibble. And “Slate” was obviously used to being a pampered princess, rubbing up against our legs every time we were on the porch, and attempting to make herself an indoor pet every time the door was ajar. Since we still needed toilet paper, Richard volunteered to go to Wal-Mart for our provisions and a dowry of cat food to leave at the shelter with the cat.

Richard also agreed to run by the library to deliver more copies of Jack’s book. Jack and I have set up a fundraising program at the library, donating two dollars to the library for every book ordered through them. We offer this plan to schools, libraries, and several other area non–profit organizations.

As I puttered around de-Christmasing the house, I fielded phone calls. Mamie called looking for Richard to come fix her fuse box in her guest apartment. Jack checked in to see if we were improving. I spoke with two of my nieces, and my baby boy. Camille called to check on Richard’s progress and to reschedule a business meeting that we had postponed due to Richard’s illness.

Camille is considering using her relatively new MBA degree to assist me in my publishing and arts promotion business. Camille is also an RN, so maybe she can explain to Richard the importance of taking care of himself so I don’t have to hand him over to the horrors of hospitalization again.

I can now look out the window and see the mud path our guests beat to the front-yard fire pit. Until now, it had been covered in snow. I never thought I’d think mud is beautiful, but I prefer it to being icebound. Richard is rolling in his Bronco II again, more slowly than usual -- which is really, really slow -- but at least he’s rolling. Gypsy is again riding with Richard and getting her daily requirement of belly rubs.

Camille is coming, and Christmas is mostly put away. Richard refilled the bird feeder, so our bird friends are back. Things are certainly looking up around here.

Friday, January 15, 2010

A Delirium-Induced Ditty

The snow and ice have finally melted. What a relief! I drive myself crazy when the only person I have to talk to is me. You know the old saying, “Just don’t start answering yourself.” Who else is there to answer you when you’re icebound with a sick person? I’m reduced to cabin fever induced delirium.

Hi ho Hi ho,
There’s no more ice and snow;
Me and my van will fulfill plans.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Hi ho Hi ho,
To the carwash I will go;
Wash off the dust and stop the rust.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Hi ho Hi ho,
To the post office I’ll go;
I’ll mail Nick’s cake that I did bake.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Hi ho Hi ho,
To Sav-a-Lot I’ll go;
I’ll get supplies and other buys.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Hi ho Hi ho,
To the library I’ll go;
I’m on the hook to bring Jack’s book.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Hi ho Hi ho,
Then to the bank I’ll go;
I have a peck of uncashed checks.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Hi ho Hi ho,
To Mamie’s I will go;
I’ll go see Jack when I get back.
Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho Hi ho.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

The Courage to Cruise

What a wuss I am! There are people who live and work in places that have several feet of snow and ice to get through all winter, and I’m scared to drive down my street. What’s the worst that can happen? We don’t even live on the side of a cliff or the top of a mountain. It’s hard to fall far when you live in a holler. So what if I go into a slide?

My van is over ten years old with over two hundred thousand miles on the odometer. It has a dent on the driver’s side front quarter panel from a hit-‘n’-git driver in Sav-a-Lot parking area. The driver’s door bottom trim sports a big boo-boo from a propane tank bouncing along the interstate highway and stopping on me. I wear a seatbelt and have airbags, so how much harm can befall me?

We’ve got a long way to go to melt the snow with Adam’s latest weather report of 14.4 degrees. We won’t starve, no matter how frozen the holler gets, as our three freezers and two refrigerators are always stuffed to frozen food avalanche capacity. We keep a full pantry, and even have food stored under our bed.

The weather reports say that by Saturday we’ll be warm, but there are some things that just can’t wait that long. We’re down to a partial roll of toilet paper, so I’ve gotta work up the courage to cruise down to some store.

The problem for me is that when I’m scared of doing something, I shut my eyes, and hold my breath, and go really, really fast. This is not a good plan for ice driving. I know there’s a Ford commercial where a blind man drives a car, but I think it’s generally best to see where one is going, especially on ice-slicked mountain roads.

Richard grew up in Massachusetts, delivering baby chicks in all manner of weather. Ice driving doesn’t faze him, except for his worry that someone not as cautious as he is will be coming from the opposite direction on the road. If he feels up to it today, maybe I’ll ask him to go on the provision run. I’d want him to take the van because it has a lower center of gravity than his Bronco II, and he’d mourn the loss of his trusty twenty-year-old steed if anything happened to his ride. But then, I’d worry until he got home because I’m also afraid of being home alone after dark. Sometimes I wonder how I ever ended up in the woods.

My mantra for today will be, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can,” like The Little Engine That Could. Oh, heck, maybe we’ll just ride to town together, visiting a few friends on the way…

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Planning Priorities

Richard’s fond of the phrase “infinite regression of steps.” Before leaving for Atlanta, I had washed all the towels and bed linens used by our guests. While I was gone, Richard had folded all the towels, but couldn’t stuff them into the linen closet with all the extra Christmas crud already in there. I came home to a table full of towels which I couldn’t put away until I cleaned out the linen closet. So began the regression of steps.

I couldn’t clean out the linen closet without finding the storage bin that the Christmas linens go into. I couldn’t find the storage bin until I drove over to the storage shed in which we keep the seasonal decorations, the bin being too bulky to lug across the yard. I couldn’t drive over to the shed without bundling up for the cold. On my first day back from Atlanta, I stayed in my pajamas all day, so I never got to the shed. Who knew that by the end of that day, we’d be in the hospital? And who knew that the next day the roads would ice, making it impossible for me to drive home?

I hadn’t thought to grab a change of clothes or my toiletry bag before racing out the door with Richard. On a previous ER adventure in Louisiana, Terry Sue showed up with body spray and clean underwear for me. Maybe I should have a couple of changes of clothes always in my van, just in case.

I didn’t have Terry Sue on this trip, and all of our local friends were iced in, so I went to Wal-Mart to purchase some necessary items. While there I bought Christmas -colored storage bins on deep discount. At least, this will cut out a couple of steps in the process of storing the holiday décor -- the bundling up and the drive to the storage shed.

Richard slept much of the day. I began de-Christmasing the house when I should have been paying our bills. I’m behind on bill paying and other bookkeeping, so I’ll just have to make myself focus on prioritizing. One, pay the bills. Two, catch up on paperwork. The holiday decorations are beginning to depress me, but leaving them up a bit longer won’t result in our power being turned off – unlike continuing to put off bill paying. I could have used all the down time in the hospital to pay the bills, since we pay them online. But I was afraid to use the hospital and hotel wi-fi connections for transmitting our financial information.

We do know that we have wonderful neighbors. Terry and Denny risked their lives skidding down our road to feed our pets. Shirley and Monty took over from Terry when the weather got even worse. Adam, Josie, Charlie, and Deborah all offered to slide down to where we were to visit and transport us. Mary and Don offered to bring soup. And Sue, an ICU nurse I met only once, through Jack, has been advising me online on handling our doctor issues. It is a wonderful life as long as we have our friends.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Coming Home To Cats

We made it home. We decided that it was a reasonable risk to try to drive home. Adam had assured us that the state roads were all clear, so we knew that the only questionable stretch began where Coker Creek Village intersects with our road. This is exactly eight tenths of a mile from our right-of-way and one mile from our house. We figured that, since we know both householders on this stretch of our road, we wouldn’t freeze to death, even if we spun out on the road.

My original plan was for me to drive until we got to Coker Creek Welcome Center in Murphy’s Corner, and then give Yankee-bred Richard the wheel. Halfway home I got brave, and decided to drive the distance, with Richard as my ice driving coach. I’m proud to report that, even though our road is still a sheet of ice, I steered us all the way home without a hint of a skid.

Our fear of being petless was assuaged upon coming in sight of our front porch. There lay Gypsy, acting like she’s sunbathing in twenty degree weather. When she realized that yonder came her mistress and master, she immediately charged after non-existent beasties and ghoulies. We like having a dog that has pride in her work, false or otherwise.

After Gypsy’s pretend patrol run, she charged over to Richard as he exited the van. As Richard partook of the mutually satisfactory Gypsy rubbing, I proceeded to the shed to check on our ever-aloof cat Buster. There was no cat in sight, but I did hear the unmistakable mournful cry of a cat in distress. I knew this wasn’t the voice of Buster, but I stayed very still and called Buster’s name in that “Here, Minnie, Minnie” tone.

After a brief while, I saw a set of cat eyes peeking at me from a protected corner of the shed. These eyes were not peeking out of a tabby cat’s face, confirming that it wasn‘t Buster. I froze, and a little blue-gray cat came creeping out. It rubbed up against me, moaning for its mama.

About this time, Richard appeared in the shed. I told him that I couldn’t find Buster, but that this cat had appeared. Richard began trash talking to get rid of the intruder. When I reprimanded him, Richard said, “This isn’t a cat exchange; I want my cat.”

Next thing I knew, Richard was inside, announcing that he had spotted Buster, but that Buster wouldn’t come to him because he was spooked. He then announced that he thought we should put some water out for the visiting cat because it may not know our pet’s protocol of drinking out of the creeks. Richard also pointed out that he had put food out for the stray, but that Gypsy had immediately begun eating it. He also suggested that we should put food out in the outbuilding that Buster likes to hide in, just in case…

All the beasts being cared for, I could then concentrate on contacting all those who were concerned about my two-legged beast.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Recovering From Recovery

Richard says he finds it unbelievable that celebrities regularly check into hospitals to recover from exhaustion. He says, if he was a celebrity, we’d put out the word that he’s been released from the hospital due to exhaustion. The hospitalist finally showed up at 1:20 to listen to Richard’s lungs. The problem, according to Richard, is that the hospitalist was so obviously punchy from sleep deprivation; he forgot to instruct Richard to breathe, so Richard’s not sure what good listening to his chest did. I guess the hospitalist just didn’t want to forfeit a billable visit to Richard’s room.

The respiratory therapist came in at 3:00 to give Richard his breathing treatment. He was back at four because he had forgotten to check Richard’s oxygen. This is done by placing a clip on the end of the patient’s finger. Richard is congratulating himself on his restraint in not reacting in his most wicked way when the respiratory therapist told Richard to “Give me a finger.”

Several times, the CNA came for Richard’s vital signs, once having to return within fifteen minutes because she had forgotten her stethoscope in Richard’s room. This is all in addition to the new and improved hospital beds that groan at you every time you move a muscle. This is an indication that the pump is working to adjust the pressure in the hospital version of an air mattress. This may be a necessary feature for nursing home patients and people in comas, but do we really need to encourage ambulatory patients to be so lazy they don’t even adjust their own bodies in the beds? When was the last time a bedsore was reported in a patient who can walk? I don’t object to the feature; I just wish they had a switch for deactivating it.

Richard has begun complaining about the food, declaring that it’s part of a campaign to combat obesity. While Richard was digesting his hospital cuisine, I had a wonderful meal of Veal Rockefeller and sautéed mushrooms delivered to my motel room from a family owned Italian restaurant. As soon as Richard was released from the hospital, Iput him to bed at the motel. When he awakened, I ordered him a really good meal delivered to our room. He was still coughing so badly that he was afraid he’d scare off all the restaurant’s customers if we went out. Since we can’t navigate the roads back to our house until the icy roads improve, we may take in a movie or two while we’re snowbound in the “big city”.

Adam is giving us daily updates on temperature and humidity in Coker Creek. Unfortunately, his latest report was of temperature of 9.1degrees with fifty-two percent humidity. He and Josie also sent photos of the frozen waterfalls in our area, which are beautiful, but don’t give us much hope of passable roads anytime soon. If it weren’t for my fear that Gypsy and Buster will decide that we’re never returning and that they will find new homes, I’d be happy to simply declare the time it takes for the ice to melt as a vacation.

Adam and Josie and Deborah and Charlie have offered to come fetch us, but we may get brave and risk it ourselves. Mary and Don's offer of homemade soup is sounding very good...

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Body Art and Not So Smart

Richard has a CNA with a biohazard symbol tattooed on her arm. Thank goodness she was only taking his vital signs. I’m not sure Richard would have let her perform any intrusive procedures on him as freaked out as he was by that tattoo. She says her husband has a matching tat, and he’s jealous because she has more body art than he does. They give each other gifts of more body art for special occasions. Ain’t that special?

When I asked Richard’s nurse to check his chart and make sure his immunosuppressive medication labs had been ordered, she said she had seen the order in the chart. She added that she remembered this because she didn’t know what the test was. Did she have to admit that to me?

Richard’s treating physician failed to round on him (probably because he’s scared of me), but called the room after I finally had him paged. He suggested that Richard should get a primary care physician not affiliated with his post-transplant team. His rationale is that he doesn’t think the post-transplant team would care enough about routine procedures like colonoscopies, and “We’d hate to see him survive a transplant and die in three years from colon cancer.” Once again, he opened his mouth and inserted his foot.

After the huge investment made in transplant patients, nobody gets as much preventive care as post-transplant patients being followed by specialized teams of professionals trained specifically in post-transplant care. How does the hospitalist think Richard has survived for the eight years since his transplant?

Then again, as educated as Richard is, he sometimes says things that aren’t so smart. When I was leaving for Atlanta after our holidays in the holler, I told him that I thought he would enjoy all the peace and quite of our house without any company, and that my absence should add to his tranquility. His reply was, “Oh, you’re just background.” I reminded him of this statement when I got back. He must have thought I wanted a deeper understanding of what he meant because he replied, “You know, like the dishwasher or washing machine.” No wonder he only pays attention when I’m overflowing.

As I prepared to return to the hotel, I pointed out that I didn’t think any of his current nurses were a threat to me when I was away from him, as none of them seemed particularly cute. Richard replied that he thought some of them were nice looking, and he added, “But then, again, I’m sixty-six years old and anything looks good to me.” I guess I won’t get too atwitter next time he tells me I look nice.

I’ve already had to instruct him that a man should never call his woman a big strapping girl. He has also had to learn that women don’t snore, they only breathe loudly; and, while women may pass a bit of gas, they never fart. With such a poor education in the ways of women, is it any wonder Richard was a bachelor until he was forty-nine years old?

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Maintaining Memories

Our House in the Holler is Richard’s Tennessee Mountain Home and my retreat from my crazy world. The people of Coker Creek are our people, as are the people we’ve collected along our separate lives and our lives together. Our challenge is to make new friends while keeping the old. They are all gold to us.

We bought our home in the holler without knowing anything about Coker Creek. We didn’t know that it’s in a dry county where beer isn’t considered liquor, but wine is. We didn’t know that the closest mid-sized grocery store is twenty-three miles away. We didn’t know that the closest restaurant is eleven miles down a steep, serpentine mountain road. We didn’t know that the closest ethnic restaurant is a Mexican one that doesn’t serve margaritas or any other alcohol because it’s in a dry county. We also didn’t know that the most exotic ingredients you can buy within an hour’s drive are Americanized Italian, Mexican and Chinese foods.

Something else we didn’t know is how community oriented the folks are and how much we’d be welcomed into their hearts and homes. As conservative as people tend to be here, I was afraid that I’d be burned at the stake. Instead, people seem to find me amusing, and they love salt-of-the-earth Richard. Even though he is so smart and considered a bit quirky in the city, he fits right in in Coker Creek.

I didn’t want to make any more friends. I already feel guilty for not keeping up with the friends I have. Now, here we are several hundred miles from our old friends with a whole bevy of new friends. It wouldn’t do any good for us to run away. We’d still love these people and they love us, so we’d be leaving a part of ourselves behind if we left. And I’d want to continue contact with all of these people.

Richard doesn’t seem to suffer from separation guilt or anxiety. When people are gone, they’re gone. When we move, his philosophy about our former home seems to be, “That was then, and this is now.” I like to drive by and see our former homes and reminisce about our former lives. I also like to hear from old friends, no matter how long we go between visits. Richard wants to close the door and never look back.

He says he didn’t grieve when, at age thirteen, he lost his father because his father had become a part of him.Whenever we’re making memories and I want to take a bunch of pictures or buy souvenirs, Richard tells me that he doesn’t need either because he’s doesn’t have Alzheimer’s yet. Maybe the reason he knows so much is because every experience he’s ever had is stored in his rapid-access memory. I guess my memory and my imagination just aren’t as good as Richard’s.

The only thing we have left of yesterday is the memories; when we turn off the tapes of our memories, we lose that part of our lives. I have had one of the richest lives of anyone I know. I won’t go forward without recalling what came before.

I don’t know how we’re going to resolve all the conflicting emotions plaguing us right now. I do know that we’ll have to say good-bye to Richard’s Tennessee Mountain Home and my House in the Holler unless we can find a way to get proper emergency care for Richard. For a manly man, he’s delicate, you know.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Patient Persistence

How am I supposed to react when the nurse comes into Richard’s critical care hospital room and announces that the pharmacist recommended a change in antibiotics because the first one could affect his heart, and followed with the announcement that Richard’s swab showed positive for Methicillin Resistant Staph Aureous. Now, I don’t think these things are good when one has a normal immune system, but I’m pretty sure they can be extra problematic for people who are on immunosuppressive medications.

I felt worse after talking to Rachel, who encouraged me to check with Richard’s post-transplant care team. I actually succeeded in getting the on-call post-transplant doctor to talk to me and agree to take a call from the hospitalist treating Richard. I felt greatly relieved -- until Richard’s nurse told me that the hospitalist refused to call the post-transplant doctor.

My misgivings were compounded when I found out that the nurse for the night had some experience with post-transplant care and confirmed my fear that the level of immunosuppressive medication in Richard’s bloodstream was not being tracked. This was especially worrisome in light of the fact that less than a month ago the post-transplant team had changed Richard’s dosage because his levels were off.

Richard has had rejection issues in the past, so I’ll do anything necessary to prevent a recurrence. The night nurse agreed to suggest the required lab test to the doctor. I realized there was nothing more I could do until morning, so I went to bed.

Just as I was entering the twilight zone between awake and asleep, Bub called and put Elaine on the phone. Elaine, being a pulmonologist, and one of our very best friends, was not happy with the report I gave her. Upon waking, I went back to the hospital -- armed for bear.

Lo and behold, the doctor with whom I was having the problem was no longer on call. I had to start the whole patient advocate routine with another doctor, who sent a nurse out to talk to me. The nurse was a different one than the one who had helped me the night before. Once, again, I explained my misgivings. Once again, the nurse asked me questions, the answers to which they should be getting from Richard’s post-transplant team.I went to the critical care department manager and pled my case. She reported that the doctor would come talk to me. I made it clear that I had no desire to speak to the doctor until he had talked to Richard’s post-transplant doctor.

Three hours after my arrival at the hospital, I had still not been allowed to see Richard, nor had I seen his doctor. I went to administration, where the hospital risk manager took over talking with me. By this time, I was very controlled, and very angry. Is it too much to ask that our healthcare professionals admit when they aren’t experts on something and make a phone call to the experts -- or transfer the special needs patient to a special needs facility?

One of Richard’s favorite sayings is from Proverbs: He who knows not and knows not that he knows not is a fool; avoid him. He who knows not and knows that he knows not is a student; teach him. He who knows and knows not that he knows is asleep; wake him. He who knows and knows that he knows is a wise man; follow him.

The hospital is a very pleasant facility, with a home cooking cafeteria and wonderful nursing care in CCU, but unless the doctors and administration recognize what they don’t know, I plan to shun them and this hospital.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Balanced Blessings

The good news was that I spent my first day back in the holler in my pajamas in front of the fire.
The bad news was that I was still unshowered and in my pajamas when Richard asked me to take him to the emergency room.

The good news was that Richard didn’t feel sick enough for me to call the EMTs.
The bad news was that this meant I had to drive after dark on our two-lane mountain serpentine roads.

The good news was that we had enough gas in the tank to get us to the hospital.
The bad news was that when Richard was finally settled in CCU, at 2:30 in the morning, my car wouldn’t run because I had no more gas in the tank.

The good news was that I was in a well-lit parking lot.
The bad news was that it was less than twenty degrees in that parking lot.

The good news was that we have AAA roadside assistance coverage.
The bad news was that the tow truck arrived without a can of gas.

The good news was the tow truck driver said he’d tow me to the nearest gas station.
The bad news was he couldn’t position the tow truck properly to tow my van out of its parking place.

The good news was the tow truck driver was able to shake the van enough to shift sufficient fuel to the engine to back the car up.
The bad news was that was all the gas the van had.

The good news was I had a credit card.
The bad news was the tow truck driver had a gas card that didn’t work.

The good news was there’s a very comfortable hotel not very far from the hospital.
The bad news was the desk attendant forgot to give me the hospital patient family discount.

The good news was the hotel provided toothbrushes, toothpaste and deodorant.
The bad news was I didn’t have a change of clothes or underwear.

The good news was there’s a WalMart close by where I purchased a change of underwear and clothes.
The bad news was that the need for these items was precipitated by Richard having to stay in CCU, and icy roads here and in the holler.
The good news is the doctors are treating Richard’s pneumonia.
The bad news is they didn’t coordinate with his post transplant care providers before doing so.

On balance, I’d say the good outweighed the bad.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Rollicking Retirement

As we closed the door on our last set of guests, l began getting ready for my television interview with Marcia in Chattanooga. She’s starting the new year with a program on starting over, and feels that I may have some insights into this topic worth sharing with her fans. How can anyone say no to a woman who used to be “Miss Marcia” on Romper Room School? She taught millions of kids how important it is to be a “do bee” and to reach for the stars. I certainly took those lessons to heart, and am thrilled that “Miss Marcia” wants to talk to me.

By the time our guests leave, I’m always rung out, physically and emotionally; but my spirit is super-charged. These are the times I have to be careful; after going ninety to nothing for weeks at a time I’m prone to planning too many new projects while in my supernova state. The best way to avoid that is to lie down for a while until the urge to orchestrate passes.

I already have so many plans for the new year that I’m raring to begin. In addition to the television interview, there’s the book I’m writing with Mamie, and the retreats I’m planning with Gayle and Julia. There are cooking and craft classes to be gotten together with Holly and Josie. Aunt Mabel wants to write a Cajun cookbook with me. Jack has another set of stories to get published, and I’ll need to set aside time for my books in the works. Thank goodness, Camille is talking about becoming the business end of my various ventures; I’m hoping that Suzanne comes through as my typist.

Between our Holidays in the Holler and Ms. Marcia, I went to Atlanta to take Rachel and the girls on a Christmas gifts exchange shopping trip. On the way back from Chattanooga, I got a call from a woman wanting me to write and publish a book about her heroic police captain son killed in the line of duty. I couldn’t wait to get back to the quite of Richard and our Tennessee Mountain Home to begin sorting all this out. We still have to de-Christmas our house, but that can wait. After all, tomorrow is another day.

I’d love a couple of days without a plan. It seems like forever ago that I meandered through a day, letting things just happen, come what may. I’m hungering for a long, lazy day of being snuggled up in my big bed with a book, or one of those cold rainy weeks when I do nothing but sit tapping away on the keyboard in front of the roaring fire. But, maybe I’ll have to wait until I’m dead to have that much down time.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Hunting In the Holler

When Rachel’s family comes to visit, they sleep in an outbuilding that Larry used to call the “rat shack” because what we thought to be rats’ nests covered the space between the ceiling and the roof. The building had been abandoned by all but the rodents for some time before we bought our Tennessee Mountain Home. Rachel insisted that it could be turned into a nice cabin, which her family proceeded to do, putting up insulation and wall boards, and furnishing it with bunk beds and country curtains. They now lovingly call it “Morrissey Manor.”

Rachel and family hadn’t been to their little cabin for many months, so the critters, once again, set up house keeping in the overhead crawl space. Upon the Morrissey family’s arrival, they discovered that all their linens had to be laundered to remove liquid golden gifts that had streamed down the walls onto the air mattress. Rachel changed the sheets while Larry packed the spaces between the rafters with poison pellet packets; and they called it a night.

The family finally got nestled all snug in their beds, when the “rats” declared war. Larry jumped up, determined to eradicate the enemy. With much fanfare, he began tracking the rodents, giving frequent updates to Rachel, whose only wish was a bit of sleep. Larry was determined to identify the intruders, so Rachel suggested that he photograph them to keep her from having to go into the below freezing temperatures on rodent patrol.

The next morning, a bleary-eyed Rachel reported all of this while we waited for Larry to appear with pictures of his prey. It turns out that the rodents were squirrels. Scott immediately got online to identify the type of squirrel – flying-- and the best method for disposal. It was now time for a Lowe’s run to get a trap. Scott became the great squirrel trapper while Nick wished that the rodents would turn out to be chinchillas, so we could make some money on the ordeal.

Meanwhile, Rachel sent Miya and Sarah on dead rodent patrol, afraid that one of the five dogs in residence may eat a poisoned pest. The outside of Morrissey Manor looked like a picnic ground. It seemed that the squirrels had greatly enjoyed their feast, but didn’t want to litter their space with the empty packets. The bright yellow paper was strewn all along the area of the entry door. There was no sign of the squirrels, alive or dead.

Scott and Richard returned with a squirrel trap, and Scott baited it with peanuts. The following morning, the peanuts were gone, but still no sign of Rocky the flying squirrel. Miya suggested that since they were flying squirrels, maybe they flew in, grabbed the peanuts, and flew out; and that’s how they avoided tripping the trap.

Such excitement! That’s the closest to a big game hunt we’ve come at our House in the Holler.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Auld Lang Syne and Then Some

If the septic system crisis didn’t put a damper on our holiday hilarity, we certainly weren’t going to let a little drizzle dampen our demeanor. All nine kids, ranging in age from eight to eighteen, set up a “beauty” salon in our master bedroom and bath, where they went through a pint of Richard’s hair gel creating weird and wondrous hairstyles on both boys and girls.

As the house filled with even more people filling every chair in the house, many of us moved outside. At least the night was relatively warm; and Nick and Albert had built a huge bonfire. This was in addition to all the firewood they worked with Richard to cut and stack for both indoor and outdoor blazes. The kids moved outside to play hide-and-seek in the woods and shoot fireworks while the adults monitored them from the fire pit.

Our living room was filled with folks listening to David’s guitar in front of the fireplace. The guest/playroom was an escape for cousins who had much catching-up conversation to share. Our kitchen contained more conventional fare than that which we served at our first New Year’s Eve bash in the boondocks. That year, Scott brought up sixty pounds of fresh gulf shrimp and his boiling rig. We rang in the New Year with Cajun boiled, head-on shrimp and all the fixin’s on our deck. Several of our guests couldn’t bring themselves to eat food that was looking at them.

This year, we had Rachel’s jambalaya, cookies, and artichoke squares, which we brought back from her Christmas open house. I used left-over Italian mushroom squares made by Rachel to create an Italian frittata, which we served with marinara and parmesan cheese. Buffy and Rachel helped prepare chorizo and cream cheese-stuffed pickled jalapenos, much like Holly had served us several months ago. Rachel and David were greatly relieved that most of the mountain folks found these too hot for their tastes, leaving most of the peppers for them. I suppose we’ll never have a holiday happening without a little Cajun cuisine.

I reinvented a favorite 1970’s mushroom in dilled sour cream hors d’oeuvres recipe which we served with garlic panatini. Buffy requested this recipe after one taste. We also had various cheese balls and spreads to go on crackers and chili-cheese stuffed banana peppers. To round out the menu, Buffy poured barbecue sauce over Little Smokies, and Rachel sliced the fruitcake that I had made in her honor.

It’s traditional in the mountains to replace the ball drop at midnight with a possum drop. Charlie takes care of this detail. Full disclaimer: There are no animals harmed in this ritual, as Charlie’s possum is a fluffy stuffed animal that usually hangs in his saloon.

By the time we toasted 2010 with champagne, both real and non-alcoholic, and Charlie dropped his possum from the dog run, we were all covered in mud from slipping and sliding in the drizzly rain. I had fallen almost into the fire pit, taking Deborah with me. Camille had bruised her butt taking a tumble down the muddy stairs, and Albert had slid into home plate on our front porch. Thankfully, no serious injuries were sustained, but I guess Richard can add slip-proofing our deck and stairs to his New Year’s honey-do list.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

We Love Leal

The only thing Robbie really wanted to eat during their visit was Leal’s cranberry spice bread. Unfortunately, for Robbie, I had already eaten most of it, because it was so good. He was not pleased in the way that only two-year-olds and drama queens show displeasure. He adamantly refused to eat anything else. His favorite way to show displeasure was throwing himself, face first onto the floor. I had an eight-year-old nephew, twenty years ago, who would do the same thing and fall asleep face-down on the carpet. I just love kids who put themselves in time out.

Rachel’s and Scott’s families arrived the day after Bill’s group got here. It had been many years since Rachel and Scott had contact with Bill or his children. Jay and Albert, nephews from Texas, joined us while Bill, Ingrid, and Robbie visited. Everyone, kids and grandkids, really enjoyed Uncle Bill, with his zany humor and love of board games. His grandson Robbie seems to concur with these opinions of Bill.

Meanwhile, Larry noticed that the ground by our side steps was getting very mushy, and we weren’t having any precipitation to cause this. Upon closer inspection, he found that our septic system had been overwhelmed. We couldn’t get Roto Rooter until the next day, so the rest of the day we imposed the rule, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.” Mercifully, Bill’s party, which had been staying at one of the Charest’s cabins, said their goodbyes and headed homeward.

I decided that we needed more septic system space, even if our guests were willing to sleep stacked like cordwood on our floors. Mamie offered to let Albert and Jay use her garage apartment, but we were expecting at least seven more toilet flushers and shower takers as overnight guests – not to mention the eight to twenty neighbors who had been invited to stop by for our New Year’s Eve celebration. Coker Creek Village came to the rescue with the use of their Creekside Cabin. Leal, the office manager at the village, turned out to be, not only Robbie’s favorite food provider, but also our angel of “no room at the inn” mercy.

While this crisis was being handled, Albert discovered that all the people using Richard’s WWII Museum computer to check emails and such had reactivated a virus that Richard thought had been cleared off his computer. New Year’s Eve morning was spent having our septic tank pumped in preparation for even more flushes and showers than we were already having our tank handle, and Larry and Albert debugging Richard’s work station.

The big “do” was that night. Ginette and her kids were due at two, and Camille was set to arrive at four. Neither of their groups arrived before dark. It seems that my family leaves wherever they are at whatever time they’re due at their next destination, no matter how many miles there are to the next stop. None of them arrived before dark. I wasn’t even surprised this time.